The Dimming Sun

by Lana Nielsen

  “I don’t ask you, you don’t ask me.”

  “What do you have that great bag for?”

  It crisscrossed the old woman’s shoulders, threatening to swallow her torso.

  “The Nureenians will start with the rations soon. I am buying everything I can until then,” she replied.

  “What do you think things will be like in two years?” Arithel was genuinely curious as to the woman’s response.

  “Agron only knows.” The widow laughed, patting the contents of her bag. “I don’t want to think about it too much, but things will get better.”

  “It can’t last forever,” Arithel muttered, looking at Darren, who was now asleep. It was as if eating had taken up what little energy he had left. Arithel pondered how the Elinmoorians would react if they were told Darren was the true heir to the Nureenian Empire. Would they believe it?

  Her eyelids drooped. Just looking at Darren made her sleepy.

  ***

  When Arithel awoke, Mira was sitting in front of her, staring at Darren. Arithel thought she had a dagger in her lap and jumped from the couch.

  The glint she had seen was only a mirror. Where Mira could have gotten it, there was no telling.

  Mira’s hair was damp and disheveled, and there were circles under her eyes. Her chalky make-up was coming off in patches.

  “Where’s Fallon?” Arithel demanded.

  “Out. He went to the inner quarter to inquire after your sister.”

  “About time,” Arithel said. “Why didn’t he come get me?”

  Mira shrugged. “I suppose he wanted you to stay here. He cares for you.”

  Arithel shook her head at the suggestion. “You should have awakened me. With the storm, it’s hard to tell day from night.”

  Widow White had boarded all the windows.

  “I assume you’re tired of staying here.” Mira crossed her legs and picked at her teeth as she glanced in her mirror. “Go. Do what you must do. I’ll look after Darren.”

  Arithel was a little uneasy about leaving Mira alone with him, but she accepted the offer. She was bored of the stale confines of Widow White’s townhome. It was giving her a headache and a cough almost as bad as Fallon’s. She decided she would go to the market square, make another supply run, and gather information about Altinsayah.

  Arithel bundled up as best she could. When she swung open the front door, the wind nearly lifted her off her feet and its noise assaulted her ears. Clumps of wet snow blew horizontally into her eyes. The whiteness of the swirling skies was blinding—it took her eyes minutes to adjust.

  She turned three left corners to reach the market square. The snowmelt slushed through her boots and stockings, numbing her feet. Like everyone else out in the weather, she shivered no matter how close she drew her arms to her core. She needed thicker clothing—a good winter coat.

  The streets were not busy. A few shabby old men lay on the ground, stiff as boards, beside the fountain. Arithel could not tell whether they were drunk, asleep, or simply freezing to death. Most of the shops had closed, but the taverns were overflowing.

  A few hardy peddlers were out, ringing their bells and shouting. They were selling kindling, shawls, beaver pelts, even boots. Arithel was disappointed to see no one was selling food save a pretty blonde girl hawking overpriced molasses candy.

  She decided the few items available were not worth stealing. Besides, there was hardly a crowd to hide in.

  “May I interest ye in a fur muff, miss?”

  A peddler with a long white beard blocked her way.

  He grinned expectantly, shoving a brown muff in her face. It looked cheap and useless.

  Arithel tried to move to the side. Blocked again.

  “Come, buy a pretty thing to keep those hands warm.”

  She glanced over at his cart. There was a fine black coat, lined with grey fur. It was tailored with silver buttons.

  She looked back at the peddler, at the cane in his hand and the stoop in his back. She saw that most of the other peddlers were packing up to leave. She noted two sleepy Nureenian guards, stationed at the entrance to the square, leaning on the walls.

  “Let’s see that coat instead,” Arithel remarked.

  “Oh,” the peddler winked. “Absolutely.”

  He handed it to her, running his hands over the fabric.

  Arithel accepted it. He asked for eight gold cuplets.

  Instead of producing change, she ran.

  “Wait a minute, miss!” he called.

  Arithel slid across a thick patch of ice. She put on the coat as she darted down an alley.

