by Lana Nielsen
Adith pulled the blanket back over him, and kissed him on the forehead once more. “This was Godwin, my youngest. You see, when my boys were out—raiding, as you call it—a girl used some manner of deceit to split his guts open. She attacked Flynn, and he kilt her by throwing her in the river. It was Anoria’s sister, they say, so your cousin too, I take it. Godwin lived, but by the time they brought him back to Elinmoor, the infection had set in. I’m surprised he’s stayed with us this long.”
Arithel gazed at the raider with a detached silence. She could feel his blood again, slipping through her fingers. Could see the purple coil of his intestines peeking through the slit in his belly.
Without thinking further, she cut his throat. He sighed and died quickly. Adith stared on in stunned silence as Arithel wiped off her sword.
Blood pooled on the mattress.
Adith finally screamed and leaped for Arithel with her fists balled.
Arithel simply threw the woman across the room. The back of her head cracked against the walls. She crumpled to the ground, crying and cursing.
Arithel was surprised how easy it had been.
“You’ll pay for this, you miserable bitch!” Adith moaned, crawling towards Arithel, trying and failing to get up.
Arithel pointed her sword between the woman’s eyes and said, “I did you a favor. Tell me where your wealth is. I know how many cuplets were brought here from Neldor.”
“Never,” Adith spat. “I don’t deal with thieves.”
Arithel laughed.
She heaved up the woman by the back of her dress and slung her into the living room. Adith hit the ground again, her legs knocking into a bench.
“Tell me where the wealth is, or I’ll finish off the rest of your ugly imps along with you. No one would miss them.”
“Mum! What’s going on!” one of the little boys cried out, running into the living room.
He kept his distance from Arithel. The other children peeked out from the curtains.
Arithel walked deliberately towards the boy, her sword poised to strike.
“The fireplace!” Adith choked on the word. “There is a chest beneath the peat. It’s in the fireplace!”
“That’s a foolish place to keep money,” Arithel remarked.
“Don’t get disappointed if there’s not as much as you would like. Flynn took most to Nureen.”
Arithel forced Adith to her feet and ordered her to retrieve the chest. Arithel grabbed the boy and held him by the collar until Adith finished her task.
Adith unlocked the iron chest and brushed the ash off its lid.
There were about fifty cuplets, only a quarter of the original amount. Arithel released the child and pushed Adith aside. Mother and son clung to each other as Arithel dumped the money into a flour sack.
“Was there anything else from Neldor? Jewelry? Clothing? Pottery?” Arithel demanded.
“We sold it all. The books we burned during the snowstorm.”
Arithel didn’t know Anoria had packed any.
Arithel nodded and headed towards the door.
“One more thing,” Arithel said.
The woman was trembling and red-faced, obviously humiliated. She looked afraid to move.
“I’m not Anoria’s cousin,” Arithel said with a half-mad smile. “I’m her sister, the one who tried and failed to defend her honor.”
Adith’s face blanched. She was as still as stone.
“I should have known as much.” She sighed.
Arithel held her sword over Adith’s chest. Adith closed her eyes.
“Agron burn my sinful heart away, Inara shield me with your love,” Adith muttered.
“I swear to you, I will find Flynn, and your other son, too. I will kill them as I killed Godwin. I will take them all, as Tifalla herself gathers the dead.”
Adith said nothing.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Arithel slammed the door and walked away from the squalor of the Walker house. There was an unbearable heaviness in her heart, worse than when Ronan had left, worse even than the day Anoria had been abducted. All her questions had been answered and some measure of closure had been provided, but she would have preferred to have never known. Arithel dreaded the inevitable task of informing everyone back home what had happened.
