by V. S. Holmes
Φ
Bren leaned his forehead against the door. It was rude and pathetic, but he did not care. He had expected to never see her again. Even after hearing Alea and Arman’s story, he had convinced himself she was not real. At least to me. He wished Alea had warned him, wished that their mother had written beforehand. I can’t hide forever. He drew a breath and straightened. He finger-combed his hair, certain that he only made it worse. Finally, he opened the door.
Alea leaned against the far wall. Elle’s face was downcast. When the door opened, slower this time, they both glanced up.
He could not look away now. “I’m sorry. I was surprised.” He shifted then stepped back. “Would you like to come in?” Alea sat on his bed, their mother taking the seat at his desk. He could not sit. His nerves hummed from a dozen unnamed emotions. “I thought I didn’t remember you. I thought I’d never recognize your face.”
“But you do?” Her voice was low and warm and more familiar than anything he’d ever known.
“I know you.” He blinked hard a few times then fell to his knees. His arms wrapped around her waist and his head buried in her lap. “Ma, I’d know you anywhere.”
Φ
Alea looked away from the exchange. She was not jealous, exactly. She had just as much claim to Elle as Bren. Her chest was tight and she felt displaced. It was a strange sensation akin to nostalgia, but more hopeless than homesickness. She wondered what it would have been like to mother a child. She had acted nursemaid to many children in the ihal’s household, but that was worlds away from motherhood.
When Bren finally drew back, his eyes were bright and his smile delicate. “I hadn’t thought you’d come here together.” He looked at Alea and the warmth in his eyes dulled her unease. “You have to leave?”
She nodded. “I know you want to talk, but we’ve little time. None of us are sure how long this quiet period will last. Is it strange to be in Mirik again?”
His expression slid back into that of the soldier. “Real talk can wait. It’s a bit uncomfortable being here. This is Selmar’s room. He was one of our.... He was one of Azirik’s knights. This is home. I learned to fight downstairs and seeing it dismantled is painful. How was the sail?”
“Good enough,” Elle answered. “I enjoy ships and sailing—I lived in Marl Mere for a time.”
Bren grimaced. “The farther from water I am, the happier I’ll be.” He glanced over at Elle. “Is Le’yan far? Is it different?”
It was odd that he spoke questions that should have occurred to Alea. She was focused on other things; greater, darker thoughts plagued her mind. They did not allow for trivial concerns. Elle explained the island as she had to Alea, the younger woman only half-listening. Their speech continued to be punctuated by comments echoing greater, pending conversation. Alea thought it was decidedly awkward.
It was during a short period of silence, Bren staring at his boots, Alea at her hands, that the watch called for noon time. Alea’s eyes flicked up to Elle.
Bren followed the gaze. “You’re leaving?”
Alea nodded. “Can I ask a favor?”
Bren sat forward. “Of course.”
She handed him a thin envelope. “Send this to Arman for me, once I’ve gone.” When Bren frowned, she sighed. “We argued.”
He laid it on his desk, looked at Elle, then back to his sister. “Very well.” He rose. “Will you go alone? Do you want me to ride with you?”
Alea interrupted Elle’s impending invitation. “Alone is fine. We’ll not take you from your reading.” She rose with a brief smile and waited by the door.
Elle touched Bren’s face gently. “I know we said talk would come later. Seeing you stand before me, tall and strong and intelligent, fighting for what you love—it makes all the difference. I have made dozens of poor choices. In many ways I wronged you both, but you’re flourishing in spite of that.” Her smile pulled taut from everything unsaid and she squeezed his hand. “Stay safe.”
They stepped from the room, but Bren grabbed Alea’s hand as she made to leave. “You may not have been the mother I yearned for, but I’d still like a goodbye.”
Alea laughed at that and embraced him. “I suppose when I next see you, it will be war.” Her throat was tight. She had wept enough in the past months to not be ashamed, but tears would not come. She glanced down the hall, seeing that Elle stood at the top of the stairs. She waited a pointed moment until their mother descended out of earshot. “I’m scared. What if I can’t learn enough? Or in time?”
