Lightning and Flame

by V. S. Holmes

  It and the houses were made of stucco, but of a kind that Alea had never seen. It was rough and dark, dotted with glittering black mica. It matched the sand below the cliffs. Perhaps now is not the time to mention that. The houses were all of a single level, the roofs tiled in grey slate. Nothing was grand or austere, save for the open hall perched on the highest point of the cliff top. Silent lightning flitted across the dark clouds bruising the sky.

  “So will I meet the others now, or will you explain the situation first?” Alea fiddled with her skirts. The houses were lit, and the small sounds of people preparing for supper drifted through the village. Somehow even that managed to sound unwelcoming.

  “I’ll explain. I’m sure you want to rest and gather your thoughts beforehand anyways.” Elle led her through a narrow opening in the wall and onto a gravel path.

  The stones crunching under their boots grated on Alea’s raw nerves. It felt like being introduced to the Athrolani court again. Except this time they can’t be fooled. Her lips tightened as Elle paused at a dark cottage nestled against the rise of the hill. Her mother fumbled with the latch then swung the door open. The smell of dampness hung in the still air. Alea followed Elle up the stairs and into the small kitchen. It was cold, and dust lay thick across the countertop.

  “Is this where you lived?”

  “A long time ago when I was very young.” Elle looked about, breathing softly, as if disturbing the dust would break some tentative composure. She shook herself and briskly pulled a flint from a drawer and lit the lamp on the table. She dug a cloth from a stack on a shelf and began to dust. “There are two rooms down the hall. The second one is yours. Make yourself at home.”

  Alea retrieved the flint from the kitchen and lit the lamp that hung from the hall’s ceiling. The light was dim and only served to make the white walls look bleaker. She pushed open the door at the end of the hall, half expecting a barren room with a cot.

  Though the kitchen had been left to the mercy of dust, thin sheets covered the furniture here. Another lamp hung from the ceiling and she had to clamber on top of a chair to light it. She dropped her pack by the door and began to pull the sheets away. Her brows rose. The bed was large, the heavy frame carved from the same dark wood as the door. Blocks of slate decorated each of the four posts.

  She revealed a desk next, and a large chest at the end of the bed. The pieces were all blocky and simple, lacking elegance or any beauty without function. The sound of cleaning in the kitchen was replaced with low voices. Alea winced. She was not ready to face that challenge. Instead, she unpacked her things, tucking her few clothes into the chest beside a stack of folded blankets. She turned down the bed, but her nerves sang too loudly for sleep.

  She leaned her brow against the cool wood of the bedpost and stared out the window. It had neither muntins nor glass, the air eddying through the hole in the wall. Even the breeze smells strange. It was balmy, just cold enough to warrant long sleeves. The undulating voices in the other room grew louder. She had spent nights wishing she was not the Dhoah’ Laen. Now her anger at potentially being denied surprised her. What if they refuse to train me?

  She undid her tangled braid and raked her fingers through her hair. She was tired of the debate—she was all powerful, she was coddled, she was terrifying, but an abomination. And now I’m shut in my room, again waiting for others to decide my fate. She sighed angrily and threw the leather tie across the room. Sloughing off her cloak and shawl, she strode down the hall and into the kitchen.

  Though the village was not what Alea expected, the Laen themselves were. There were only six crowded into the kitchen. Their sharp words stuttered out when she entered. She had stored a smile for this first encounter, but at the stern frowns, she realized it should wait for another day. “There is some dispute?”

  “We appreciate your hope and duty to us, miss, but you must realize you cannot be the Dhoah’ Laen. Elle is sorely mistaken. It is understandable, given the hopeless times and war. We all grasp at straws sometimes.”

  Alea frowned, letting the expression line her brow more deeply than usual. She would use everything she had. “Why haven’t you told them?” Her eyes scanned the faces of the women before her, but her words pierced straight to Elle. “They wouldn’t argue if you had, so don’t lie to me. I’m tired of lies.” Her tone was quiet, but not calm. Under its surface trembled cold, bitter anger. She had lost so much, given so much for this—her family, her home, her peace. My humanity. They would not make it in vain.