The chances of ever seeing Anoria again were slim—Nureen was a vast land, with fifteen times the population of Neldor. What would happen to her sweet, pious sister? Would she die in childbirth, malnourished from the long journey west? Arithel could picture it so clearly—Anoria’s frail, rag-swaddled body tossed unceremoniously in some ditch on the side of the road with no one to mourn and no priest to give her the proper rites. If she lived, would Anoria ever see a book again? Not likely—the Walkers didn’t even know what they were for. Her sister had dedicated her soul to her faith and the written word, and Arithel had taken her away from that. There was no sense in denial. Arithel was responsible for truly awful, terrible things. Arithel hoped that she was right about the Agronian Way being rubbish; if she were wrong, she was surely destined to be fettered in the coldest and most barren part of hell.
Only after walking for several minutes did she realize that she had completely ignored the Northmen. She halted, sighed, and turned around. They were already walking in the other direction.
“Wait!” she called.
The Northmen stopped, conversed, and slowly walked towards her.
When they were just a short distance away, Arithel said: “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be so rude.”
Meldane shrugged and pulled his fur cap further down his brow. “It is nothing. I simply thought you were done with us.”
“Ah, well, I was hoping you’d help me get past the Nureenians again...”
Meldane agreed to go with her.
“Did you find what you were looking for?” he asked.
“No.”
“Why not? I thought that was the address.”
“I was looking for my sister. But she wasn’t there—she’s headed for Nureen, it seems. She might as well be dead.”
Meldane lowered his eyes so much that they looked closed. “I know how such a thing feels. My family was taken away forever, too.”
“I am sorry.”
“Do not be. I have learned to forget it. That is what you should do.”
“You’re right,” Arithel said solemnly. “No sense in feeling sorry for oneself.”
Meldane nodded.
“How did it happen in your case?” Arithel prodded, though she knew it was probably a bad idea to do so.
“I’d rather not go into it,” he said, avoiding eye contact and walking faster.
Now that she was at a closer distance, she took another look at his armlet. She had not noticed the strands of silver braided into the gold, nor the tiny pieces of amber, set into the eyes of the wolves on the ends. In a way, it reminded her of Fallon’s ring. It was still baffling that he had gifted it to her.
Had Meldane stolen the jewelry from some lord in Paden? Is that why he was in Elinmoor? But why would a thief have a slave? Were slaves really that easy to come by in Paden?
“What kind of life did you lead back home?” Arithel asked.
The longer she talked with Meldane, the more his giant glared.
Meldane smiled a little. “A good one.”
“That’s very general…”
“I’d rather not discuss this; it is painful. Let us have a quiet walk back to your dwelling place.”
“I didn’t mean to pry. Of course, we should get walking again. I’m sure the folk inside this home here,” she said as she knocked against the wood siding. “Really appreciate a bunch of strangers loitering about their front door in the middle of the night.”
Meldane’s face went blank. “I, er, don’t think they’d like it. I think they’d be mad.”
Arithel laughed much too loudly.
She led them to Widow White’s. Zander always stayed several steps behind Meldane and Arithel. She wondered
if it was a custom because of his lower status, or if perhaps he simply didn’t have any reason to walk close when he couldn’t understand their conversation.
Arithel was appreciative of Meldane’s company, though he was taciturn. She explained the entire situation concerning Anoria, the words spilling from her mouth before they even formed in her head. Arithel told Meldane that she hated Anoria’s unborn child with the same intensity that she hated the raiders themselves. Meldane said in Paden, vengeance was an institution and despising the child was perfectly natural. His words pleased Arithel.
“Why curse the darkness in your heart? Use it. Vigor, pride… We need it like we need water. Shame keeps us from greatness.”
“I’ve said those things all my life when no one else can hear,” Arithel remarked, incredulous. They approached the gate and stopped their conversation as Meldane paid the fees.
“You and the rest of your Neldorin kin must free yourself of Agron. He was only meant for the Nureenian. He sprang out of their deserts, from the belly of a great serpent, to bring them victories…”
Arithel tried not to laugh at his colorful, outlandish understanding of the Agronian faith.
“I get it, I know. I don’t believe that stuff any more than you do. I’m not religious.”
