by V. S. Holmes
Bren shrugged.
“What’ll her fate be?” Arik fixed Bren with an unreadable gaze.
“Athrolan will make her a fort. She’ll be an outpost for the kingdom, for trade and the like.”
“And the Kit?”
Bren was quiet for a long minute. “I suspect you can stay here, work for the soldiers.”
“And you think that will be different than Azirik? Better somehow? Ye should take her. Ye know her.”
Bren put his head in his hands. “I’m not a king, Arik, I’m a soldier.”
“Well, we’re not a kingdom either. We’re a rabble-band of starved thieves and opportunists.”
Bren raised his brows. “You have any room open for a new member? If the queen doesn’t give up this quest for my future I might run away with you.”
“Do you fear the crown?”
“No. I don’t deserve it, though.”
“That alone would make you a better king than Azirik.”
“He thought he deserved the crown?” Bren shifted to get a better look at his companion’s features.
“Azirik wept when his pa died. Not in grief, but ‘cause he feared the crown.” Arik scrubbed his face with a rough hand. “You would really give up a crown for freedom?”
Bren rolled his eyes. “Honestly I’d settle for a hermitage.” His face sobered. “What would you do were you in my place?”
Arik’s expression grew thoughtful. “I don’t know, truly. However I’ll tell you this—I could have left the Kit here. I could have run to my cousin on the mainland and never looked back. Many did. I’d not be hungry. I’d not be poor. I’d feel a damn sight younger. But I don’t know if I’d be happier.” He shrugged. “This is home. She’s not a great land, she’s not a rich one, but she’s pretty and she’s mine.” He sighed and heaved himself to his feet. “Pity you won’t take her. You’d have the Kit’s voice.”
Bren stared at the dark water below and listened to the man climb down the wall. “How many are you, Oland?”
A long pause prefaced the words that finally drifted up from below. “Three score in the city. Twice that in the green.” He used the old Miriken term for the forest. Bren turned back to the ocean. The conversation left him with fewer answers than before. It would be hours before he could sleep and dawn waited for no one. Did you really expect to escape fate when your sister is the Dhoah’ Laen? He promised himself he would make a decision before be returned to the barracks that night. He sat on the wall for a long time.
Φ
The 17th Day of Lineme, 1252
The Isle of Le’yan
Frustration and embarrassment were familiar to Alea. Learning a new culture in Vielrona had been hard. Acknowledging naiveté while demanding respect had been worse. Neither were comparable to navigating the icy social waters of Le’yan. The day was crisp and the air rejuvenated Alea’s wounded spirit as she walked up to the training court. Despite the outburst, Elle continued to teach her, but with little progress. If anything, Alea felt her hold on her power diminishing in the face of stress and distain.
This morning, however, Elle’s faint smile was almost vulnerable. The kindness gave Alea pause. She nodded. “Good morning. Are we picking up where we left off yesterday?”
“We both know it’s the wrong way to go about things, at least for now.” Elle patted the ground beside her. “Instead of starting small with what you do with your power, let us start small with how you use it.”
Alea sat cross-legged and rested her hands in her lap. “Taking a small piece, you mean?”
“I want you to bring it up, but do not push it out of yourself. Just feel it. Let it simply be around you.”
It was difficult. Alea’s power bucked like a horse trying to free itself from a tether, seeking any way out.
“Do not force it down. Spread calmness across, like a layer, holding yourself just in check.”
Alea floated on a sea of black, icy fog. She glanced down, looking at the roiling ocean beneath her mental self. Lightning rumbled through the churning blackness. It looked like the clouds above Le’yan. Startled excitement broke her will and power flooded into her skin. Her eyes flew open and she gasped, clenching her fists as cold rocketed down her limbs.
“You held it. It was a moment, but you did it.” Elle smiled. “Now, try again.”
Φ
Alea frowned as she tossed herbs haphazardly into her mug. “I thought we were proceeding with order and precision.” She almost succeeded in keeping vitriol from her voice.
