by V. S. Holmes
“I cannot hold this forever!” He pitched his voice over the roar of the water.
Shock only lasted a moment before the soldiers exploded back into action. Another layer of stones was added, more metal bands hammered into place. Arman was dimly aware of the sky growing lighter. Half an hour from dawn, they gingerly released the troughs and knocked away what was left of the broken dam. Arman’s body was stiff and he had long grown numb to the icy water still spraying lightly from the cracks. His mind had sunk so deep that it took a moment to realize someone was shaking his shoulder
“Arrowlash!”
His own breath chuffed hotly against his bare shoulder as he peered down at the man. Pain began to creep through his concentration.
“You can let go.”
Arman turned slowly back to the stone before him, tugging his hands free. They refused to move for a moment, then wrenched away. He slid down several rungs of the ladder before he remembered how his legs were supposed to move.
At the bottom there were tired grins and a cloak. His back was clapped and hands were offered in greeting and introduction. He found it all very distant and strange.
“Leave him be until he gets food and ale! Man needs to warm up!” The man who had helped him down waved a hand to disperse the men. He glanced at Arman and offered his own hand, despite his words. “I’m Witt, lieutenant under Indred.”
Arman flexed his hand into feeling before taking the man’s arm. The vague sensation of skin brought his mind crashing back into his body. “Arman.” He followed the mass of men moving towards the barracks. Their steps grew lighter at the smell of food wafting from the mess hall. Arman turned towards the door to the palace, but Witt’s voice broke through his damp thoughts.
“Rakos!” Witt’s shout arched from the door to the baths. “We’re headed into the city for drinks after we get dry—care to join?”
Arman blinked. Melt water must wash all transgressions clean. “It’s morning.”
The man shrugged. “We were up all night. We can sleep in the afternoon.”
For a moment Witt was another friend, another dark-haired, drinking man. Arman found a grin creeping onto his face and he threw his hands up in mock surrender. “Very well, I’ll change and meet you back here.” He waited until out of sight of the men before breaking into a run. He may have been an inhuman creature, but he sorely missed having friends. It took him only a moment to change. The numbness that stiffened his skin was replaced by burning, and he absently checked his hands and feet for frostbite before tugging on a cloak and boots.
The inn was a tall, broad building that took up an entire block of houses between two small streets. It was in the residential area two tiers above where the aqueduct burst. Arman followed the soldiers to one of the four common areas and sat down on a stool with a grateful sigh. The group numbered close to a dozen, and more trickled in as the morning wore on.
“Drink up, you earned it right enough.” A large man pushed a mug of ale to Arman. “I’m Sousa.”
Arman grinned and took a long sip of the drink, watching a few others gather around.
“I never thought that stone would set proper! Every winter this happens!” A dark-haired man made a rude noise two seats down.
The Rakos leaned forward. “Every winter?”
“Not so badly,” the man amended, “but often enough.” He offered his hand across Sousa. “Kal Smytheson.”
Arman took it. “Arman Arrowlash.”
Kal laughed at that. “I know.” He gestured to the mug in front of Arman. “Be careful with Ma Hexion’s fire ale. It’ll get you tossed before you taste the second sip!”
Arman grinned. “It burns like the tar-whiskey we brewed in winter back home, though it tastes far better.”
Kal made a face and Sousa frowned. “Tar-whiskey?”
“Made from whatever was too rotted to be saved from harvest.” The men groaned and Arman grinned.
“Did it at least get you laughing before it killed you?”
Arman took another deep draw. The alcohol must have burnt, he supposed, but it felt only distantly warm. “My friend, Kam-Rit—a true bantam when it comes to women—wanted to bed up with this butcher’s daughter two lanes down. We were all out one evening, drinking tar-whiskey, and we told him that we’d brought a love-luck potion from the market. We convinced him that in order for it to work, he had to dance under her window pretending to be a tom-turkey, chortling like the birds do. Poor fool was so tossed he did it. Never heard from the lass, you can believe, but surely got the attention of her father!”
