The Dimming Sun

by Lana Nielsen

  “I can’t properly describe him to you, Ari,” he said after taking several swigs of his drink. “You’ll just have to meet him.”

  Within ten minutes, Fallon had finished his second drink. “Mistress short-stockings.” He giggled to himself as he looked at one of the tavern girls. Upon seeing how drunk he was, Arithel lost her thirst. She straightened her back and saw that they were receiving disgruntled looks from the other patrons. They probably seemed like obnoxious foreigners with their loud and frenzied chatting. So much for Fallon’s speech about keeping a low profile.

  “Mistress,” Fallon called again for the taverngirl.

  “Another one already, huh?” She smirked knowingly as she filled yet another cup with ale from the tap. She sashayed towards their table, her breasts bouncing with each step. Arithel buried her face in her palms as Fallon tipped the woman.

  “Thank you, my lady.” He stood up and gallantly bowed to the tavern girl. He pecked the top of her hand. She seemed both amused and annoyed. Fallon attracted plenty of attention from the rough men surrounding them as he flashed golden cuplets at the greedy wench. Arithel would not be surprised if they were robbed before the end of the night. They would be thrown out of the inn, at the least.

  Fallon followed the girl back to the bar, sloshing ale into the rushes as he walked. Arithel observed him; it was painful watching his attempts at flirting. He couldn’t even capture the attention of a barmaid longer than a few seconds. She resolved that this had to stop—she would save him from further embarrassment.

  “I think your husband needs a tighter leash,” the tavern keeper remarked as he delivered a plate of food to another table. She nodded in response.

  Arithel tapped Fallon on the shoulder. “It’s time for bed,” she told him. “We need to leave early in the morn, remember?”

  “What’s your room number?” The tavern girl smiled sweetly at Fallon, ignoring Arithel.

  “Four,” Fallon answered. “You’re very beautiful, you know. I’ve always liked fair-haired girls the best. Not too many of them in Neldor. You still haven’t told me your name,” he rambled, his eyes barely open at this point. Arithel was surprised that a full-grown man such as him would become so inebriated after two and a half beers. Perhaps he still had a weak constitution from his illness.

  “Thank you, my good Neldorin sir.” The tavern girl batted her eyelashes in spite of her clenched jaw.

  “It’s time to go.” Arithel tried to pull him away from the bar, but he didn’t budge. She groaned with frustration, feeling a tad humiliated. After all, for all these Elinmoorians knew, this was her husband.

  Arithel finally grabbed Fallon by the ends of his hair to get his attention.

  “Youch!” he protested, clumsily dropping his cup on the floor. The tavern girl rushed to clean up the mess, and the Elinmoorians burst out in guffaws of hearty laughter as Arithel dragged her friend upstairs.

  “By Agron, that was mortifying,” she hissed as she pushed Fallon into their room. He was cooperative enough, but was cursing her under his breath as he collapsed onto the bed. Arithel sat on a stool in the corner of the room, angrily reflecting on the entirety of the journey thus far. She scowled at her hapless companion.

  “Let me do all the talking, eh?” she mocked him.

  “I’m sorry, Arithel, don’t be so upset with me. I haven’t had a good drink in a while,” he whispered. Laughing to himself, he curled up beneath his cloak.

  “Sure,” she retorted. “You’re a mess right now.”

  “I need my medicines. Could you prepare my pipe, Ari?”

  “I’m not sure medicine is the right word, my friend.” She sat on the bed beside him, her anger cooling as she noted how pathetic he looked. “I don’t know why you were so hell-bent on making a fool of me.”

  His eyes darted towards her.

  “I wasn’t, Ari, honest. I just wanted you to see me in a different light.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You don’t even register that I’m an improved man. You still stare at me with pity all the time, like I’m a cripple even now.”

  “I feel pity for no one,” she lied. “If it somehow happens to seem that way, it’s unintentional. I haven’t seen you in six years. We need more than just a few days to readjust to one another’s company,” she said. “Which is good company, I can assure you.”