“Yes, and in order to do so, I must understand you better.” At Alea’s accusing glace, Elle sighed. “Yes, Mera spoke with me. It does not change the fact that I’m curious about what you have learned to do on your own. Perhaps I can teach you better if I know what it is you’re wielding.”
“I don’t suppose the other Laen are curious, too.”
“If they are, their curiosity will not be satisfied today. It’ll just be the two of us.”
The pale sunlight lit the training court well and Alea propped her still-steaming mug on the ground beside Elle. She took a few steps away and tried to hide the shaking in her arms as they hung at her sides. She fell into herself, closing her eyes and pulling the swirling black clouds from her center.
Unbidden, thoughts of the past weeks unfurled in the wake of her power. The Laen are disappointed. I am worthy of their respect. Her jaw tightened. Another thought bloomed, this time from the darkest shadows in her mind. I am worthy of their fear. She stumbled over its bitterness. She gripped her power tighter, pushing the distractions aside and let it pour into her limbs. It filled her fingers then pushed out, towards the mountains, away from the village and Elle. The ground trembled under her physical feet, but her power was too tight for her to hear. She pushed it further, then let it retreat, curling back into her body and mind. The normal sounds of the village and hillside were replaced with terrible silence.
She blinked, eyes opening as blackness faded from them. The walls of the training court had been reduced to rubble. All but the largest stone was a pile of gravel. A ragged handprint had been carved into it, the edges of the fingers and palm coated in curls of hoar frost.
Alea did not have to look to know the Laen below stared from the streets and doorways of the village. Elle had taken several steps back. Alea turned her eyes slowly to her mother. “I rarely tell it what to do. Often I let it behave on its own. I’m lucky I can control it this much.”
“You had less control before?” Elle’s voice had lost its calm exterior. Fear and remorse rubbed the edges of her words raw.
“I used to sink into my power instead of drawing it through myself. We were on the road between Fort Hero and Fort Stone. I was practicing and my power got away from me. I destroyed the camp, broke trees, and killed one of the horses.” She could feel the hard mask on her face cracking.
“How did you stop yourself?”
“I didn’t. Arman spoke to me through his own power. When I relaxed, when my fear had lessened, I could control it again. Afterward, he told me to pull the power up instead of surrounding myself with it. Lest I drown, so to speak.”
Elle smoothed her skirt with shaking hands. “One of us has studied the way we each use our power. Would you talk to her? She might have insight. I’m afraid I do not.”
“It can’t hurt.” Alea knew she should be ashamed of scaring them, but a small part of her rejoiced. Perhaps they would finally listen.
Φ
Lelil was the oldest woman Alea had ever seen among human or Laen. Her silver eyes were set deeply into nets of folded skin. Her expression was the familiar calm facade. She ushered them wordlessly into her small house and gestured for Alea to sit at the table. Elle, she ignored.
Alea sat, staring at her uncertainly. Should I explain myself? Surely what I just did was demonstration enough. When Lelil held out her hand, Alea took it. The loose skin was soft and cool. She kept her eyes open and drew her power up. It was easier each time, as if the path would be b
roken in like a pair of boots. Lelil followed along the veins of Alea’s soulblood. The additional presence was nagging. She withdrew and Alea let her power fade.
Lelil sat back, regarding Alea thoughtfully. After a moment she stood and went to stand at the counter. Her brows furrowed as if something out the kitchen window was distressing. “Are you tired?”
Alea looked up. She had wondered if the woman was mute. “I’ve been traveling and essentially rootless for months. Of course I’m tired.”
“When you use your power, Lyne’alea, are you tired afterward?”
“Yes. Though often there is stress for other reasons as well. War does that.”
Lelil ignored the barb. “And when you have used the most, what has happened?”
“It burnt my hands and I bled soulblood through the wounds. I was unconscious for days.”
