by V. S. Holmes
Arman paused in the doorframe. “What about your hardened heart?” It was something he had not considered before. “Do you have comfort?”
“Now Earth Shaker, that is prying.”
He answered her grin with one of his own and ducked out of her room. Her words had calmed his racing thoughts somewhat, but his body still stormed with confusion and adrenaline. The heat marched up his skin, leaving annoying prickles in its wake. He locked his bedroom door and rang for water to be pumped into his bath. He stripped down, grateful that a network of pipes averted the need for servants to bring water personally. The solitude suited his thoughts, and it would further damage his reputation to be seen covered in someone else’s blood.
He scratched absently as he waited for the tub to fill. The skin of his shoulders flaked away, coating his fingers with metallic gold-white flakes. He frowned and backed up to the privy mirror to get a better look. His skin peeled back from the hard plates emerging from his shoulders. His heart pounded in his ears. Scales.
Φ
The 30th Day of Lineme, 1252
The Isle of Le’yan
The music was no tune she recognized. Athrolan’s ball room was decorated for a celebration, though the room itself was deserted. It was spring. Her black dress was Athrolani, but the layers were Sunamen. A circlet of leaves held back her hair. Warmth blossomed on her back and she turned. Arman’s boots were silent on the stone. He was dressed in white, his tunic stitched with gold. He smiled broadly and he offered her his hand.
“I thought you didn’t dance.”
“You’ve heard the tales – everyone dances at the end.”
She whirled about with him, the music sounding like laughter in her ears. A breeze lifted her hair. The ballroom was gone and they were surrounding by ancient trees. Their clothes were simple now and their feet bare. What she could see of her hair was laced in silver.
Lines surrounded Arman’s eyes—lines from years of laughing. “What do you want?”
The ballroom reformed and he was the youthful man she remembered again. “Is it this?”
She shook her head, heart pounding. “I want peace.”
His expression melted into one of sorrow, his cheeks hollowing as his body aged, died, decomposed before her eyes. Still, he spoke, through broken teeth and desiccated lips. “Alea, people like you can’t have peace.”
She burst awake, the room cloying is its stillness. She needed air. She scrambled from her sheets and across her room, leaning out the window. Deep breaths of the cold air calmed her nerves and her heart steadied. She palmed her eyes against tears. What was that?
She pushed herself through her soulblood, using her confusion as an amplifier for her power. She reached out to Athrolan, raging in desperation. She found Arman easily. His soul’s colors were brighter, almost blinding. He was in the slums and she moved closer until her mind walked beside him. A few soldiers were with him, joking with one another.
“Come on, Sousa – I doubt that tailor will appreciate you watering his storefront.” Arman turned to the straggler standing at the corner of a building.
Alea gasped. His face was inches from hers. Heat rolled from his skin.
He frowned, reaching out. His hand hovered by her cheek and she leaned her head into his touch. His palm passed through her and her heart ached.
I’m here, Arman. I’m right here. Fates, look at me! Hear me!
Arman shook himself and turned back to his friends.
Dammit, Arman! I need you! She fell to her knees as he walked away, a new frown wiping the mirth from his face. She faded back into her body in Le’yan. Her tears returned. It was not practice that she lacked. Something about him was different.
She frowned. She used her power each time she reached out to Bren or Arman. Despite the command to not practice her power, she had, and done so with complete control. She had brought Arman back and it had not destroyed the Athrolani camp. Her eyes were wide in the dark. When it stays in my body, I am in control. Her heart hammered with excitement.
She jerked the door open to find Elle in the hall, hand raised to knock.
Elle blinked, startled. “Yes?”
“I realized something. Why were you knocking?”
Elle shook her head at the offered seat. “Elai decided.” Her voice tightened. “They plan to bind you.”
Alea frowned. She did not know the term, but foreboding crept up her spine. “Tell them not to – I found a way to control my power, just now, that’s what I wanted to see you about.”
“They won’t believe you.”
“What’s a binding?”
“A mental cauterization. A permanent separation of your power from your soulblood.”
Nausea rolled in Alea’s stomach. She began to pace. “They want to cripple me. They cripple me and the gods will win.” The whirling and planning and panic were familiar. Comfort dissolved into danger, into the drive to fight or flee. This was the road all over again. Except, now it’s not the Miriken who want you destroyed, it’s the Laen. “I may be a monster, but only monsters kill gods, right?” She glanced up at Elle, her eyes burning.