  Fallon smiled briefly and faced her. His countenance was stoic again. His jaw was set and his eyes were burning.

  “You’re a lovely woman, Ari,” he told her in a strangely somber voice, and placed his hand on the outside of her thigh. With his other hand he moved disheveled locks of hair behind her shoulders. She dare not return his gaze, but she felt his eyes sweeping over the contours of her face, her neck, and bodice.

  So much for his standards of propriety, she thought.

  “You’ve become a decent looking man yourself.” Arithel leaned back and looked away, unsure what the appropriate response was.

  He only edged forward, invading the little space left between them. He slid his hand further up her thigh and towards her middle. Arithel sat there without flinching, stunned by the strange turn of events.

  She contemplated how to react. On one hand, Fallon was a nobleman and likely used to getting whatever women he wanted with little effort. It was somewhat insulting that as soon as he was imbibed with liquid courage, he’d reach up his oldest friend’s skirts. It also seemed perverse to engage in this sort of behavior considering what had happened to Anoria—the reason she was on the road with him in the first place! But…Arithel could not deny the ache she felt as soon as he had pressed his hand to her leg. It had been three years since anyone had touched her like that and Fallon was now good-looking enough.

  He took heed of the yearning in her eyes, and moved both hands behind the small of her back, abruptly pulling her towards him. Her chest quivered with heavy sighs as he tilted her chin and traced the outline of her jaw with his thumb. He pressed his mouth over hers and slipped his tongue deep inside without much warning. Arithel kissed him back voraciously, wrapping her arms tightly about him as he leaned into her and forced her body flat onto the bed. She writhed beneath his frame and continued to kiss him, ignoring the bitter taste of poppy smoke still hanging on his lips.

  He took her face in his hands and said in a low voice: “I often imagined this moment.”

  Arithel wished he hadn’t uttered that. She didn’t want to be reminded of how he once was. She felt a fleeting twinge of discomfort in her belly. It faded quickly, as she lost herself in his searing, brilliant eyes.

  “Did you? I… uh… can’t say that, but I am enjoying things.”

  He looked taken aback by her blunt answer. Finally, he laughed a little and muttered, “You haven’t changed,” before kissing her again.

  After that he seemed starved. He pinned her down by her shoulders and roughly fondled her breasts through her clothing, rudely twisting and tweaking each nipple. She suppressed a moan as she parted her legs, bending her knees so her skirts fell about her waist. He ran his hands over her thighs, over the curve of her bum, even unexpectedly, painfully raking his nails across her skin. Arithel threw her head back and laughed dizzily in surprise. He unlaced the top of her blouse, exposing her breasts as he lightly brushed his lips against her collarbone. He prodded his fingers towards the slick entrance of her sex.

  Suddenly, he stopped and sat up. Arithel found herself kissing the air.

  “I’m sorry,” he murmured, and retreated to the far end of the bed. She noticed the bulge beneath his breeches. She quickly looked at the floor.

  “You don’t have to apologize,” she whispered, her voice wavering.

  “No, I do. It was totally inappropriate and completely my fault. I need to sleep off the alcohol,” he said as he lay back down.

  She was irritated. Arithel felt a sudden and unwelcome watering in her eyes. She sniffed to rid herself of it.

  “What is your problem?” she spat. “Is your wh
ole aim to frustrate me?”

  “I don’t want to fall in love with you again, Ari. Good night.”

  “So that’s it? All this odd behavior? It’s simply out of spite because I may have spurned you when I was little more than a child?”

  “No, Arithel, you’ve misunderstood yet again. Look, all I meant is that suppose we started indulging in each other’s… physical attributes. Where do you think that would lead?”

  “A better night’s sleep,” she joked.

  “You still don’t get it after all these years. You’re not a man. You can’t act this way; you have a reputation to protect.”

  “Who would know?” Arithel was amazed. Her old friend was apparently the only soul left on the continent abiding by the rules set in place before the sun had dimmed. Everyone else had decided to eat what was left, drink, and be merry.