Lelil’s expression tightened and she turned to look at her. “Our power is a ball in our wombs. Yours is rooted there, certainly, but it has branches wrapped around every vein of your being. There is little definition where one ends and the other begins. Your emotions trigger your power this way. Each time you pull your power through yourself, some soulblood is burnt away. With time it returns, but if you use too much at once it will kill you.”
Elle rubbed her face. “How did you live through bringing that boy back?”
Alea looked down at the veins of power and soulblood still shining through her skin. “I almost didn’t. I sank in the ocean, without enough strength to swim. I pushed his soul back to his body, but remember nothing more. Later he said he carried me.”
The two women exchanged looks. “He is a strong man, to carry a creature so powerful and not be consumed by it,” Lelil noted. She brushed her hands free of invisible dust. “I will discuss with the others what should be done. In the meantime, keep to your reading and mind your emotions.”
Alea fell into step beside Elle after their abrupt dismissal. “You are not meeting with them?”
“My opinion is negated by my apparent affection for you. I fear what they will decide.”
“Why?”
“I barely understand your power, but I know it cannot be treated the same as ours. Few of them understand that. They think your tiger should behave as our housecats, not realizing the two are different animals.”
Φ
The 18th Day of Lineme, 1252
The view of the ocean made Alea think of Athrolan. She had not been there long enough to call it home, but nostalgia tinted every thought of the tiered city. It is not Athrolan’s cliffs I miss, but the person with me. She shut her bedroom door carefully and sat on her bedspread. She had avoided thinking about Arman or their argument, but now she missed his steadiness. She connected to her power quickly and shot across the waves in minutes. Athrolan was a sea of crimson shimmering with all the souls.
A spot of white-gold pulsed brilliantly through them. She pushed herself closer until she could see him. He sat in the library, several books open before him. A deep frown creased his forehead and tension lined his shoulders. She moved closer to peer at what he read. It was a plain journal, written in simple, spiky writing. She reached out her mind and nudged against him, like she had with Bren.
Arman? The sensation was strange, like sliding off a glass window. He did not seem to notice her. She grabbed at more power. Arman, can you hear me?
He looked up, his frown deepening.
Arman!
He rubbed his eyes roughly. “I’m going mad, thinking I can feel her here.” He gathered his tunic, folded haphazardly over the back of the chair and headed towards the door. He extinguished the candles and paused. “I miss you, you know. More than anything.” He shook his head and left.
Energy drained from Alea and her mind followed her power back to her body. She flopped onto the pillows. Why couldn’t he hear me? Bren could. She ran a hand through her hair. She felt more isolated than ever. She rolled over and wrapped her arms around her pillow. Elle called for her to come have lunch, but Alea stared unseeing out the window at the rolling waves for several minutes before finally going into the kitchen.
Elle was silent as she prepared their lunch. She set a pot on to simmer and turned to lean against the counter. “Talk to me?”
Alea jumped, surprised at the vulnerability in the words. “About what?”
“Your journey north, your childhood, your first love. There is so much I don’t know.” Elle’s silver eyes were lit with a bittersweet glow. For the first time Alea felt as if she gazed on a mother. The emotion was uncomfortable to see on her normally stoic features and she looked down at her hands. Without eye contact she could be speaking to anyone, or to no one. “You did well, choosing the ihal to raise me. He was a kind man and intelligent. He must have understood more of the truth than I realized. He had many children, the younger of which I helped raise. His second-eldest son, Ahren, agreed to marry me. The attack came a week before we were to be wed. The Laen were there, six of them, and the one they thought was the Dhoah’ Laen. I was so angry at them afterward. They abandoned me, abandoned my family after we had sheltered them.”
Her voice faltered for a moment and she drew a breath. “You are right that I know little about your people – I was not raised by you, or even in an ally city. I do know about this war and about my power.” She paused, forcing her words to be gentle. It was harder than she expected. “After years of inaction, I think action scares you. Last you saw me I was a child, and now you turn about and I’m grown. Treating me like a child now will not make up for those years.” She finally looked up. “But you don’t have to. I had a family, one you picked just for me.”
“It is not anger behind my reprimands and reserve. It is fear.”