Sousa laughed. “Where’s home, Arman?”
“Vielrona’s Lows. My Ma owns an inn there.”
The Athrolani frowned. “I thought you came with the Dhoah’ Laen?”
“We met there this autumn.” Arman finished off his drink and gestured for another. “I’ve guarded her since.” He glanced at Kal. “What about you two? Do you hail from Ceir Athrolan or one of her other cities?”
Sousa thumped his chest. “Born and bred in this very district!”
Kal waved the other man’s pride away. “I’m from Marl Orna, just over the hills to the south. It’s a small town, but nice. I’ve settled here, though. My wife’s family owns an old inn in the slums. Her grandfather built it and I hope to tend it to pass on to our children.”
Heat flashed through Arman’s mind at the thought. He wondered if he would ever have that kind of peace. “You have many?”
“Only the one, a girl of two, but we expect our second within three months.”
Arman raised his mug in congratulations. “May they be strong and wise.”
Sousa shook his head. “I cannot imagine a one-woman life, myself.” He proved the words by looking over their barmaid as she delivered more ale.
A man across the table interrupted. “That’s simple because no woman can stand you long enough, Sousa.” He turned to Arman, his grin broadening. “What of you, Rakos, do you take women besides the Dhoah’ Laen?”
Burning filled Arman’s skin. “Excuse me?”
“Is she more powerful in bed than in battle?”
Arman’s nerves bristled and he turned his gaze fully on the man, raising his lip enough that his fangs were obvious. He wondered at the shadow crossing the man’s features. “Walk away. Now.”
The man fell silent, wary, but still contemptuous. He grabbed his drink angrily, swearing as it sloshed.
Arman looked down at his mug. The sounds of the common room were distant, and his ears buzzed. A hand on his shoulder jolted him back into the room.
“Hasian makes almost anyone angry,” Kal promised. “He only joined up for the coin and when battle arose it proved him a coward. He hates us for it, and your lady who sparked the war.” He sat back. “So the tales of you and she are true, then?”
Arman frowned. “What tales?”
“That you love her, not just guard her. Love only her.”
Arman looked at the swirling brown of his ale. “I’m her guard.” He pulled a grin onto his face as he changed the subject. “So tell me of the wonders of Ceir Athrolan.”
Φ
The 17th Day of Fluerme, 1252
The City of Mirik
The overcast skies gave way to the pale, cloudless blue of proper spring weather. Winter’s chill was all but gone and in the sunshine it was almost hot. Bren leaned back against the Great Wall surrounding the city, legs dangling off the scaffolding as he unlaced his shirt. “We’re close to halfway, Lanav.”
The soldier laying stone above him patted the sun-warmed rock. “Aye, we should have the entire west wall finished by the time we report to the queen.”
The view had improved with the weather. The still, green harbor water lapped over the crumbled breakwater jutting from the tongue of land at the city’s southwest corner. The land rose from there in tall, natural bluffs along which ran the wall they now repaired. The dark, blue-grey of the open ocean far below sparkled at the wave’s crests. This was not the Mirik Bren rem
embered.
Lanav followed Bren’s gaze. “Looks near warm enough for a swim, eh?”
“I’d give you two gold pieces if you didn’t come out singing like a eunuch. The water may look like spring, but it’ll not feel like it until well into Aeme.”
Lanav climbed down the ladder to stand beside Bren. He peered up at the sun. Their timing was informal as none of the city’s bells were re-hung. “What say we take our midday now, Barrackborn? Bring back that frayed rope.”
Bren heaved himself up. “I’ll be glad when this work is done.” He was a man of movement. Construction was not his interest or his talent. Several other teams from stations along the wall joined their path back to the barracks. Seeing the single ship bobbing in the harbor, Bren wondered absently if any books he had requested from Athrolan’s library would be among the supplies. Mirik’s library had suffered under Azirik’s rule. Most of the valuable texts were sold to fund the war. There is something wise to be noted about giving up knowledge in trade for violence.
