The Dimming Sun

by Lana Nielsen

  She splashed cool water from her washing basin over her face. She spread rouge over her cheeks and lips, and lined her lashes with black kohl like Nureenian ladies did. She threaded gold hoops through her ears and tied her glossy black hair back with a green ribbon to match her dress. She stared at her reflection in the dusty mirror and was pleased. For a few minutes, she wasted her time practicing an assortment of exaggerated facial expressions.

  She walked alone towards the Veselte manor, observing that many of the trees and door knockers throughout town were decorated with white ribbons and false flowers in honor of the wedding. Uniformed soldiers were all over the place, having apparently multiplied overnight. Twenty archers stood on the gate to the Veselte estate and twenty more lined the path through the lawn. They were all from General Arderon’s regiment and proudly displayed his colors—checkered black and yellow. Arithel wondered if the second most important man in Neldor would show up.

  A company of nobles thundered past her on horseback as she walked. Their beasts kicked up clods of dirt onto the front of Arithel’s delicate gown.

  “Damn you toffs!” she shouted when they were long gone.

  Many carriages were parked outside the Veselte stables. It soon became apparent that she and perhaps some of Ronan’s relatives were the only guests who had arrived on foot. She cautiously treaded up the dark, lichen-covered steps to the manor door, unsure what she was supposed to say or where she was supposed to go. She knocked apprehensively and was greeted by one of the Veselte manservants, a reedy old fellow named Orrin.

  “Ah, Miss Arithel, haven’t seen ya around in some time,” he said. The man had often chaperoned outdoor excursions for she and Fallon in their youth.

  “It’s good to see you too, Orrin.”

  “I’m assuming Master Fallon invited you?”

  “Aye, that he did. Where exactly is the wedding being held? I see lots of soldiers but no wedding party.”

  “In the courtyard. Follow me, Miss.”

  He led her through the great hall of the castle. She exhaled heavily with nostalgia, once again admiring the ornate tapestries and paintings lining the wood-paneled walls. Her favorite had always been the one featuring Tifalla’s lamentation at being cast into the otherworld. The jeweled tears glistening on her snow-white cheeks were so beautiful it was arresting.

  Throngs of nobles along with servants bearing food trays milled about the courtyard. Long wooden benches had been set up before the altar for the wedding guests. The fountain had been filled with red wine. She sighted Ronan’s older brother and his wife, clad in garish matching surcoats, chatting excitedly beside the wine-fountain. Their six children swarmed about like uncouth hellions, nearly knocking over a serving girl with their rough play.

  Arithel steamed with jealousy upon seeing the luxurious life that was now available to Ronan. The ghost of the changeling woman was rewarding him to punish her. She grabbed an empty goblet from the banquet table and dipped it into the bubbling crimson waters of the fountain. She sat alone on a far corner of a bench, sipping her wine with the most indifferent face she could muster.

  “I suppose you’re here to try to spoil the occasion, knowing you,” a familiar voice interjected.

  It was fat Mother Cecilia.

  “No, Mother, the younger lord invited me,” Arithel answered sharply. She was quickly tiring of this old bat’s antics.

  “Ronan has done well for himself,” Cecilia said haughtily. “I always knew he would, even when he was but the butcher’s little brother and thought to be too poor for pretty Arithel Nicose.”

  Arithel flared her nostrils with stifled rage. “Can you not leave me be? I’m sorry I insulted the nunnery yesterday. If you keep on goading me like this, I’m going to spoil more than just this wedding.”

  Cecilia knelt down and looked Arithel in the eye. She placed her puffy hand on Arithel’s shoulder. “Let it go,” she said simply.

  “Let what go?” Arithel snapped.

  “Your spite. You’ll feel better when it’s gone. I only mean to help, even if it seems harsh.” The nun cracked the slightest of smiles before vanishing into the crowd.

  “Well, then—” Arithel muttered in confusion. A chill coursed down her spine. She hoped that Alarius hadn’t confessed to helping dispose of the changeling woman’s body. She refilled her goblet.

  Fallon approached her at the fountain. He was clad in a scarlet tunic, dark hose, and black boots. He somehow seemed less handsome than on the road; he resembled his father, Faldros, with his severe, guarded features, to an uncanny degree.

