The Dimming Sun

by Lana Nielsen

  “They certainly won’t believe anything now that Elspeth and her home are a pile of ashes!” Darren laughed wildly and pointed at the trails of smoke rising above the trees. “We could have reported her to the authorities. They could have put her to trial. They know how to handle these things!”

  “Calm down, lad. You’re still muddle-minded after your coma. It’ll pass,” Fallon told him.

  Darren narrowed his eyes at Fallon and gazed longingly at the unconscious woman.

  “I refuse to go along with you two unless we do something about the girl. I will carry her to the nearest village myself if I have to,” Darren announced.

  His near-death experience has not wised him up one bit, Arithel thought. He is still an irrational and annoyingly upright farm-boy.

  “Fine, Darren,” Fallon conceded, much to Arithel’s surprise. “You’ll be the one responsible for looking after her. Arithel and I have enough on our plates already.”

  “Thank you for coming to your senses, Fallon,” Darren said pompously. He immediately tried moving the unconscious woman to the horse. Madroste didn’t appreciate the extra weight.

  “Ah, gallantry,” Arithel whispered to Fallon.

  “Indeed,” he said. “Though it grates on me, it’s good that the boy is finding his own voice. He’ll need it later on.”

  “Funny reaction, coming from you.” Arithel nudged him with her elbow. “Are you resigning yourself to decency after all?”

  “I’ve always been decent,” Fallon frowned.

  “Of course,” Arithel smirked.

  They helped Darren secure the woman’s body to the horse.

  ***

  The company departed Wilderwood within half an hour. They walked slowly so that Madroste wouldn’t jostle the woman too much. The land before them was a great expanse of rolling steppe covered with a wiry layer of yellow grass. Shrub-like trees and occasional boulders dotted the panorama.

  It was a relief to escape the suffocating confines of the swamp. There was no road and still a sense of dizzying isolation. The only sign of civilization was a herdsman’s sod hut. Cattle roamed freely on the roof, stupidly mooing when they passed.

  Darren had completely recuperated by mid-morning. He no longer dragged his feet when he walked. The woman didn’t stir. Around lunch, they stopped to rest on the banks of a brook. They all drank the cold, clean water and re-filled their canteens. Darren sat by the creek and munched on biscuits from his knapsack. He pulled out a jar of apple butter and used his fingers to spread it generously over the crust. His feet dangled over the edge of the bank, his legs swinging contentedly.

  “You know, I’ve been thinking…” he mused as he took a bite of his biscuit.

  As usual, he chewed with his mouth open.

  Arithel unwrapped slices of venison jerky. “What?”

  “I guess it would be a better question for Fallon.”

  “Anything you have to say to him, you can tell me,” she snapped.

  “Let’s just say I’m starting to remember some of the things Elspeth told me.”

  He was smiling a little too much for her taste.

  “What was that?” Fallon appeared on the other side of Darren. Madroste’s reins were in his hands. The horse’s hooves were situated dangerously close to the soggy creek bank. Arithel pictured the ground giving out from under the horse and the red-haired girl getting bucked into the water.

  “What happened to the ruling family of Nureen, the people in power before Tiresias’s revolution?” Darren asked.

  Arithel was surprised he’d even ask such a question; she didn’t think he would be interested in history. Peasants often didn’t even know their own birthdays.

  Fallon furrowed his brow as he bit into an overripe apple. “They were killed, murdered by Tiresias when he assumed control of the golden city. Their severed heads embellished the gates to Mt. Aerys for months. Some people say the eldest daughter, Milisandia, might have survived; she was a nun living in a remote convent in the Shadow Mountains. She disappeared before her family’s execution, but no one really knows what happened to her. Spies of Tiresias might have assassinated her in stealth or she may have killed herself in distress—that’s my guess. Easy to do that in the Shadow Mountains. It’s not as if anyone would ever find her body.”

  Darren nodded and ate the rest of his biscuit.

  “Why do you ask?” Fallon said.

  “Oh, no reason. Just curiosity. Could the eldest daughter have borne a child—if she had survived?”