A squire appeared at Bren’s elbow when they entered the courtyard.
“Lieutenant, Mariner Helonin wants to see you, sir.”
Bren excused himself and crossed to the officer’s quarters. The planning room door was ajar, and he knocked at the jamb.
“Come in, Barrackborn.” The mariner and several of his officers sat around the small table. A map of the city stretched before them.
Bren took the seat Helonin indicated. “You asked for me?”
“We breached the palace a week ago, as you know. We’re opening the treasury tomorrow. Her Majesty the Queen noted you might wish to be there.”
“I’ve no more claim to be present than another.” Bren shrugged, but his body hummed. This is my country! “Did she mention why?”
“If you take the throne, the treasury, and all that it contains, is technically yours.” Helonin fixed him with an intent stare. “Have you thought on that at all?”
Bren ran a hand through his hair. He felt chastised, as if he’d forgotten to practice his stance before training. “Not enough to make a decision.” He had made a decision, but it was not one he was prepared to announce to a room of men who expected him to choose differently.
“If you still wish to come with us tomorrow, we leave at dawn.” Helonin turned back to the map and began discussing the entrance to the warren of underground tunnels that held the treasury. Bren excused himself and went to find food. It was the same meal he had loved the day before, but now it was soot on his tongue.
“I heard from Dettan they’re opening the treasury tomorrow.” Lanav thumped down beside Bren. “That why Helonin wanted to see you?”
“He said I could go. Thought I’d want to see what could be mine, I guess.”
“They’re hoping you’ll take her off their hands. Mirik’s expensive to maintain. I don’t blame you a bit for not wanting it—give up a life like ours for pomp and papers?” He made an exaggerated pantomime of spitting.
Bren laughed and cleaned his bowl with a slice of bread. “Come on, that wall will not build itself.”
Φ
The 18th Day of Fluerme, 1252
Bren was certain the Kit flanked them, an unseen shadow among the broken buildings of his childhood. He wondered if they were as hopeful as Helonin. Do they think I’ll have a change of heart when I see the inheritance? His heart was heavy. His tattered tunic and dented armor said enough about how drained the coffers had been. He had barely looked at the palace since arriving, though he did not admit to avoiding the place.
Now, with boots thumping the faded tiles, he did not recognize it. The halls were dusty and most of the valuables were long since stripped. The main hall was broad and bore a curved double staircase. His eyes lingered there, knowing that in the warren of corridors beyond his father had grown up. Somewhere, up there, something had made Azirik a madman. He tore his gaze away and instead examined the stones under his feet. He ignored the eyes of the other men as they gauged his reactions.
The palace sat on a twisting network of tunnels dug into the cliff-rock. The higher caverns held servants’ quarters and the kitchen storerooms. The lower ones stored anything from old arms and armor to forgotten documents. Those to the east were used as crypts. A large, well-lit tunnel led down beneath the throne room to a metal door. It had once been closed with several padlocks and bolts, all but one having been cut through by Athrolan’s smiths.
The last took only a few minutes to break through. The doors were pushed open and a collective breath was drawn. In all, Bren thought it rather anticlimactic. He grabbed a torch with the others and stepped through the doorway. Before him, glimmering in the light of the patrol’s lanterns and torches, was what could have been his. It was more gold, silver and jewels than he had ever seen in his life. Each alcove of the circular, pillared room held decorative armor, crowns, jewelry and actual coin. Chests, upended, open or locked, were stacked around the pillars and a large cabinet in the back held thick, ornate tomes. Bren drew a shuddering breath. It may have been a greater worth than any lieutenant had a right to see, but it was a poor fortune for a kingdom. He slid his torch into a bracket on the wall and lowered himself onto an intricately carved chair.
