The Dimming Sun

by Lana Nielsen

  “I can help, I swear I can! I… I don’t want to sit and rot in this darned village, doing nothing but waiting on the harvest! I was meant to do something more. A man needs a worthy trial to test his soul!”

  Fallon scratched the side of his face and pursed his lips with thought. Darren could tell he was finally getting through to the fellow. Nobody turned down capable aid.

  “I’m sorry, Darren. You’ll learn your natural place in this world soon enough.”

  Darren shook his head. “It isn’t fair.”

  Fallon patted Darren on the shoulder as he stood up. He then looked down at Darren and shrugged. Darren could have sworn he was smiling as he walked away.

  Darren was left alone in the dark.

  ***

  Arithel rose early the next morning and found herself craving a cup of tea. She tiptoed over Fallon’s sprawled-out body and eased down the ladder from the loft. When she entered the kitchen, she quickly found both tea leaves and cross-stitched boiling bags in a jar, but there was no water. She groaned, knowing that the only source of fresh water was a quarter mile away, at the stream where they had first met Darren.

  “Of course!” She snorted. Her back and shoulders ached because of her efforts with the wheat harvest. It was not an experience she was keen to repeat. She lazily decided to forego the short journey to the stream. Why weren’t there any damned wells?

  She tore a piece of bread from the loaf they had eaten yesterday, and spread some paste made from fig preserves across it. It was a bit stale but sufficed as sustenance. She plopped herself down on the only couch. Her mind wandered as she chewed. Mostly she thought of Fallon—his behavior was certainly suspicious. Still no specifics on the package or the contents of the mysterious letter the crow dragged in, yet they were set to leave on the morrow nonetheless.

  Those were not the only thoughts of Fallon which crossed her mind that morning. To her embarrassment, one in particular kept recurring—the way he had touched the side of her face and made her look into his eyes. She breathed wistfully. She knew he probably hadn’t intended to arouse her; it was her own horrid fault that she could have melted like butter before him.

  He was not the same boy she had grown up with, that was certain. He had loomed over her, his presence commanding, his face thoughtful and luminous. And his eyes—they were bright, sparking with passion, seemingly stamped with experience of some profound mystery. Whatever change he had gone through in the West, in Nureen, or Paden had been more transformative than mere medical treatment.

  In the midst of her reflection, the door cracked open. Darren came straggling in, towing two quilts carelessly across the ground. He didn’t notice Arithel.

  “Good morning to you, too,” she muttered wryly.

  “Oh!” Darren was startled. He straightened his back. “Good morning, Arithel.” He emphasized her name.

  “Who?” Arithel asked. Darren rolled his eyes a bit.

  “Oh, I know now. Your friend told me everything last night,” Darren said.

  Arithel wondered why he was so sour. Even if they had lied about their names, there was no real harm done.

  “He was the one who improvised all of that. I suppose it’s appropriate that he revealed the truth. I wouldn’t tell your grandparents, though. Old folk get pretty upset if they find they’ve been tricked.”

  He nodded.

  “Could I show you something?” he asked.

  “Depends on what it is.” She laughed to herself.

  “It won’t take long. It’s a place my mother used to go. My real mother,” he whispered.

  “Aye, fair enough,” Arithel answered, rising slowly. She offered Darren the uneaten bits of her breakfast and was somewhat bewildered when he stuffed it all in his mouth at once.

  Arithel followed Darren to the stream where they had met. They crossed the water and entered the forest. After carefully maneuvering through a briar patch, they came upon a small meadow amid the trees. In the center of the clearing was a mound, and atop this mound rested a flat stone disc with strange triangular patterns etched onto its surface.

  “Is it some kind of ruin?” she asked.

  Darren nodded. “I wanted you to see this since you seemed doubtful of the threat of witches. My mother used to sit on that circle for hours, rocking back and forth and talking to herself in some nonsense tongue. Once I was old enough, she’d make me keep watch every night, to make sure nobody chanced upon her dealings. Sometimes I get the feeling that she was talking to Tifalla herself,” Darren said in a low voice, standing a safe distance away from the disc.