  “I was looking for you,” Arithel told him as his eyes fell upon her.

  “You look nice.”

  “Not exactly. I’m afraid my hem is covered in drying mud, thanks to some of your cousins.”

  “It’s probably going to rain later in the day anyhow.”

  “Of course. It rains every day,” Arithel said, internally cringing at her redundant response.

  “I’m afraid my mother is beckoning me,” he said, glancing back at a dour-faced Lady Laranthiel. She glared with disapproval at their interaction. Her face was more powdered and white than it had ever been, accentuating her wrinkles rather than concealing them. Fallon raised his cup politely to Arithel before he departed.

  “Good to see you again,” she said softly as he walked away.

  ***

  The wedding ceremony was late but magnificent. Rose petals were scattered around the altar and a dozen doves were released by Mother Cecilia and her nuns. Anoria strummed a slow but uplifting tune on the harp as Corinne made her procession. Arithel had no idea her sister could even play the harp.

  Arithel took some consolation in the fact that Corinne was still quite plain in spite of the grandeur of her yellow lace wedding gown, with its cape of gold brocade and emerald-encrusted girdle. Corinne was sixteen but had matured little since Arithel last saw her; she still had nervous eyes and a certain bird-like quality. Ronan, on the other hand, seemed more striking than ever, but Arithel told herself it was merely the effect of his ceremonial armor. A priest chanted prayers as he bound the couple’s hands with a blue sash. Ronan set a laurel wreath upon Corinne’s brow and the guests cheered voraciously. Archers along the ramparts shot flaming arrows into the dull skies and the couple kissed.

  Corinne looked overjoyed. Her broad, sincere smile as she and Ronan held each other’s hands high in the air spoke of her triumph. Faldros and Laranthiel, on the other hand, were stone-faced, coolly observing the entire ordeal from an elevated platform to the side of the altar.

  Arithel searched out a tray of crab legs as a group of minstrels began to play. Ronan and Corinne danced merrily and several other young couples followed suit. Fallon sat next to his Aunt Beruthiel and gave clipped answers to the young noblewoman chatting at his other side. He looked as disappointed as his parents. Arithel was practically invisible among such a fine crowd. Despite Mother Cecilia’s advice, she spent most of her time drinking and shooting murderous glances at Ronan.

  Anoria walked towards Arithel. She looked angelic in her nun’s habit.

  “Good sister,” Arithel raised her glass with a sloppy grin.

  “Why are you still here? You don’t look too happy,” Anoria observed.

  “Nonsense. I’m quite content. Where else can I drink wine coming from a cherub’s arse?”

  Her joke fell flat.

  “Perhaps you should make your peace with Ronan. Take the high road, Arithel, instead of sitting here sulking.”

  “I’m merely enjoying my drink.”

  Anoria sighed and took Arithel’s hand in her own: “Stop by the temple again before you leave,” she said.

  “I don’t have time. I’m leaving at first light tomorrow,” Arithel said with proud resolution.

  As Anoria departed for the company of her fellow nuns, Fallon approached Arithel for the second time.

  “Could I speak with you privately?” he asked.

  “As you wish.”

 
He beckoned for her to follow him into the great hall. Ronan stood inside, his hand resting on the sword that hung at his belt.

  “What is this tripe?” Arithel scoffed, emboldened by her three glasses of wine.

  “I take my leave,” Fallon said, leaving her fuming.

  “I suppose I’ll be forced to listen to some apology.” Arithel refused to look at Ronan.

  Ronan sighed heavily and shook his head. “I knew you’d react like this. Come on, Arithel, may we simply let bygones be bygones? I am sorry, for what it’s worth, but that’s only part of what I wanted to tell you.”

  She crossed her arms. “What is the other part?”

  He looked down and bit his lip. There were a few fine lines around his eyes where there had been none. “I wanted to thank you. You were right after all. If it weren’t for what you did—well, convinced me to do.” He corrected himself with a cough. “I wouldn’t be standing here with such good fortune today.”