  “Sure, she was a woman. But it’s unlikely, considering her vows of celibacy. By all accords, she was very committed to Agron. It takes a special kind of princess to exchange the glamour of the sparkling golden court of Mt. Aerys for a rugged life in an austere convent atop a black and jagged mountain. I think that particular convent even required oaths of silence.” Fallon shrugged casually.

  “What does all this have to do with Elspeth?” Arithel asked. She still had not gotten the chance to tell her damned story about the visions Elspeth had foisted upon her.

  “Er… Elspeth and I were talking about the Nureenian Empire before she tried to kill me. She knew a lot,” Darren told her.

  “Like what?” Arithel said.

  “Nothing specific, nothing someone like you wouldn’t already know,” Darren mumbled.

  They traveled the remainder of the day. There were still no towns in sight. The temperature dropped dramatically. The wide-open spaces of the plains left them exposed to swift, stinging winds. By nightfall, the gales were so bad they nearly knocked Arithel over.

  They camped at the bottom of a hill beside a flimsy tree. Arithel and Fallon had refused Darren’s naïve suggestion that they ask one of the sod-hut dwellers for an overnight stay. The sound of the wind was eerie and kept her awake. She wasted hours trying not to think of Anoria.

  The next day they found a road again. It was paved with smooth white stones, no doubt put in place by the Nureenians. It stretched along the crests of the ridges and hillocks. They saw a few travelers—barefoot pilgrims wearing hairshirts, a middle-aged woman driving a wagon full of wool, and a group of quarrymen with pickaxes at their backs. A Nureenian led the quarrymen; he was clad in flowing silk robes, with a golden watch hanging about his neck. He sat comfortably in a chariot pulled by a magnificent black horse.

  They paid to lodge at a young farmer’s house on the outskirts of a Nureenian ranch. It was awkward explaining the unconscious woman’s presence, but Fallon asked for a doctor to visit her in the morn. The farmer assured him that his wife would send out word.

  They all occupied the same cramped room with a low ceiling. Arithel was setting down her traveling pack when she walked into a large spider-web and shrieked.

  “Do they never clean out the place? You wouldn’t think there would be too many insects out on the plains. No trees for them to hide amongst,” she complained, brushing the sticky threads off her shoulders and chest.

  Fallon gently laid the red-haired woman on the only bed in the room, where her body sprawled across it.

  “You might as well lay her on the floor. I don’t think she can feel anything one way or another,” Arithel muttered.

  The woman’s still, silent presence was unnerving.

  “We can at least provide a measure of comfort until the doctor arrives,” Fallon said and sat on a stool. He pulled his pipe from his pocket.

  How long could someone go without food and water?

  “I thought you were supposed to look after her, Darren?” Arithel turned towards the farm-boy.

  Darren shrugged. “It seems Fallon is doing the job for me.”

  She looked at Fallon. He was dabbing water from his canteen onto a strip of cloth. He wiped the cloth over the woman’s forehead and cheeks.

  Arithel fumed. She knew her reaction was completely inappropriate. She should’ve been heartened by his display of good will. But no, she might as well go ahead and ask the changeling what hell was like…

  “What are
we going to do with her if the doctor declares she’s no more alive than a spoiled potato?” Arithel said, preparing her pallet on the floor. She certainly didn’t want to sleep next to the woman.

  “Give her a proper burial,” Fallon answered.

  “That won’t happen. I can feel it,” Darren said. “The poison wore off for me. For a while, I could even see and hear everything going on around me. She could be in such a state; her mind clear, but her body locked.”

  “It’s possible,” Arithel admitted, glaring at Fallon as he continued trying to nurse the attractive stranger back to health. He looked so absorbed in the task as he poured medicine from one of his vials onto a spoon.

  Suddenly, the red-haired girl coughed.

  “Told you!” Darren gloated to Arithel. “She’s coming out of the spell. I don’t know what’s gotten into you. You’re not the heartless type, unlike some others.”

  Darren’s eyes flashed towards Fallon.