A passing woman clucked at them.
Meldane chuckled: “No religion is little better than Agron. Until you find the gods of your ancestors, the slave’s way of Agron will nag at the back of your head. Only the old ways show us the true nature of our world and ourselves.”
Arithel was intrigued. It amused her, thinking of Darren’s reaction.
“I look forward to what Paden has to offer. Sounds like a fascinating place,” she remarked. They passed by the market square. They were close to Widow White’s now.
“You’re going to Paden?” Meldane said in a confused tone.
“I suppose I shouldn’t have let it slip, but aye, I am. It seems it offers me so much more than Neldor ever did. I was never cut out for Neldorin life,” Arithel said quickly. “Its stuffiness, its suffocating trees, and false hospitality!” The words flowed, paradoxically, even as she fondly recalled memories of her childhood. She remembered rowing to an island in the Bay of Tunin. It had been a calm and sunny morning, and she and Ronan had allowed Alarius to tag along. A nasty thundershower rolled in, and instead of waiting it out on the island, they braved the whitecaps and rowed back to shore. Alarius was knocked overboard. Arithel and Ronan had grabbed his jacket just as the waves threatened to sweep him away forever…
“What business have you in Paden?” Meldane interrupted her memories. “It’s not what it used to be. If you want the north, go to Ilsey instead.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Paden has a mad king and a stupid court. They send their best men to die in pointless battles.”
“Mad king, foolish court? My good friend, the one I told you about, says it is a noble, inspiring place.”
“You and your friend would do best to avoid Paden.”
He suddenly looked angry and suspicious.
“It is too late for that,” Arithel said. She was saying too much, violating Fallon’s command never to give away details about their mission, but she figured she could persuade Meldane into revealing more about himself. “I must follow my friend there. I am deeply indebted to him.”
“Why does he go there? If he is an honored guest at court, what is he doing here?”
“He is bringing a weapon that will help in Paden’s wars with Nureen,” Arithel said. It was hard to keep from grinning as she crowed.
“What sort of weapon?” Meldane asked, his interest held.
Arithel sensed that very remarkable information was on the tip of Meldane’s tongue.
“What does it matter to you? Surely such things have little bearings on the lives of ordinary Padenites such as yourself.”
Her gaze rested upon his extravagant bracelet.
“It’s my homeland,” he said urgently. “I am just curious… What weapon could ever make a difference in the war against the Empire? I find it impossible to believe.”
“What stake could you have in it? You have chosen Belhaven as your home; you say your king is mad. All I can say is that my friend was sent by one of the most important generals at court. Unless you are personally familiar with the court, I doubt any of this has much meaning to you.”
“Did Morden send him?” Meldane spat, his expression grim and eyes cloudy.
“Who is Morden, really?” she asked, curious as to what someone other than Fallon had to say about this enigmatic character.
No sooner had she spoken than they arrived at Widow White’s house.
Arithel took off her gloves.
“Bastard,” Meldane whispered, looking at the Veselte ring on her finger.
So Fallon had crossed paths with this Padenite—she really had to know who Meldane was.
“What is wrong, my friend? Do you have something more to share? I have all night, and I do love a good story.” She was putting on the same sort of contrived airs that Fallon was sometimes fond of.
Meldane spoke in Padenite to Zander. Zander seemed to be disagreeing with him. Without warning, Meldane shoved Arithel against the walls of Widow White’s townhome. The force rattled her ribcage and caused her to curse from the pain. There was a mad glint in his eyes. He quickly moved one hand from her shoulder and placed it around her neck, gripping tightly until she was half-suffocating. He slammed her into the wall again as Zander coolly looked on. Arithel gritted her teeth and braced her head and neck against the worst of the impact.
“I should have known he’d send spies to follow my every move. I’m not free, not here or anywhere else. Spit out what it is that he wants,” Meldane hissed, very close to her face.
Arithel leaned as far away as was possible; his breath was quite foul.