  Arithel laughed. “Ronan, I must say I am thrilled to hear that. How wonderful that my poor judgment has somehow resulted in your bumbling into the life of a lordling.”

  He glared at her, pride and hurt welling in his eyes. “I offer an apology and this is your reply? You can’t at least offer some pleasantry or two and say that you are happy for me?”

  “What’s the point of lying to one another?” she said, spite and sorrow boiling in her heart.

  “You’ve always been selfish,” Ronan remarked with a low laugh.

  “I hope you enjoy your wedding night,” she said and quickly stormed away.

  She held her head high as she walked back to the Nicose household. Alarius was practicing archery in the yard, missing his straw target more often than not. Arithel briefly considered going over to him, giving him some pointers and maybe even telling him that she had forgiven him for blackmailing her over their land. She wanted to have a friendly conversation, to make him laugh at her jokes as he once had.

  She could not bring herself to do it.

  Chapter Five

  Arithel packed lightly. She took only food, money, weapons, and one change of clothes. She left her trunk behind, under her bed. Considering the journey to Portreath had been fairly uneventful despite the rumors, she opted to don her normal clothing as opposed to menswear. She cut the hem of her chemise and dark green kirtle to her calves. Usually only serfs wore their skirts so short, but it would allow for greater ease of movement. She braided her hair to keep it from her face and stuffed a pair of gloves in her pockets. She said her goodbyes, grabbed a walking stick, and hit the road.

  She was just entering the edge of the Yavenwood when a small voice called after her. To her surprise, it was Anoria, clad in ordinary work clothes and a kerchief instead of her sacred robes and veil. She came in a wagon drawn by two healthy mules. Sacks of food lay in abundance across the wagon bed.

  “I changed my mind after all,” Anoria said.

  “You’re serious?” Arithel was so relieved for company that a lump started to rise in her throat.

  Anoria nodded.

  “Wonderful!” exclaimed Arithel. “I promise you won’t be disappointed.”

  “There is room here,” Anoria said, motioning for Arithel to drive the wagon alongside her. “Mules are slow, but it beats walking.”

  “Aye, indeed it does. I bet we’ll get a good price for them at the port.” Arithel smiled as she leapt into the wagon and tossed her pack down alongside bushels of turnips and potatoes. “How did you get all of this?”

  “Mother Cecilia. She’s the one who finally convinced me to go with you. She said the Isles need Agron now more than ever. She has requested I attend to the Shrine of St. Beatrix for a year and reflect on my faith.”

  “Uh huh.” Arithel didn’t know how to properly respond. She whipped the mules to get them moving again.

  “We have a ways to go,” she said as the wagon jostled into motion. It was a bumpy ride, but pleasant, and the sisters conversed warmly until dusk. They decided to make camp half of the way to Talbot, about one hundred yards off the road, close to the lofty bluffs of the Black River. Though they had yet to come across any dodgy characters, Arithel figured the further they were from the road, the better. The food and mules were too tempting a target for robbery, even for poor but otherwise law-abiding travelers. Hunger made a thief of any man.

  Anoria hushed the mules as Arithel roped their collars around a tree. They unhitched the wagon from the animals’ harness, in order to sleep in the bed of the cart, above all the spiders and toads and night-crawlers creeping through the leaves of the forest floor.

  The sisters decided to split the night hours between themselves; while one slept, the other would keep watch. After they supped on cheese and smoked fish, Anoria took the first and easier shift. She grabbed Arithel’s bow and quiver, and sat against an oak tree, about thirty yards from camp so she could still keep sight of the road. When the loons began to call halfway through the night, it would be Arithel’s turn.

  ***

  Arithel awoke to the sounds of muffled voices. She instantly knew something was amiss. Her arm was numb, wracked with the sensation of pins and needles. Three torches flickered through the thicket. When she squinted she could see that three armed men were bearing them and that Anoria was being dragged by a short rope, her pale hands bound and clasped in front of her waist.

  Arithel’s heart pounded. The men were not far, only a few paces away. She slunk back into the wagon and reached for her knife. She quietly removed it from its sheath and stuffed the naked blade into her left boot. She folded the deed to the Andrete estate and stuffed the parchment down her shift and corset, between her breasts. She jumped from the wagon just as her sister and the men arrived. She had no time to contemplate how utterly unprepared she was for something like this.