  “Why am I heartless, Darren? Am I not taking good care of this woman?”

  Darren stuttered for a few seconds. “I was speaking in general, not about you.”

  “It’s fine. I’m not condemning you for speaking your mind. I genuinely want to know why you—and perhaps others—have that impression.”

  “Well, it’s just—Arithel told me what you did to Elspeth, and it just seemed like too much. Like needless torture,” Darren answered.

  Fallon tightened his lips and drew in a long breath of smoke from his pipe. “I saved your life,” he stated.

  “And I am grateful, of course. But you didn’t go at it all alone. If Arithel hadn’t come looking for me, I probably would have been stew within the hour.”

  Fallon looked even more annoyed.

  “He’s right, technically. I did find the trapdoor. I went looking first.” Arithel couldn’t stop grinning.

  “It’s pointless to deliberate over past events.” Fallon ended the conversation.

  ***

  When Arithel awoke the next morning, the copper-haired woman was sitting upright on the bed. Fallon and Darren were still asleep and unaware. Arithel’s mouth was open with shock.

  The woman’s eyes were glassy and she looked ill.

  She waved hesitantly at Arithel. She realized for the first time that the woman wore numerous beaded bracelets around either wrist. They jingled together.

  “Hello,” Arithel whispered, “I’m glad to see you’ve made it.”

  The woman nodded feebly. “Where am I?”

  “Not sure of the name of the town, but we’re in central Elinmoor.”

  “Oh,” said the woman disappointedly. “I don’t remember anything.”

  “I’m sure it’ll come back to you in time. You just need to regain your strength here in town. A doctor is supposed to see you today…”

  “What is your name?” the girl interrupted Arithel.

  “I’m Arithel. That is Darren sleeping there on the floor and Fallon beside you.”

  Fallon’s leg jerked. Arithel figured he was only pretending to sleep. The nameless woman scooted further away from him.

  “We saved your life, you know. We found you in the cellar of an old witch dwelling in Wilderwood. You were probably poisoned, like Darren was.”

  The woman laughed. “Oh, I believe that one, all right.”

  Arithel couldn’t blame the woman for being unconvinced. “Do you want some breakfast? I know you must be starved,” she asked.

  “I would like that,” she answered in a delicate, doll-like voice. It sounded put-on; Arithel wasn’t sure why she was using it.

  Arithel ordered the farmer’s wife to prepare two bowls of porridge. The serf kept her distance as she boiled the oats.

  When Arithel returned to their room, she elaborated on what had happened in Wearywindle. The only response the red-haired woman gave was a disinterested nod, which irritated Arithel. She had brought this woman breakfast and helped save her life, yet she didn’t even care to give Arithel her full attention?

  “What is the last thing you remember? Surely there must be something?” Arithel tried her best to get feedback from the stranger. Most people loved talking about themselves.

  The girl shrugged her gentle shoulders and re-adjusted her corset strings. “I really couldn’t say. I remember getting lost in Wilderwood, but that’s it. I don’t even know who I am, how I got here, or if you’re telling the truth. I don’t know anything.”

  “If you just try harder—I mean you obviously know how to speak the central tongue properly, with an Elinmoorian accent to boot. That suggests you must know something about yourself.”

  “I can’t,” the woman said, her eyes sunken and watery. “It’s so maddening.”

  Arithel awkwardly patted the girl. “At least try to think of your name, or make up one until it all comes back to you. We can’t just call you ‘that woman there’ when the doctor comes.”

  “I don’t want a name until I remember my true one,” the woman protested. A single tear rolled down her freckled cheek.

  How melodramatic, Arithel thought.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The amnesiac refused to be seen by the doctor. Despite the wan color in her cheeks, she insisted her strength had fully returned. Fallon recounted what happened in Wearywindle. For some reason, she believed him when she had doubted Arithel.

  “Thank you for rescuing me. I suppose I am in your debt.”

  “You’re welcome,” Arithel replied, already disliking this strange, pushy girl.

  “You don’t have to repay us,” Fallon said. “Just go on your way.”