  “Tell us what, Elle?” It was not the eldest woman who spoke, but she was the tallest. “There is something we’ve missed?”

  “I thought you read the energy. Surely you felt something.” Alea’s gaze flicked to the woman who appeared to be their leader.

  “She refers to the battle at the Athrolani fort.” Elle looked over at a woman seated at the table. “Mera, you mentioned a small surge of power. I believe to that is what she refers. She did a noble thing and destroyed a small piece of our enemies.”

  Mera frowned. “I did see such a thing, but it was shadowed by something else. Something stranger. I fear the gods are attacking us here. I can’t say how they would, but our dead were wounded.”

  The words sunk into Alea’s mind, churning, dredging darkness from the corners like footsteps in the silt of a stream. “Actually, that is to what I refer.” Anger made her mimic sound mocking, but she did not care. “Your dead, you say. You mean their souls? The great silver shell that holds the souls of all the beings that have ever died?”

  The tall woman turned, her silver eyes narrowing to blade-thin slits. “How can you know that?”

  “Because I am the one that tore them open. I am the one that made them bleed. You think I have tainted, pathetic, unnatural power. I tell you, you are wrong! I can kill with Destruction and so, too, can I give life with Creation. You say you’ve not seen the like of my power—it’s because you’ve not seen the Dhoah’ Laen. Elle knew from the start what I would become, so she hid me, far better than you ever hid or protected the poor women you thought would save you.”

  The tall woman stared at her, lips thinned to a hard line. Her silver hair was so thin and light it was almost transparent, and drifted in the wind skirting the edges of the room. “You are a foolish child.” She spat the words, but the brightness in her eyes betrayed her fear.

  Alea felt darkness roil through her, but she could not be certain if it was her mind’s shadow or the blackness of power. It was a heady feeling, cold and electric. She fixed the Laen with a pointed stare. “Then don’t you think you ought to teach me?”

  Chapter THREE

  The 3rd Day of Fluerme, 1252

  The Isle of Le’yan

  DAWN LOOKED MUCH LIKE dusk, which looked much like a dark, overcast day. Alea rose early. She told herself her body was still used to the early mornings on the road and during the siege, but the humming in her limbs told her otherwise. It’s this place. The air, the earth here, it’s different. She was supposed to be learning, filling her days with study and exciting new tasks. She felt useless already. The dress she pulled on felt odd after months wearing breeches underneath and she laughed at how much her life had changed.

  Elle sat at the table in the kitchen, staring out the window.

  Alea felt as if she had interrupted a private moment and paused, one hand on the door frame.

  Elle blinked, as if dragging herself back from a distant, unseen shore. “How did you sleep?”

  Alea lifted one shoulder in a shrug she had learned from Bren. “Well enough. It was quiet, and I am used to business surrounding tents or the sounds of the forest.” She edged over to the cast iron stove and felt the side of the kettle resting on its surface. It was hot, and she glanced sidelong at her mother. The woman had been up for far longer than a single cup of tea, it seemed. She poured herself a mug, leaning against the counter as she drank. It tasted of earth and stone, but cleared her head. “I would like to meet the others this morning.”

/>   “I think you made enough of an impression for a few days, don’t you?”

  “I meant those that weren’t there last night. Your people aren’t so few as to number just a dozen.”

  “They’re your people too, you know.”

  Alea’s gaze flicked to Elle. “Then perhaps they should make an effort to treat me as such. I’m beginning to wonder if you’re the only one who wants me here.”

  “You’re not making it easy to like you.” Elle leaned back. “I wanted to spend the day showing you about the village, making introductions as we go.”

  “And my teaching?”

  “Are you in such a hurry to return?”

  “I’m eager to end this war.” It was poorly spoken diplomacy. She finished her tea in one deep sip, forcing the liquid down with a wince before turning to rinse her mug in the wash basin. She had schooled her features into neutrality by the time she turned to leave. Alea shielded her eyes against the sky as they stepped into the yard. Lightning glinted still, ceaseless and silent above the clouds that bruised the sky. The house’s kitchen garden had overgrown its bounds and the smell of herbs underfoot was welcoming.