  Arithel approached it and ran her hands over the engravings. It was difficult to discern whether the markings were some forgotten language or just meaningless decoration.

  “I—I didn’t mean to imply I didn’t believe you yesterday. Anything is possible, I suppose.” She continued to examine the stone circle. It looked like a pagan altar, perhaps for animal sacrifice as was done in the old days.

  “You probably still don’t believe me, but it’s all right.” Darren cracked a slight smile.

  “Fair enough,” Arithel grinned. Perhaps Darren was not as terribly slow-witted as she had thought. “I do thank you for showing me this place, Darren,” she said, “It certainly provokes the imagination. But I must ask one question. If your mother was accused of witchcraft, surely the authorities knew about this place. Why haven’t they destroyed it by now?”

  Darren shrugged. “I always supposed it was ‘cause they were afraid to go near it. They fear a curse or the like.”

  Arithel nodded and stepped onto the stone surface out of curiosity.

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

  “Don’t be superstitious. Even if your mother had some power here, she is long gone now,” Arithel told him. She twirled in a circle and curtsied to him.

  “See?” she said.

  As she stood up, Arithel heard someone call out to her, though she could not tell from where. A woman’s soft, ethereal voice repeated her full name: “Arithel Nicose, Arithel Nicose...” Chills coursed down her spine, and she was petrified with shock. Her feet felt as if they were locked into place. She sensed the silver patterns leaping off the surface of the stone and coiling themselves tightly around her ankles. The ornament of the changeling woman burned hot against her chest. She lost her perception of time and space. The whole world seemed to fade around her. What replaced it was the vivid image of a face she had never seen before. A beautiful woman stared out from behind the confines of a sheer purple veil. Black curls framed her face. Her deep blue eyes sparkled like the reflection of the sun setting over the sea. The luster of her brow and cheeks was as pale and bright as the moon itself.

  Her lips moved hypnotically. “You must listen to me, for only you can see. I am not Tifalla. Do not let him out of your sight. Seek the light at the edge of the world.”

  “Arithel! What the heck are ya doin’?” Darren cried out, shattering the illusion. The woman’s face vanished, and Arithel was staring down at a familiar green meadow from atop a mound. She rubbed her temples once before dashing off the stone disc.

  “Nothing,” she told him. “Just staring at those trees. I—I thought I saw an owl on one of the branches. It was pretty big.”

  “Oh.” Darren squinted.

  She swallowed hard. What exactly had she just seen? Seen was a poor word, experienced was more like it. Hopefully it was just the workings of an overheated imagination and not a prelude to some eventual insanity. Maybe it was one of the old goddesses calling to her, she considered briefly. But that was ridiculous. If Agron was a farce, then the old gods certainly were too.

  “Fallon told me what happened to your sister. All I can say is that I’m so sorry,” Darren declared.

  “Oh, er… thank you?” Arithel said, unsure why he had brought up the subject or why Fallon had told the boy. She tried to avoid thinking about it too much.

  Darren cleared his throat. “Fallon said that you didn’t need any help on you
r journey, but I thought I would ask you instead.”

  “I think he’s right.”

  Darren shook his head adamantly. There was an odd greedy glint in his eyes. “Agron sent the two of you here so I could help. I know it.”

  Arithel sighed deeply. “You have a good heart and perhaps an extra man on the road wouldn’t hurt, but Fallon is not going to change his mind.”

  “Do you always do what Fallon says?” Darren remarked. Arithel gave him a warning glance. She knew full well such a statement was intended to provoke her into conceding to his request.

  “He’s going to help me find my sister. Fallon saved my life. I owe him, not the other way around. I’m not going to alter his plans.”

  “Can’t you convince him to change his mind? He seems fond enough of you.” Darren’s plea was desperate this time, more of a whine.