  Arithel raised her arms in a careful gesture of surrender.

  “There’s more than enough loot for three highwaymen. Take all of our things, and leave my sister be,” she said in a calm and even voice.

  “Ari, don’t! These kind of men don’t make deals, they’re filth,” Anoria spat as tears streamed down her cheeks. In response the largest man slapped her with the back of his hand. She quickly crumpled to the ground.

  Arithel grimaced as one of the other raiders stripped off her sister’s headscarf, grabbed a fistful of her hair, and yanked her back to her feet.

  She could feel her veins throbbing—in her head, in her hands, in her neck.

  “I hope you won’t be as much trouble as she was,” growled the man who had struck Anoria. He snapped Arithel’s bow over his knee with ease. She swallowed her fear and attempted to project an aura of confidence.

  “There are nearly two hundred gold cuplets in that wagon. Take them and leave us.”

  “I… I’m sorry, Arithel. I fell asleep for but a moment and they were there. I tried to fend them off, I tried to keep them away from our camp,” Anoria said in a shaking voice as she continued to sob and sniffle.

  “It’s all right, Anoria. These men were just leaving with their plunder, were they not? Surely with the famine and weather these days, this is the greatest fortune they’ve stumbled upon in weeks.” Arithel put on her most valiant face.

  The oldest man in the group leered at her and licked his chapped, flaking lips. “Aye, maybe so,” he said, “but we ain’t goin’ to leave tonight’s two best prizes here. It’s been awhile since we’ve come across any ladies like you—young and comely, with all yer teeth and no pockmarks.”

  The third raider, a short blond lad, seemed more frightened than anything. Perhaps he was new to criminal activity, Arithel mused bitterly.

  “They’ll fetch a good price down in Altinsayah, once we’re done with em,” said the apparent leader, the burly one.

  With that, he shoved Anoria back onto the ground. At this point, she was wailing loudly. Arithel prayed the sound might attract some gallant rescuer. But it was only a hope. She knew a horrible fate was imminent for both of them
.

  “Make sure she doesn’t move!” The big one pointed at Arithel. The blond man approached her, roughly grabbing hold of her braid. He forced her to her knees and held his axe over the nape of her neck. Arithel didn’t resist. The grey-haired one stood guard near the wagon as the husky one forced Anoria’s legs apart. Arithel tried not to watch; she forced herself to stare at the dirt, and detached herself from the situation.

  The lead raider kissed Anoria savagely. She bit him on the cheek. He yelped in surprise and punched her squarely in the jaw. Blood trickled from her nostrils.

  “Is it really necessary to point that blade at me?” Arithel asked her captor. “It’s not as if I’m stupid enough to try anything.”

  The young man was convinced by the logic and let his axe dangle at his side. He was more interested in watching Anoria.

  “I just want to go home. Please, let me go home! We are all good Agronians here!” Anoria pleaded even as her body lay passive and subdued. The raider unbuckled his belt as she waited there, defeated. His trousers dropped around his ankles, and his crude sword was now lying on the ground alongside them. His bare ass shone like an ugly, fat moon.

  Arithel pretended to sob as she remained kneeling. Now was the time to act. Death before dishonor, she told herself. She could not allow the unthinkable; she could not surrender herself nor her sweet, virtuous sister to such foul, depraved, and deprived men.

  She reached into her boot, gripping the hilt of her knife. Just as the raider pushed Anoria’s dress above her hips, Arithel sprung to her feet and stabbed the blond fellow in the gut. She hardly blinked as she did it, and marveled at the hot blood that spilled from his wound onto her hands. He looked to be in shock and dropped his axe while clutching his belly. Arithel twisted the blade inside him as she pulled it out. As he fell, she turned to face her sister’s assailant.

  The old raider rushed towards her but the big one snarled, “Hold down the other girl. I’ll take care of this bitch.”

  “Snap her neck and leave her to me,” grey-hair spat. He tucked his knife back in its holster and tromped towards a dazed, half-conscious Anoria.