Zander unsheathed his sword and pointed it at her. He looked proud to protect his master. She wondered what Fallon had done to infuriate this man.
“I think we have a misunderstanding here. I apologize if…” she said in an even, controlled voice. Meldane tightened his grasp in response. Soon she was unable to speak no matter how hard she tried.
Fallon burst out the door, his gaze meeting Meldane’s in a fury. Meldane immediately released his hold of Arithel and backed away.
“Here is the hunter!” The Northman snarled.
Arithel doubled over, gasping for air and sputtering out coughs. Her vision went black with a particularly vigorous cough, but she shook it off and was standing again within seconds.
Fallon grabbed Arithel and protectively thrust her behind him. He drew his sword, pointing it towards the Northman.
“Don’t… It’s just a misunderstanding. They helped me earlier. I must have said something.”
She tried to pull him away from an altercation he was likely to lose. Fallon ignored her and continued to confront Meldane and Zander.
“Leading us here, to him!” Meldane pointed at Arithel and laughed. “Morden’s lapdog—barking and sniffing all the way to the steppes!”
Fallon walked closer to Meldane. “You will not speak of the Lord Morden in such a manner, traitor.”
Meldane growled like a bear and narrowed his eyes. “Or what? You’ll strike at me? I’d like to see you try, forest-sprite.”
Arithel figured this was a Padenite insult for Neldorins; a rather ridiculous-sounding one.
It was not so trivial to Fallon, though. After tightening his braces and straightening his cloak, he challenged Meldane to a duel. Arithel tried to dissuade him but he pretended as if he didn’t hear her. She had never thought her friend was stupid enough to engage in posturing like this. It was becoming clear that she had overestimated his intelligence and underestimated his eccentricities.
Fallon struck at Meldane first without warning and nearly disarmed him. The initial ferocity of his attack surprised Arithel; he was quick and relentless with his blows, and seemed to be aimi
ng to kill rather than injure. However, despite his technical skills, he was worn out within minutes; she could tell by watching his feet. Meldane used his superior weight and stamina to quickly gain the momentum. After he dealt three lumbering, semi-reluctant swings towards Fallon’s torso, he had him backed into a wall. Instead of drawing blood as he could have, Meldane smacked Fallon’s shoulder with the flat of his sword and kneed him hard in the stomach. Any sane individual would have given up at this point, but Fallon continued to parry Meldane’s sword and preposterously insult him, mostly in Padenite.
“Do you still deny him and his power, you hedge-born idiot? You nearly ruined your country. He wanted to help you as he wants to help all of us, and you betrayed him!” Fallon was misty-eyed as he spat out the words.
She sensed that the situation was about to get dangerous for Fallon. Her hand was on her sword, but she was afraid of what the giant would do if she jumped in. She knew he could probably kill her and Fallon both with his bare hands.
“Fallon! Surrender already. Let’s go inside,” she begged.
“Listen to your woman, dog, and leave me be,” Meldane laughed.
Fallon coughed and punched Meldane in the nose. It had little effect on the Northman, who lunged for Fallon.
Just as he was about to strike his foe, Meldane gasped for air and dropped his sword. He fell to his knees, and was overcome by strange convulsions. Soon he was leaning over, facing the ground and supporting all his weight with his hands. He cried out in anguish, but was unable to speak.
Fallon was very calm and still, though his sword was still in his grasp. He was moving his lips and barely touching the top of Meldane’s head. His pupils became larger, until even the whites of his eyes were blackened.
“Craven sorcerer!” Meldane finally croaked out. “Can’t you fight without hiding behind the black arts?”
Fallon did not relent. He was demonstrating his gift at last, but it was different than what Arithel had imagined.
He flipped his hand. Meldane’s arms gave out from under him. He collapsed face first into the street. His limbs curled towards his core and became useless. Meldane appeared to have little control over his body. His face was beet-red, eyelids fluttering.