  Arithel walked towards the cottage. “I can’t. I’m sorry. I won’t forget you when we leave, Darren. You’ve been a good host. You’re destined for a good life.”

  “One can only lead a good life if it has purpose!” he retorted weakly and huffed. It was painful to witness his tantrum over something so trivial. He was a youth and such behavior was expected from them. Arithel couldn’t say she hadn’t been prone to rash decisions as a teenager. After all, her brazen trysts with Ronan in the forests on the outskirts of Portreath had ultimately led to her encounter with the changeling.

  ***

  That afternoon, Darren tersely bid them farewell. Poor sap, Arithel thought fleetingly—she and Fallon had crushed his enthusiastic little heart. She was eager to return to the road and to deal with only Fallon’s company. She could hardly fathom the idea of Darren joining them, of having to endure hours upon hours of cheerful religious ramblings.

  Arithel and Fallon packed all their belongings onto Madroste, checked their map, and quickly walked through the village. They passed through the grazing lands on the edge of Aelfelm. In less than an hour, they reached the outskirts of yet another town, Aelfold. Arithel had stopped to gawk at two old women fiercely cursing each other from either side of a fence when she noticed a figure rapidly approaching on the horizon. It was Darren; he doggedly made his way down the winding dirt road, bearing a knapsack on his shoulder.

  “By Agron, I told that fool not to come.” She pointed out Darren’s form in the distance.

  “He has a thick skull, doesn’t he? I was also forced to discourage him.”

  “So I heard. He came to me and begged for me to change your mind. You must have really caught his imagination,” she scoffed.

  “I think you did. You probably appear rather sophisticated, compared to the stupid cows he’s used to.”

  “You’re ridiculous.” She had no idea whether such a statement was intended as a compliment.

  “We may as well stop walking for a bit. Let us not be too cruel,” Fallon told her as he yawned.

  “That’s a new concern of yours,” she said.

  Fallon shrugged. Darren waved from afar. It was soon evident that the boy had a crude hunting bow slung over his shoulder and a butcher’s knife at his belt.

  “I’m coming with you two whether you like it or not. I have my grandda’s blessing. You can’t stop me from helping any more than you can stop Agron himself.”

  Arithel tried not to laugh.

  “Can’t argue with that,” Fallon mused.

  “Are ya serious?” Darren asked with big, hopeful eyes.

  “Yes. You can come with us, provided you don’t cause too much trouble or slow us down.”

  “He can?” Arithel was dumbstruck. What could have provoked the sudden change of heart? It was not as if Darren was too far from Aelfelm to turn back.

  Fallon nodded.

  “I won’t. I swear. Thank you, my lord, thank you both.” Darren bowed politely. Arithel softened up a bit. After all, he was thanking them—for their permission to help them. It was sort of pathetic.

  “Is that a chicken-carver?” Arithel pointed at his knife. “You’re going to need a better weapon than that.”

  “Lucky for him we have a few extras,” Fallon said and produced the golden sword with the ruby-crusted holster. He tossed it to Darren. Darren picked it up off the ground.

  “Thank you… you have no idea…” Darren said. His eyes widened with awe as he took in the sumptuous beauty of the sword.

  “I thought that was for you,” Arithel whispered to Fallon. Darren continued to admire his new gift, paying little heed to his new traveling companions.

  “I am feeling generous today,” Fallon crowed. It dawned on Arithel that Fallon had wanted Darren to come with them, but on his own volition. Whatever Fallon had said to the boy had incited his rashness. She couldn’t imagine why he wanted Darren’s company. She resolved to keep a closer eye on Darren to find out.

  The three of them returned to the road and continued walking south.