  “Your future husband, robbed of your maidenhood, that’s who,” Fallon told her.

  Arithel began to laugh. “Dear, sweet Fallon,” she said sarcastically. “You must be the only one who hasn’t heard. There is nothing left to rob.”

  He cleared his throat and placed his sheathed sword in the center of the mattress, dividing their sleeping spaces.

  “I don’t want to take part in further despoiling your virtue,” he said quietly.

  She swallowed hard and lay back. His words stung even as she had mocked him. She thought of Anoria again. After they rescued her, would the nuns accept her back into the abbey?

  Arithel stared coldly at ceiling. Cockroaches ran freely across the beams of wood.

  “You don’t seem to understand that it’s practically the end of the world,” she said. She felt ashamed afterwards, realizing she sounded desperate.

  “You’re wrong, Ari. Just because the world is changing doesn’t mean it’s ending. We are standing on the edge of better days. You and I will live to see some of the most glorious years in this entire Fifth Age. That I promise you.”

  His words were confident, yet far away.

  Chapter Eight

  In the morning, the two travelers visited a weapon merchant’s sidewalk tent after eating breakfast. The greasiness of the biscuits and sausage left Arithel queasy.

  The streets were still, save for a few grunting pigs and stray cats.

  “As you can see, the Elinmoorians like to sleep late. It’s part of their lazy nature,” Fallon told Arithel as approached the shop. “We should be especially appreciative of the good merchant who will accommodate our needs this morning.”

  She nodded. “I can’t blame them for sleeping in. With the skies so cloudy, it’s tempting to stay in bed.”

  “Maybe for the weak,” Fallon replied.

  “You don’t have a headache?”

  “No.”

  The merchant opened the faded red flap to his tent. He grinned widely and beckoned them. He was missing one of his front teeth and his brownish-grey beard was fashioned into two braids, with bronze rings set about the ends. A violet-blue turban was wrapped around his bulbous forehead. Arithel recalled a hat of that style had been popular among wealthy Neldorins a few years earlier. The cloth was dyed with the seeds of some expensive desert flower, imported from Nureen’s southernmost province of Suteiron.

  “Come in. Come in, my good Neldorins. Frey is my name. I haven’t seen any decent customers like you in ages.” The merchant slapped both of them on the back as they stepped inside. He was still grinning, which made Arithel uneasy.

  “I’m sorry about that,” Fallon said in a low voice.

  “Yep, I mostly just get highwaymen, headed north for the border. They never buy anything other than axes and dirty serrated blades. You two are lookin’ for something a bit finer, though. Am I right?” He nudged Fallon in the ribs.

  “That we are,” Fallon affirmed in a bored tone.

  The merchant nodded excitedly and had to lift the hem of his fur-trimmed robes to keep from tripping over his pointed slippers. Arithel stifled a laugh as he showed them around the tent.

  The floor was covered with old rugs and tattered standards from perhaps every land on the continent. A variety of inexpensive looking weapons—longbows, pickaxes, spears, hammers, short swords—were arranged haphazardly on wooden tables. Oil lamps burned steadfastly in each corner.

  “Eileen!” the merchant barked. “Fix our good customers two cups of spiced tea!”

  “Will do, love!” a woman shouted back in a shrill voice.

  “We’re fine,” Fallon said.

  “I’d like a cup. It’s been a few days since I’ve had any tea. What’s it spiced with?” Arithel asked, ignoring the look that Fallon was no doubt giving her.

  “Ohh, it’s a special blend from the oases of Suteiron. A secret the Sulierians guard closely,” Frey said, grinning and nodding.

  “Sounds lovely.”

  Fallon groaned. She smirked to herself.

  Frey pulled a crooked key from his pocket. He turned the key through two locks that hung about a metal door, the entrance to the actual shop. Arithel was surprised that the heavy, menacing door didn’t rip apart the ramshackle building as it swung open.

  He ushered them inside and whispered, “I rarely let customers look beyond the tent. If I did, I suspect I’d be robbed blind within a week.”