“You will. Arman will learn his power. I’ll build a fort here. We’ll all be ready. When the gods come for us, we’ll be ready.”
“The siege was horrible, Bren. I kept thinking it wouldn’t get worse, but it did. I know it still will. I fear I’ll lose you both.” There was a darker fear that flexed its claws into the edges of her mind, but she would not, could not speak it. “I fear I’ll get you killed.”
“Alea, you can refuse to give a soldier orders, but when battle comes he still goes to war. You owe that soldier orders and arms and armor to win.”
“Arman’s not a soldier.”
“Horse-shite. He became a soldier the moment he swore his oath.”
“I meant he’s more than just a soldier.” The words sounded petulant.
“Then what of the general and the men of Athrolan? What of Narier?” Alea shot him a scowl and he heaved an exasperated sigh. “Arman might have his head up his arse, but I don’t. I know where you spent your nights. It certainly wasn’t in the infirmary tents with that orange-haired giant.” His tone softened and he took her shoulders. “What of me? We will fight whether you order us or not. The least you could do is accept that and give us what we need for victory.”
“This was rather what I argued about with Arman. A bit more heated and personal, but this was certainly a piece.” She sighed. She was tired and had no idea what to expect from the next part of her journey. “I hope in Le’yan I learn about myself, not just my power.”
Bren hugged her again. “I hope you learn there is no difference between the two.”
Φ
The 40th Day of Lleume, 1252
The Island of Mirik
The heavy scent of wet loam drifted between the trunks. It was not yet the wooly green coat that Mirik would boast through summer, but the forest was edged in the glow of spring. Alea followed the narrow path, her strides out distancing her mother’s. If it was a conscious gesture, Alea did not indicate. The wood was etched in game and walking trails, the only road well overgrown. Alea was not sure which of those their path was, but it was well worn and deserted. They did not speak other than to remark on wildlife or warn of low-hanging branches.
After two hours of walking, the path curled left, following the base of a steep hill. Elle ignored the turn, pushing on up the slope. The loose leaves from past autumns pattered from under their boots as the two women climbed. The sky above was the clear, bright grey of an overcast day.
Elle paused as they crested the hill. Her head was up, her silver hair whipping back in the wind that swept through the clearing ahead. “There are not many of us left.” Her eyes fixed on the center of the glade. A granite slab rested there.
Alea could not tell if Elle’s abrupt words were a warning or a plea. Perhaps it was a confession. “Are they all in Le’yan?”
“All I know of. We’re the last to join them.” Elle entered the clearing, her steps reluctant. “There are just over a score of us now. We were all born from Laen alone. Our power is faint. We have little left.”
Alea stopped beside her, looking down at the slab. It was unremarkable save for the lack of leaves dusting its surface. It was dark, reflecting no light, though its surface was smooth. Alea realized her mother’s comment had been an excuse. A year ago Alea would have looked around, memorizing the world around her. Now darkness writhed in her mind, pushing her forward, shoving her from the precipice of fate. Her eyes hardened and she stepped onto the stone. “You’re wrong. You have
me.”
Chapter TWO
The 47th Day of Lleume, 1252
The City of Ceir Athrolan
ARMAN GLARED AT THE SHEETS of rain sliding down his window. The year’s first month lived up to its name’s meaning of “Time of Rain.” Arman was tired of the weather. He and Alea had ridden for so long that the indoors held no interest anymore. His body itched to be in the open air. Vielronan farmers planted weeks ago. Wes and I would use the time away from the markets to catch up on work.
The rain made the wavy glass functionally opaque. He traced designs across it, smiling as the condensation evaporated with a hiss at his fingertip’s heat. A knock interrupted his momentary entertainment.
The page in the hall bowed clumsily when the door jerked open. “Master Arrowlash. For you from Mirik.” He held out a thick envelope.
Arman thanked him absently as he closed the door and turned the letter over. The handwriting designating the sender was rough, though the writer had clearly strived for neatness: Brentemir Barrackborn.