  Elle held open the gate for Alea. Under the strange, uniform brightness of an overcast day, Alea was afforded a clear view of the village around her. The hill behind them was crisscrossed with decorative gardens and stone sculptures, each section walled in stone. The houses radiated from the hill like a threadbare petticoat. Elle’s steps were too calculated to be casual, and Alea’s nerves hummed louder. This is another battle, another hurdle for me to test my power against. She thought of the other hurdles she had faced and the destruction that seemed to result. Are they ready for me?

  “There is Ielya, one of our herbalists.” Elle nodded to the woman crouched in an elaborate tangled garden. “Much of our time is spent trying to preserve whatever is left of our people—our knowledge and our crafts.”

  They wove towards the hall and despite the promise of introductions, Alea found the conversation closer to a lecture that included no one but themselves. The walk through the walled areas along the hillside proved more interesting. Most of the sculptures were either abstract feats of balance, the deeper meaning of which was lost on Alea, or memorials. Single Laen sat in meditation or quiet thought before some of the figures.

  Alea paused to watch one of the women, brow furrowed. “You said you don’t have the power to create another Laen. How is that? Can’t you just pull up more?”

  Elle fixed Alea with a wary gaze. “What we have in our bodies is finite. It is all each may ever have. When we die, the power passes into another place. If we are killed in certain fashions, then that power is gone forever. Either way, the others cannot access it.”

  Alea only hummed in response. Her own power was bounded only by the limits of her mind and body. Something told her it was unwise to explain that now. Though the grass had been maintained, the space just under the hall was disused. A line of stones stretched along one wall. They were all roughly the shape of a duck’s egg, but varied in size from twice Alea’s height on the right to smaller than her spread hand on the left. Alea frowned at the smallest stone nestled in the grass. It was no larger than her smallest finger. “This is a training court.”

  “From many years ago, yes. New Laen learned to control their power here.” She looked at Alea pointedly. “And so will you.”

  “I understand learning control, but we should focus on a larger scale. My power moves oceans, not puddles and playing with pebbles will not help me win the war.”

  “Your training is non-existent and I cannot build without a good foundation, which is something you seriously lack. Worse, I must knock down the shoddy one you’ve haphazardly built without guidance.” Elle moved towards the gate to the rest of the village. “There is more for you to see.”

  The discussion was clearly over, but Alea’s mind whirled. She disliked the layered metaphors and the assumption that they knew her power better than she. They’ve admitted to never seeing the like. How can they know what will work?

  The other side of the village was much the same. Alea wanted to scream at the monotony. She shook the thought away and tried to quicken her pace. There was only one building large enough for Alea to consider it sprawling. The single door was wide enough to be two, and stood propped open with a smooth stone. Alea realized she had stopped listening to Elle and, instead, stood on the steps. The depths of the room were dim, but the air was fresh. Shelves of books and scrolls lined the walls and stacks of wax tablets stood in one corner.

  An older woman paused in wiping down the spines with a dry rag. She pushed her mass of silver hair away from her brow when Alea entered.

  “I wondered when you would come. Where would you like to start?” She was not one of the women who had visited the night before.

  “The beginning would be best.” Elle stepped in beside Alea, her thin lips pursed. “It’s a shame she was not raised with knowledge of us.”

  “If she had been she’d be dead. Now go on.” She made a shooing motion with a blocky hand. “I’m sure your house needs attention after all this time.”

  Elle wavered in the doorway, eyes flicking between Alea and the older woman. When she left, it was wordlessly.

  “I’m honored to meet you, my lady.” The woman offered Alea a gnarled hand and a bright smile. “I’m Mera. I tend the books here.”

  Alea glanced around at the books rather than meet the woman’s clear gaze. “You’re a librarian?”

  “Historian, actually.”

  “This is the history of the Laen?” Alea brushed a finger down the spine of a thin book. “There’s so little.”