  He pulled out his purse and handed the woman a generous heap of coins.

  It appeared he was ready to get rid of the woman. That relieved Arithel.

  The woman stared at the coins blankly.

  “Can I… not stay with you all until I remember things? At least until the next town over?”

  “No,” Arithel mouthed to Fallon.

  Darren glared at Arithel.

  “We don’t need extra company,” Fallon said.

  The woman’s eyes watered. “I can cook very well. I can do whatever you all ask of me.”

  She was practically begging at this point. Who begged to become a servant? Why did every hapless soul in Elinmoor want to join their quest despite knowing nothing at all about it? Elinmoorians really were simpletons.

  “I thought you didn’t remember anything about yourself,” Arithel pointed out.

  The woman sat down, drew her knees to her chest, and sobbed. Arithel rolled her eyes. Fallon appeared intensely uncomfortable.

  Darren rushed over to comfort her.

  “It’ll be all right,” he said, putting his hand on her back as she fell against him. “I promise you’ll remember everything in time, just as I did. Agron has blessed you. You are alive for the time being—that’s all that matters.”

  “You may as well have left me in that cellar!” the woman shrieked and continued crying.

  Arithel studied her for a minute. “I think we are being conned,” she concluded.

  The woman’s eyes widened. “Why would I lie about this? Why would anyone lie about this?”

  She wailed even louder.

  “Sorry,” Arithel muttered. She briefly considered patting the girl on the head in a conciliatory gesture. She hesitated, figuring it would only upset her further.

  “You may stay for a while. If you can cook, that is,” Fallon said.

  The woman immediately ceased sobbing. She broke free of Darren’s grasp and embraced Fallon. Her eyes left wet spots on Fallon’s jacket.

  “I shan’t disappoint, I swear.”

  The woman seemed to be addressing Fallon exclusively.

  “Company is never a disappointment,” Darren croaked.

  “Pick a name to go by until you remember yours.” Fallon crossed his arms and stepped back.

  “I already tried that route,” Arithel told him.

  “Go by Mira?” Fallon suggested.

  “
I love it.” The woman smiled broadly. Arithel was quite heartened to see that the girl had crooked teeth in spite of her lovely face and perfect figure.

  “Good. It was the name of one of my old nursemaids growing up. She had ginger hair like you,” he said flatly.

  “We need to leave soon,” Fallon said. He glanced at Mira’s bodice for a second.

  “She needs new clothes first,” Arithel interjected.

  “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing now?” Mira asked.

  “It’ll get cold and you’ll need hardier stuff for walking every day,” Darren told her gently.

  “No, actually your problem is that you look like a prostitute,” Arithel remarked.

  “What!” Mira gasped, acting as if she had never heard the word before.

  Fallon smirked.

  ***

  Within an hour they set out for the road, four now in their company. Arithel stopped at a shop and picked out a rough homespun dress for Mira; it was quite conservative, with a high collar, loose waist, and long, flared sleeves. Unfortunately, it did little to diminish the woman’s beauty.

  Mira cooked a stew of rabbits, carrots, and mushrooms for supper. They made camp under a small grove of trees that bordered the edge of a barley field. Mira had proven herself not entirely useless—she had trapped the rabbit, skinned it herself and knew what wild plants and roots were safe to eat. Arithel found it odd that Mira could remember the properties of every last sprig amidst the vegetation, but not her own identity.

  Mira ladled out a serving of stew for Fallon, but did not afford the same courtesy to either Darren or Arithel.

  “This is good,” Darren complimented Mira between mouthfuls of stew. “I knew it was a good idea bringing you along.”

  Mira acknowledged him with a smile and shy nod. “Thank you, Darren. I figured you all hadn’t had any good meals in a while. Sometimes travelers need a woman’s company to ease their journey. Why do you think soldiers have camp followers and washerwomen?”

  “To sate their lust,” Arithel remarked indifferently, taking a sip of water from her flask.

  “Most soldiers are married with families back home. I doubt that is the case,” Darren said.