  She heard the peddler shout for the Nureenians to do something. She went inside a tavern for cover. She would cast off the coat if the guards came.

  The tavern she entered was the same one they had sought refuge in a few days before, The Dancing Bear.

  Arithel headed towards an empty table in the back corner of the building. She pushed past tall drunken men and cackling sloe-eyed women. The room was hot and hazy. Very soon, she was sweating beneath her new coat.

  Two men invited themselves to sit beside her. One man was thin and small, with a beaky nose and dark eyes. A brown cap concealed what little hair he had. The other one was burly, with a bushy blond beard and receding hairline.

  “And why…” the bearded man patted her on the back. “Don’t you have a cup o’ hot cider in front of ye?”

  “I came here for a rest, not a drink.”

  “Nonsense,” The skinny one spoke up. “Yer a lady, I’ll buy one for ye.”

  He grinned at her. His teeth were yellow-brown and crooked.

  “That’s not necessary.”

  The burly man then threw his arm across her shoulders. “Of course, it is. A drink’ll cheer ye.”

  “Uhh… no thanks.”

  The skinny one leapt out of his seat and scurried towards the bar.

  “You may as well drink as much as you can.” The bearded fellow held his pint high, eyes half-closed.

  “Why’s that?”

  “Tomorrow we may die.” He laughed.

  The thin man returned with a glass of spiced ale and handed it to her. Orange peelings floated across the surface of the hot draught. She sipped it tepidly.

  “We’ve never seen you around here,” the thin man observed.

  “I’m visiting family. I’m from Lindelwood, in the borderlands,” She gulped her ale and affected a slight accent.

  “Ye’re pretty enough that we could care less whether yer Elinmoorian,” said thin-man.

  The bearded one slipped one arm about her waist. Arithel laughed nervously and scooted down the bench, towards the wall.

  She could not discern whether they were being predatory or friendly. Either way, cornered aganist a wall, she was forced to converse with them.

  “So,” Arithel tried to get the focus off her. “I hear talk of rations.”

  The Elinmoorians seemed excited she had brought it up.

  “Half of Belhaven will starve! They’re only distributing enough bread for four in each household!” one said.

  “We don’t get fed until the rest of the Empire gets fed. Elinmoor is always last in line,” complained the other.

  “Surely the Nureenians don’t have all the grain in Elinmoor,” Arithel muttered. After all, there had been plenty in Aelfelm and there were no Nureenians within miles of that place.

  “They have at least half. You folk in the borderlands may be fine, but everything that comes into the cities is seized and stored in warehouses in the inner quarter,” the thin man said.

  “They’re storing grain in case the famine gets worse,” Arithel reasoned.

  The men were taken aback. “They’re takin’ the fruits of good Elinmoorian labor. They’re usurpers, just like their king!”

  “I didn’t mean to suggest otherwise…”

  “Since the sun started sleepin,” the thin man pointed out the window. “The true nature of the Nureenian has come out. At first we welcomed them, though
t Tiresias would treat us good, better than our own nobles did. After all, the ordinary folk of Nureen live like princes! But they tricked us! With their promises of riches and jobs and building great things—for what? So, they’d keep us out of the inner quarter of our own city and turn our people into slaves and slavers, all while claiming that it is Agron’s will we should suffer.”

  Arithel nodded in agreement but found it telling that he admitted the Elinmoorians initially welcomed the Empire. What did they expect? Elinmoorians were a rustic lot with no sense of pride or honor.

  Arithel took three great swigs of her drink.

  “Do you know anyone who has been taken to Altinsayah?” she asked.

  Both men shook their heads.

  “Do you think if someone was taken there, they’d have any chance of escaping, of making it back home?” she continued.

  “Mother Inara, no. Why d’ya ask?” said the bearded man.

  “Curiosity.”

  She wanted to tell the strange men about Anoria, to hear their righteous indignation as she spun her tale.

  “There is a great fence about the place, topped with thorns and poisoned metal barbs. I don’t think anyone leaves unless they want them to.”