  The merchant’s wife was bearing a silver tray with two little porcelain tea cups. Steam rose from the clay pitcher. Eileen set the tray down on a low table in front of a long couch lined with dozens of colorful overstuffed pillows.

  “Sit.” She motioned towards the couch. They did as she bid. Her smile was as wide and fishy as her husband’s. The smell of apples and pears mixed with cinnamon swirled about the room. It was apparent the merchant’s tea blend was only exotic in that its fruits were harvested from nearby Neldor’s orchards.

  The merchant sat beside them, propping his funny shoes up on the same table that held their tea tray. Arithel quickly grabbed one of the tea cups before Frey’s clumsy foot could knock it over. She blew on the surface of the hot liquid before sipping.

  “Is it good enough?” Eileen chirped.

  “It’s great,” Arithel answered courteously.

  “So—what is a young Neldorin lairdling doing in Lindelwood?” the merchant asked as he looked at Fallon. Fallon’s cheeks drained of their color and he nervously gulped down half his tea.

  “Relax, boy,” the merchant patted Fallon near the kneecap. “I knew your father many years ago. You look just like him.”

  “Oh,” Fallon said, his posture relaxing a bit.

  “He never mentioned he had a son, though. Did he, Eileen?” the merchant turned to his wife.

  “No, love, he did not.”

  She disappeared beyond yet another door in the maze of a shop.

  “I was ill for quite some time. I was kept cloistered and hardly expected to live,” Fallon explained.

  “Oh, I wasn’t doubtin’ ye. I knew you were Faldros’ from the moment I saw ye at the stables yesterday. We’re glad to have ye with us. Your father used to do a lot of business down our way, but no more. It’s nice to see the Neldorin lords investing in their neighbors again.”

  Fallon appeared puzzled.

  “So, young Veselte, we have whatever you need for whatever you need.” The merchant laughed to himself and stroked his braided beard. Both Fallon and Arithel were silent.

  “Explosives imported from the east, poisoned darts from beyond the southern ocean, scimitars, crossbows, powders that create noxious gas, even this highly anticipated new weapon invented just two years ago—the musket! The Nureenians are barely even using it yet!” the merchant rattled off excitedly.

  Fallon shook his head. “I believe you have misunderstood me. I’m not here for some assassin’s tricks. I was under the impression that this was just a small shop to buy a couple of swords and bows of good quality. I don’t even see where you’d have room for all those other things.”

  “I keep it safe. Forget I ever said any of that, I only assumed you were with the—
”

  “The coup?” Fallon interrupted flatly.

  “Aye, that thing,” Frey said. “I hope you won’t go and turn me in now. Sorry to bring it up. Apparently, you and your father engage in very different sorts of business.” He chuckled nervously. Arithel wondered what exactly Faldros might have been up to in the past.

  “We won’t say anything,” Fallon reassured the man.

  “Thank you. What is it you need? I can give ye that too,” the merchant said.

  Fallon glanced at Arithel.

  “I need a bow to replace mine, which was broken,” Arithel said, as she unpleasantly recalled the lead raider snapping it in half with Anoria sobbing in the background.

  “All right.” The merchant stood up and glanced down at her knife. “Will you need a sword, too, miss? I don’t know if that dagger’d be any good at killing anything. If killing is what you have to do, that is.”

  He smiled pleasantly.

  “He’s right,” Fallon said.

  “Aye, let’s see a few swords.” Arithel glanced down at her knife. It had worked just fine stabbing the blond raider. She had owned the weapon since she was eleven. The metalworking on the hilt and pommel was beautiful. She would keep it at her belt even if she decided to take on a larger blade.

  “Same goes for me,” Fallon told the merchant before he could scuttle away.

  “You’ve already got two,” Arithel said.

  “I might lose one. You never know.”

  She shrugged.

  The merchant returned with a bundle of swords wrapped in silk. He pushed the tea tray to the side, and the pitcher crashed onto the floor. Steaming tea poured through the cracks of the floorboards, slowly dripping into the crawlspace below.