  Chapter Ten

  Glorun absentmindedly gazed at the burning kindling. She sat on a rug made from the pelt of a polar bear, clutching her knees to her chest for warmth as she wrapped a fur stole about her frame. She knew she should have been in bed, but it was difficult to sleep. She could only think of her dear brother, Meldane, and where he might have gone. It had been nine long months and nothing—not even a letter smuggled in by his allies. Of course, if there had been a letter at all, Morden would have found it and destroyed it. She sighed deeply. No one could have possibly felt more alone than she did. There was no one her own age she could speak frankly with. She looked forward to the day her brother would pick some man for her betrothal, if only to leave the accursed court of Staska and the damned Dusaldr castle, with its forbidding stone arches and narrow, suffocating corridors. Most visitors to Staska would remark kindly on the warmth and hospitality of the place. How foolish they were, Glorun thought bitterly.

  A sudden knocking at her bedroom door broke her trance. She rose to answer it, only to see that it was Selka. She had a frenzied look in her eyes.

  “Good, you’re awake!” Selka exclaimed, hastily pushing Glorun out of the chamber without explanation.

  “What’s going on?” Glorun asked, worried that some calamity had occurred.

  Selka adjusted Glorun’s nightcap, and told her in a hurried voice, “Malina is giving birth to your nephew, Paden’s heir.”

  “Ahh,” Glorun was underwhelmed. “Allow me to get properly dressed. This is good news. I’m surprised I haven’t heard any horns call out in celebration by now.”

  “Wulfdane is wary of making a premature proclamation, considering Malina’s poor health of late. But bless Madroste, everything has gone smoothly so far.”

  Glorun pulled a deep blue surcoat over her muslin nightgown. She turned her back to Selka and allowed the woman to quickly plait her hair. She thanked her and the two of them rushed through the halls. As they approached the royal bedchamber, she heard the echoes of Malina’s screams. A crowd of attendants and her brother’s closest confidantes were gathered outside the doors to the room. The Dusaldr emblem, a snarling wolf, was carved into the wood of the dark panels, glaring at Glorun with its amber eyes.

  Selka wove her way through the crowd, dragging Glorun firmly behind her. She knocked upon the bedroom doors and announced, “the princess is with me.” In response, the door creaked open just enough to allow the two women inside. The courtiers waiting in the hall scrambled on top of each other for a peek before the door slammed in their faces.

  To her great annoyance, Morden was the first person Glorun saw as she entered the room. He was clad in the white gown of a medic and bore an array of odd-looking metal instruments in his hand as he hovered over Malina. He handed the tools over to one of the several midwives in attendance and washed his hands. The nurses, the priestesses, the real medics—they all stood back. Apparently Morden, the ‘Great Healer,’ would handle it all. He walked over to Glorun and Selka and quietly warned them to keep their distance and not interfere with the birth. His patronizing words irritated Glorun;
it was her brother’s child, not some stranger’s. Glorun was well aware why Morden had given that warning; he feared she’d have one of her episodes and curse the child. How insolent, seeing as Glorun had experienced no episodes in a half year’s time.

  Wulfdane lounged on a couch beside the hearth, paying more attention to the twiddling of his thumbs than the shrill screams of his wife or the hurried mutterings of Morden and the midwives. A cleric and two priestesses burned sweet-smelling herbs to help relax the ill, swollen queen, whose upright, thrashing thighs were already streaked with blood. One of Malina’s handmaids dabbed at her ashen forehead and cheeks with a wet strip of cloth. The queen rolled her head back and forth on her pillow, delirious with pain.

  Glorun knew childbirth could be painful, but not as much as Malina was making it out to be. She was up to her usual attention-seeking antics, no doubt.

  Morden held Malina down and pricked the crook of her elbow with a long needle. It was a strange and rather perverse practice to inject the flesh with medicines, but it had proven successful ever since Morden first introduced the concept. Glorun cringed as Morden inserted one of his instruments into Malina’s womb to check whether the child was crowning yet.

  “The babe is breech, my king. There are two choices for Malina. I could cut her open to retrieve it or try to turn it around in the womb myself. Surgery is safer but Malina may not be able to bear another child. If I turn it around myself, that could cause heavy bleeding or extend the labor even further. I’m not sure Malina is strong enough for that.”