  “How much money does it take to get inside?”

  “A lot, I reckon. They won’t let Elinmoorians in. Not because they want to keep us from buying slaves—that trade goes on a plenty in the slums. But because they don’t want us to see what’s really going on—what’s causing all that smoke.”

  Arithel contemplated Anoria’s odds.

  “Depressing, ain’t’ it?” said bearded-man.

  Arithel nodded. She traced the damp rim of her cup.

  “Not entirely. Think of what happened in the forest, Seth.”

  The skinny man grinned.

  “Aye. The nerve of it all—unreal!”

  “What are you talking about?” Arithel asked.

  “About two weeks ago, four Nureenian soldiers were killed in the woods outside the River Thespolid. Another lost his cock.” The bearded man laughed; his face flushed a bit.

  “Still haven’t found the killers. Presumed to be raiders covering their arses, but who knows? I’d like to think it was regular folk, who just got fed up with the Empire,” said the other fellow.

  Arithel’s heart skipped a beat. So word had spread after all—she knew it wouldn’t go unnoticed.

  “Probably smugglers. I hadn’t heard of this till now,” she said.

  “Where’ve you been, lass? Holed up in your room?” The big man slapped her on the back.

  “Practically.” She quickly finished the rest of her drink. “Was there sign at all of who did it?”

  “The rest of the patrol said they chased after four people. All they have to show for it was one horse. More than likely it was just one man and the fact embarrasses the Nureenians. After all, no Nureenian has been killed by a local in at least a year.”

  Arithel forced a chuckle. “Crazy story. Wonder what they did with the horse?”

  “Probably made some fine glue,” the big fellow joked.

  Arithel snorted laughter—genuinely this time.

  The thin man strolled across the room and removed a piece of paper that had been tacked to the wall. He brought it to the table.

  “Here is the notice, the Nureenian version of events,” he said.

  The parchment described the ‘lawless and unprovoked’ slayings and offered a reward of nine hundred gold cuplets to anyone who might have information. Aside from that, it was somewhat vague—it went on longer about how foolish and un-Agronian it was to harm the ‘progress of the Empire and the revolution’ than it did actually detailing their appearance or where they might be headed. All it said to that effect was that there were four criminals, with two women among them, one of whom was ‘an archer of surprising skill.’ They were amusingly described as ‘typically Elinmoorian in face and form, save for the younger of the two men, who was golden-haired yet with a somewhat dusky and Southron appearance.’ There was one illustration below the text—a simple portrait of a chiseled-looking man wearing a plumed helmet, bearing a sword in his left hand and a needle in his right. A halo was set behind his head and above that was the title ‘servant of the light.’ She supposed this man was meant to be Tiresias.

  Arithel tried not to smile as she thought of the Nureenians, self-professed lords of the continent, taking note of her skill with a bow.

  “I’ve got to go,” Arithel said. “Nice chatting with you both. Many thanks for the drink.” She stood up and pulled her hood over her head, snatching up the notice.

  “Meet us again tomorrow for dinner. Company was lovely.”

  “You can count on it,” Arithel lied. She fled the place, pleased by her own boldness.

  As soon as she opened the door to Widow White’s house, she saw Mira and Fallon seated on the edge of the old green couch. Mira had a cloak wrapped about most of her body, but it was apparent that she was still clad in her working clothes beneath it. She looked dazed and Fallon either impatient or nervous. Widow White was seated in the far corner of the room, absorbed in a pamphlet as she sipped a cup of coffee.

  Arithel took off her coat and nodded in greeting to her two companions.

  “About time,” Fallon said. He was right. Time had flown by; it was almost dark. Arithel sat down.

  “What, exactly, took you so long?” he asked.

  Arithel pulled the notice from her coat pocket. She smoothed out the crinkles and took another look.

  “I’ve been gathering information.” She handed over the poster. Her eyes connected with Mira’s—she hoped to include her in the conversation as well, on account of the rather unpleasant work she was doing to help them. Mira, however, ignored Arithel, staring into space and humming.