Arman scowled. He dreaded the letter’s contents. He’ll tell me she’s gone to Le’yan. She’s gone to the one place I can’t follow. He broke the seal and unfolded the first piece of parchment.
Arman,
Alea left tonight. Our mother was with her. It’s strange to think the entrance to their world was right here in Mirik. Before she left she asked if I’d send the enclosed to you.
I hope she returns soon, even if it heralds approaching battle. What of Athrolan? Are you learning about the Rakos or is it all battle-talk? Being in Mirik is strange. We’ll be called back in a month’s time for a progress report to Her Majesty and I hope to go along.
Bren
Arman read the note quickly, his hand tightening on the envelope as he read the word “enclosed.” He and Bren were far from comrades, but they had made strides. In Alea’s absence there seemed to be nothing left but to correspond. He made himself write a response detailing the events in Athrolan and any other small talk he could summon. He rang for the page and sent the letter out before turning to Alea’s. He almost did not want to read it. If I don’t read her goodbye, perhaps she’ll not have actually left.
He stared at the seal for several moments. It was one of the plain designs of the wax-stamps in the Athrolani guest chambers. She had written it before leaving. The silence in his room was somehow not solitary enough, and so he climbed the southeast tower, where they had last spoken. The rain had slowed to misting.
Arman,
I hope this finds you well. I’m sorry for our argument. I was angry. I’ve been angry a long time now. I can’t even remember why, most of the time. Bringing you back changed me. I suppose it changed you too. Difference is, I did not change for the better.
Seeing you and Bren on the battlefield and on our ride north, I realized how little I knew of the world. My refusal to share with you and the consequences of that are evidence enough of my naiveté. That is changing. I am afraid of what will come. War, certainly, but deeper. I’m afraid what I will become and if I’ve deceived you all.
It’s time I learn to be without your protection. Perhaps when I return I will be able to stand alone. Perhaps I’ll be the leader I’m assumed to be. Perhaps I’ll be what you need. Perhaps I’ll finally be strong.
Luck, Rakos.
Lyne’alea
Arman re-read the letter before tucking it away. He was not certain what to make of it. Her tone was distant, but naked. It was almost an invitation, a prelude to something new. He leaned on the wall, watching the fog writhe around his arms. She was already stronger, wiser. What will become of her guard when she no longer needs him? What does she think I need from her? He shook the thoughts away and mentally reached out, feeling the heavy clouds part before his mind. The moisture was a stinging distraction, an icy counterpoint to the burning of his skin.
Φ
The 49th Day of Lleume, 1252
The City of Ceir Athrolan
Eras had felt truly humble twice in her many years. She remembered the inertia that filled her upon reading Alea’s words. Eras was reserved, though perhaps not as obviously as Raven, and withheld her opinion until the woman claiming to be the Dhoah’ Laen rode into Fort Stone. She was insignificant in the shadow of Alea’s might. The Dhoah’ Laen had a long road yet to travel, but the sheer potential that filled the girl’s veins astounded Eras.
The general leaned back in her chair, watching the firelight lance through the goblet in her hand. Despite her multifold duties, life had been dull in the spring of last year. Sure, Athrolan had warred with the Berrin and Azirik slid farther down the slope of madness. Those were constant things. Everything changed when Her Majesty received that letter. Her eyes rested on her own stack of unopened envelopes.
She leaned forward to finger the rough edge of a plain, dirty envelope. Letters from An’thoriend always looked as if they had traveled the world with him.
Eras,
I would have liked to help during the siege, but I am glad I did not see the end. She is terrifying. Magnificent, surely, but terrifying. I’ve heard rumors enough about what happened to her guard, about what she did, but nothing from you. It is not like you to avoid such news.
Unless it horrifies you.
I am moving north, despite my brother still ruling the Northlands. Perhaps I won’t be able to avoid him any longer. I intend to visit Azirik one last time, determine where his camp lies, and perhaps see his son before I cross into the tundra. You say he does not want to rule?
Have you spoken to Tzatia for me, yet?