“I know what I did was monstrous and dangerous, but did you ever think to ask me why?”
Elle looked down and shook her head. “That is not why I am afraid. I spent two decades pretending you were never born, because if I didn’t, they might find you. Two decades of only loving you in my mind and dreams, Lyne’alea. Now you are real and breathing and angry and I’m still terrified to love you.” She reached out to touch Alea’s hand, but paused. She swallowed hard, her hand falling back into her lap. Neither moved to take the pot from the fire and the silence was broken only by the hiss as it boiled over.
Chapter SIX
The 21st Day of Lineme, 1252
The City of Mirik
SALT MADE THE COBBLES sticky under Bren’s boots. There was an irony to Mirik being surrounded by ocean and attacking the woman who wielded its power. He followed the path from his first encounter with the Kit. They were odd, he admitted, and questionably sane, but he preferred their company to the Athrolani. Some deep part of him was sickened by the garish turquoise of their uniforms and pennants where vermilion once hung.
He broke into a jog and turned into the slums. The houses were tall, leaning over the street. Jug-end Square was the center of their domain, it seemed, and since the Athrolani’s arrival, the place was tidier. If some nicer materials suddenly appeared in the Kit houses, no one seemed to notice. Bren rapped on the central door, eyes scanning the windows around him. Relations with the Kit were certainly civil, but Bren would not go as far to describe them as friendly.
“Ho, Oland.” They may have accepted him more readily than they did the Athrolani, but he was still a vague other to the majority. Doors opened and shut and he heard a muttered order for patience. It was better than finding a bolt in his sternum.
The door jerked open. “Barrackborn.” Even under the harsh lighting of the lanterns, it was clear Arik’s face had fleshed out.
Bren raised a hand in greeting. “I have something to discuss with you.” He shot a glance at the hall behind the Miriken. “Might I come in?”
Arik did not move from the doorway. His eyes narrowed on the soldier, head tilting to one side.
Bren did not rush the man, and forced his feet into stillness. The Kit kept to themselves. Often the only visitors allowed were unconsc
ious or dead. He watched thoughts flicker over the older man’s features for a moment. “One Miriken visiting another, Oland, that’s all.”
Arik sighed. The weight of the past decade wiped all fight from his face and he nodded. “Get in, then.” He moved down the hall, not waiting to see if Bren followed. The houses shared walls, and the Kit had opened doorways between them. It created a warren of connected dwellings and meeting halls. While the endlessness may have been an illusion, Bren was willing to bet the buildings covered more ground than the actual palace.
Four minutes of walking brought them to a door at the end of a hall. Arik unlocked it and ushered Bren into a small two-room apartment. Dismantled crates formed a table, chairs and the platform for a cot mattress. Without offering tea or ale, he sat at the makeshift table and fixed Bren with an expectant look. “Well?”
Bren sat and drew a book from his jerkin. “Are you familiar with Rauld’s Tales for an Officer?”
“Somewhat. It was controversial when scribed, if I recall.”
“For good reason. Would you do me a favor and read the third piece? ‘Treatise for a Common Man’s King.’“ He slid the book across the table.
Arik regarded Bren, one rough hand on the book’s cover. “I’m not in the habit of reading for pleasure.”
“Then consider this research.” Bren shifted. He needed the man’s opinion before he would admit his real reasons for the suggestion.
“Might this have to do with our discussion last week?”
“It might. Humor me though. Mirik is in shambles. She has no government. The only thing that could make her worse could be if Azirik himself returned.”
Arik laughed. “You sound more like Brenterik every day.” He glanced up, the nests of wrinkles about his eyes deep with mirth. “As kings went, he was a good man.” He looked down at the book before them, a heartbreaking mixture of hope and dread on his features. “Is this something you wish to keep between us?”
“For now.” Bren rose. “Mind showing me out? I doubt I could find my own way without getting lost. I’ve only just got my thoughts straightened out and it’d be a pity to starve to death in this maze.”