  Fallon scanned the document quickly.

  “This is good,” he said.

  “I thought it was interesting. I don’t know about good.”

  Fallon stretched out his legs, refolded the parchment, and placed it in his own pocket. He pulled out his traveling notebook and flipped to a dog-eared page. He tore it out, and handed it to Arithel.

  “I have something for you, too. It’s an address.”

  Arithel quickly grabbed the paper. His handwriting was virtually illegible.

  “Address for what?”

  “That’s where your sister is. Lucky for you, she’s close. Thank Agron for meticulous Nureenian record-keeping.”

  Arithel registered the gravity of his statement and shook her head in disbelief. She blinked several times and she read aloud: “Atchington Alley, Fifth Ward of the city, outer rims. Walker residence, Honoria Necoste Walker and Flynn Walker.”

  The worst part of the journey had come to a close. Redemption was within reach. Overwhelmed, Arithel embraced Fallon.

  “How?” she said, her voice cracking slightly.

  “I did what I told you I would, gained entrance to the city records office,” he stated. Mira finally paid attention to their conversation; her pale eyes flashed coolly at Arithel.

  “I didn’t find any indication of your sister in the slave records, but I did find it where I least expected—a list of recent marriages. It even had the proper hometown listed as her origin. She is married to a Flynn Walker, a slum dweller, according to that address.”

  “The slums? How on earth …”

  “We can find out tomorrow, when we visit her.” Fallon smiled at Arithel in a funny way. She supposed it meant more indebtedness to him. It did not bother her; Anoria was alive and presumably in good health.

  “We’re late for our appointment.” Mira spoke up suddenly, her voice hard and cold. Fallon seemed annoyed but nodded in deferment to her.

  Arithel stared at the frosted glass of the windowpane. “There’s at least an hour of daylight left,” she whispered.

  “I know you want to go, but just wait. You mustn’t go to the slums alone,” Fallon said.

  Arithel shrugged. Appeals to safety were ir
relevant at this point.

  “What about Darren? Someone must look after him,” he pointed out.

  “Widow White is here,” Mira said.

  Arithel wondered whether Mira was trying to be helpful or hoping to sabotage her plans.

  “Stay here. You promised to do what was asked of you back in Neldor,” Fallon reminded her. His voice was weak, his face worn. He opened the door, ushering Mira out first. Mira fixed her hair and straightened her necklace. Fallon glanced back at Arithel as they departed.

  Though she figured she owed it to Fallon to abide by his request, the thought of Anoria being so close was maddening. Arithel was about to jump out of her own skin from some strange combination of nervousness and relief. Her hands were shaking as she clutched the address and stared at the door.

  Widow White looked up at Arithel from her desk. She folded up her pamphlet and asked: “Would you like some stew?”

  “What kind?”

  “Onion and potato. There’ll be no more meat for a while.”

  “That’s fine. Thank you.”

  Arithel decided that eating would suppress her burning desire to set off for the slums.

  The strategy worked, at least for a little while. She took her bowl upstairs so she could check on Darren. She started some trite small talk, asking him how his day had been.

  “Dull, of course,” was his reply. “I think I’ll be completely better in a few days.”

  “Good.”

  Darren threw off some of his blankets and readjusted his position. The bandages were already cleaner and pus no longer seeped from his cut. He grimaced less when he moved his leg.

  “I am glad they found your sister,” he told her.

  Arithel was surprised he already knew. She had planned on telling him herself.

  “It feels surreal. All this way to Elinmoor, to Altinsayah... and somehow she’s married. I thought she was in grave danger this whole time. Maybe she still is.”

  Arithel set her bowl on the floor. She was finished with the undercooked salty mess. Her stomach twisted.

  “You should be happy. You’ll get to see her soon. This is a blessing, Arithel. Agron is casting his favor upon you,” Darren told her, eyeing her half-eaten stew.

  Arithel could not help but resent his words, however well intentioned. If she were on the receiving end of any sort of divine good will, Anoria would not have been abducted by in the first place.