Love and luck, fetali,
An’thor
Eras traced the Ageless endearment for “sister” with one scarred finger. An’thor had been the only other creature to make her feel as small as Alea had. He took everything with humor, if not with grace. Eras had never had a friend so close. He was right about her reasons for ignoring what Alea had done. She had expected the Dhoah’ Laen to be powerful. She had expected her to crumble mountains and flood seas.
She had not expected her to defy the world’s greatest laws.
She was glad Alea had left the city. Perhaps when she returned, the horror left in the wake of her actions would be lessened. Now Eras could focus on the Rakos pacing through the palace. He needs a mentor. He needs what An’thor was to me. She turned to the small shelf of tomes and journals behind her desk. Many were old, though most were younger than she. Her rough hand brushed the spine of a thin, tattered book.
Her eyes flicked to the letter in her hand. Alea barely had control and she had turned the world on its head. The Rakos were known for their violence. What would Arman do if given the power? Before she changed her mind, she penned a reply, her quill scratching across the paper in swift, fluid script.
The letter was pointed and sent out before the last bell of the night. If anyone knew what to expect from a Rakos brimming with power, it would be An’thor. This war would force them to call on alliances long since turned to enemies. Apprehension grew in her chest. She knew where they would ask her to ride. She was comfortable being Athrolan’s rather exotic general. Going home would mean facing a past she would rather ignore.
A frown creased Eras’s brow. Arman’s unflagging devotion woke a wistfulness that she had long since forgotten. Raven and I would never have such legend-worthy romance. They were both too practical for frivolity and too dedicated to the crown for marriage, children or even regular trysts. Her mouth twitched. But company never hurt. She made her way across the castle quietly. Raven answered after one knock.
“What is it?” His face was tired, but the lamps said he had not gone to bed. “Another attack?”
“No, nothing so serious. I’m just thinking too much.”
He took in her relaxed clothes and the steadiness in her eyes. “Then we’ll talk until your mind is eased.” He stepped aside to let her in, and closed the door softly behind.
Φ
The 1st Day of Fluerme, 1252
The Isle of Le�
�yan
Dizziness swept through Alea’s body, churning in her throat. The shapeless blur surrounding her cleared, the world solidifying abruptly. Her stomach heaved. She stumbled off the slate slab, blinking in the suddenly bright light. Steep, dark mountains formed the horizon behind her. Cliffs dropped away below her, topped with a cluster of buildings. Blue-green grasses blanketed the fields rolling from the village to the mountains’ foothills. She shuddered, shaking tendrils of black and grey fogs from her shoulders. She stepped from the slab, stumbling when her boots met soft earth.
She had expected a mighty city. “This is Le’yan?” Her voice rasped, as if from disuse. Alea was perversely happy to see that Elle looked as ill as Alea felt.
Her mother nodded. “Like us, it has diminished.” She pressed a thin hand to her brow. “Shall we get you settled?”
Alea frowned as they descended the hill. “Do they know we’re coming? Do they know what I am?” If Elle had not spoken to her own daughter, could she have reached across worlds to communicate with her sisters?
Elle’s prolonged silence was far from comforting. “Lyne’alea, your existence is a complicated thing. We thought we knew who was the Dhoah’ Laen. When I bore you, I realized we had been wrong. I also realized that living as Laen, fleeing Azirik, would only get us killed. I had almost lost faith in what you were. I never got the chance to tell them about you.”
Alea sighed. Another battle. Another struggle against people who need me, disbelieve me, and don’t understand. Her fatigue and dark mindedness was turning her usual worries into angst. “What did you tell them?”
“I told them I found another of our kind, hidden like I was.”
“Are they so far removed from the world that they don’t see what happens?” Alea frowned, navigating the steep hill with stumbling steps. She pictured Le’yan like a floating island, omniscient over all the world, watching, directing.
“We feel the world’s energy, feel the rising and falling in the balance. Mostly falling now. That is interpreted. When there were more of us we would communicate with our sisters between the worlds. There is not enough power for that now.” She stopped at a low wall.