  Mera’s bright eyes inched over Alea. “Much was lost. This is what was saved and what I’ve been able to remember. Soon I’ll write about you.”

  “I’m to read all this? Before the battle?” Years of reading surrounded her.

  “We have had our entire lives to study and the deepest truths are ingrained in our blood. But you? You’re half Laen, truly, yet more powerful than any of us.” She drew a breath. “I can’t say what you need to know.” She pointed to the stack of tablets and returned to her dusting. “Begin there.”

  Φ

  The 15th Day of Fluerme, 1252

  The City of Ceir Athrolan

  Melt water thundered through the aqueducts, echoing across the city. Spring had set in with a will. It was not the water, nor the wind that woke Arman, but the clanging bells above the barracks. He shoved aside his blankets and peered out the window. The torches on the towers glowed warmly, but were not the massive blazes heralding an attack. He shoved his boots on and made for the door.

  He crossed the main entrance hall of the palace and caught a glimpse of lightning through the thick glass of the aviary. The drum of rain grew louder as he crossed from the palace to the stables. Inside the barracks beyond, the buzz of purposeful conversation warred with the sounds of the storm. The men rushed about, many of whom Arman recognized from the outguard. He grabbed the arm of a passing captain. “What is it?”

  “Aqueduct burst. We’re to help the masons before the warehouses flood.” He waved Arman away. “Back to bed with you.”

  “I can help.” The man was gone and other soldiers jostled past, more than a few shooting foul glances towards him. Arman stared after them, incredulous. These were the men he fought alongside just a month before. They had eaten and bled beside one another.

  “Rakos, you’ll not make enough of a difference to warrant being up.” Indred clapped Arman on the back. “Thank you, but we’ll do just fine.” He turned back to the men, barking orders and ushering them out towards the streets. “Up and out lads! The water will not wait for your boots to be laced!”

  Arman watched the men leave. He had attempted to spar with the soldiers a few times since the siege, but to no avail. As soon as he approached, the men disappeared, spitting retorts or ignoring him completely. He sighed angrily. He wanted to say it was the Rakos blood, that it was his
proximity to Alea. He knew it was neither. They look at me and see a man who should be dead. Who was dead. Looking in the mirror unnerved him too, but he could not walk away from his own skin. Time was, I might have shunned a man brought back from death.

  He peered down at the warehouse district, half swallowed by mist. He was angry at the men, surely, but more angry at himself. When had he started letting others get the best of his spirit?

  Φ

  Indred’s men milled about the mess of the warehouse district. They hesitated at the water churning between the buildings and the massive arches of the aqueduct. Frost wore at the stone each year, and the cracks finally burst at the pressure of snowmelt behind them. The masons had already arrived, their laden carts parked a tier above.

  “Thank fates our kings carved the city in steps, eh?” The officer clambered onto one of the great struts. The broken stone was cleared away to allow metal troughs to reroute the flow. The work was tedious and the icy water sent several soldiers into racking coughs. It was past midnight before masons’ mud could be laid. A file of soldiers formed to pass stone along to the jagged gap. One of the men fumbled the slab in his hands as he brushed the eerily hot palm of the next man in line.

  Arman glared back at him, his curls dark and plastered to his brow. “No one needs to like me for me to help.” He spat the words before tugging the stone from the soldier’s grip and passing it alone. He worked tirelessly, ignoring the looks. The stones were held in place by great buckled leather straps until the cement set. The gap was nearly closed when the entire structure shuddered. A deep groan became a scream as stone and metal bowed. Arman watched the straps stretch a second before they snapped. They’ll never make it in time. He dragged himself hand-over-hand up the iron ladder in the stone support, wincing as shards of stone rained onto his head. He locked his legs around the upper rungs of the ladder and pushed. Heat rushed through him. The stone groaned again, a strap whipping past and biting a deep line over his cheek. The stone held for a breath, then another. His arms screamed at the effort and he closed his eyes, letting the heat fill him. His legs hardened, his arms stiffened and he pressed his full weight against the incredible pull of water.