Helonin handed each man a tablet. “Pair up and take an alcove. Write all you find and if you can estimate a worth, do so. Captain Quarier and I are watching, so pocketing anything will be unwise.” There was scattered laughter as the men began to work. After a moment Helonin went to Bren. “Are you going to help?”
Bren nodded, not looking up.
“Regretting your decision, lieutenant?”
Bren shot the man a glare, though he knew there was no cruelty in the mariner’s words. “You and I both know this is a sorry sum to run a land.” He took the tablet from the man. “I’m just ashamed to see how far Azirik drained his kingdom trying to kill his daughter.”
Φ
The 20th Day of Fluerme, 1252
The Isle of Le’yan
Alea drew the another bundle of tablets from the shelf, laying them out on one of the small tables. Her days were spent reading, punctuated by awkward silences over tea and meals. Though history was one of her least favorites, reading was her only respite from guarded stares and blatant gossip. These tablets began a few weeks before the gods overthrew the Laen and were written by one of the gods themselves. He was a god of the ocean, and called himself Berm. The same Burme that the Berrin worship? She filed that away for later consideration. The first few tablets described the god’s family, the palace and his love for the sea. Alea skimmed the words, though they were beautiful. Before the war she would have enjoyed the man’s descriptions. Now she had darker interests. Now she had a war to fight.
She paused when the tone of the writing changed abruptly.
This morning the sea was in turmoil and the waves grey. I went to private counsel with King Numon. I expected him to ease my unrest about his speech yesterday. He did the opposite. He told me many of the godlords were tired of paying homage to the Laen. They were tired of them allowing us an understanding of only facets of the world.
He told me he intended to overthrow them. I left, unsure if it was possible. Numon called a counsel this afternoon. There, in the center of our hall was Milady Queen Lynelle. She had arrived out of good will, to settle a dispute. Those who follow Numon forced her to think this was the way of balance, the overthrowing of the Laen. And then they attacked.
I cannot—I will not—recount the horror or the betrayal that followed. She split the world in three and Numon’s guards drove those of us who protested from the palace. The Rakos attacked, but they were too late. The palace burnt as we fled before the walls between the worlds solidified. My son was with me, but his mother and my daughter fell.
Now it is evening. We stand on the shores of the Rakos’s land. The Isle of the Gods is gone from the horizon, and Le’yan, too. I do not know what we will do, for our brothers and sisters are either dead or traitors. This morning the sea was in turmo
il and the waves grey. I should have listened.
Gooseflesh marched along Alea’s arms. She glanced up from the tablet. “Mera?”
The older woman looked over, brows raised. “Yes?”
“The gods, the ones who upheld the Laen laws, the ones loyal to the Laen, what happened to them?”
“I cannot say. They disappeared into the piece set aside for the Rakos, hidden among humans. Eventually I imagine their blood faded, as did the Rakos themselves.”
Alea ran a hand down the engraved wax, thinking of Arman. But the Rakos did not die out. Not completely. She glanced out the window at the ocean, brows furrowed. Below, the waves were grey.
Chapter FOUR
The 21st Day of Fluerme, 1252
The City of Ceir Athrolan
THE EMPTY TABLE BEFORE the library’s bank of windows served as a pointed rebuke, as opposed to inspiration. Arman glared at it before nosing about the shelves. There were plenty of books that mentioned the Rakos, if he cared to read children’s tales. He opened older histories at random, flipping through the pages as gently as his impatience allowed. “‘Greatest bond known to man,’ ‘Powers of heat and fire,’“ he quipped, scanning for anything useful.
His broad fingers paused on a history of Vielrona. Though it was dry and held little new information, the card tucked in the back detailed other comparable books. Most tomes had similar cards, and it spoke to the organization of the Athrolani historians and scribes. He backed up a pace, peering down the shelf for the war log the card suggested. It was a slim tome, and battered enough to have been the original, though the penmanship suggested it was a copy. He navigated his way back to the table and opened the cover. He was greeted by an ink rendition of the portrait from his own book of tales.