Elle nodded an answer to the unasked question. “Ready yourself. Read as much as you can, center your mind. They will do it at sundown. I’ll help you run before then.” Her hands trembled and she grabbed Alea’s hand, the first contact they had ever made.
Alea looked down at their hands. “How do you know they’re wrong?”
“You destroyed our wall and carved your symbol into the largest stone. That is an obvious statement. I think you were wrong that your power does what it wants. It is your will at its purest state. The connection between your will, your mind, and your power is where your greatness lies.”
Alea turned and began to pack. “What time is it?”
“Not yet midnight.”
“Go, before they figure this out. I’ll see you in the morning.” When Elle had gone, Alea sat, eyes vacant. An hour passed. When every light in the village was dark, she rose and crept out of the house. Her bare feet burnt with cold as she padded across the gravel and down to the library. The door opened with a soft creak. Whatever I’m looking for will be old, older than writing, older than thought. She walked along the shelves until she found the wax and clay tablets. Her eyes scanned the frames fruitlessly.
“You’ll not find it, my lady.” Mera stood in the rear doorway, her robe loose over her nightdress.
“I don’t even know what I’m looking for.”
“You want to discover what you are – beyond Creation and Destruction.”
“Is there an answer?”
Mera shrugged. “There is always an answer. You are asking whether it lies here or not.” She turned and stepped into the small room at the back. “Come here.”
Alea followed. The room was tidy. A long desk looked out over the ocean and flashing sky. A stack of blank tomes sat on one side, full ones on the other. “You record?”
“And re-write, if the scrolls are crumbling. There is so much knowledge to be saved.” She drew the full tomes towards her. “The first Laen were good about recording. They had a strong connection to the balance that our power stems from. Granted, they all used a single, combined source, as opposed to the finite spring within each of us now. They were like you, in that way. The energy of the world was represented by the three races – the Laen of balance, the gods of knowledge and the Rakos of chaos.”
“Where did they all come from?”
“I couldn’t say. Many think it was lightning – it is still the only thing that can destroy our power along with our bodies.”
Alea winced. “That is how they killed Lynelle.”
“They channeled the power of all the gods through the god of lightning, Lord of Storms.” She waved the thoughts away. “Enough.” She patted the cover of a heavy tome. “The Laen predicted events based on shifts in the world’s energy, like a sailor predicting the sea. The world had its own balance, one with greater dips and crests than our power. A hu
ge dip predicted the Division, though they did not know what it would actually be until too late. A swell and an instability predicted you.” She handed Alea the tome. “In here there is the war, its outcome and what comes afterward. There are no interpretations, for that is not what we do. That is for you to decide.”
Alea regarded the book. “They don’t want me to see this?”
“They do not know it exists.” Mera rose and stretched. “I leave my study unlocked and goodness knows you must have trouble sleeping.”
Alea laughed softly at the fabricated story. She glanced down at the book in her lap, running a hand over its cover.
Mera paused at the door. “Once you know something, you cannot un-know it. I give this to you because you need to know, but I am sorry.”
Alea was left alone with her thoughts and a book that grew heavier on her lap. With determined fingers she opened it on the desk before her. At first she did not know what she was looking at. There was a horizontal line across the page with peaks and dips, some more severe than others and some barely a twitch of a scribe’s hand. It looked like the charts her ihal’s accountant made of profits over years. She peered closer, realizing it was similar, but it mapped power. She had expected something more convoluted, dry paragraphs perhaps. She traced the line with her finger, reading the captions beneath significant changes that had already occurred.
Towards the end she found a ragged dip that continued on for pages. The sight made her heart ache. The Division of the world. The corresponding crest on the opposite page made her pause for a moment. It was not as great as the Division, but it was larger than she expected. She had known her power was great, but seeing it stark and obvious was uncomfortable. A rough, ceaselessly changing line followed and Alea’s stomach clenched. Chaos. The war ends in chaos. We lose. Heart in her throat, she turned the last page. There was another crest, three times the size of her own, larger even than the Division’s fall. It trailed off into the binding of the book.
Energy flooded her body and she stared, unseeing at the ocean beyond the window. It was almost dawn. Whatever happens in the war, there is an after. I might lose to the gods, I might win, but what comes after is more powerful than I could ever hope to be. Her lips curled in a feral grin and she closed the book.
Chapter SEVEN
The 30th Day of Lineme, 1252
The City of Mirik
TWO DOZEN PAIRS OF EYES stared at Bren. It was something he would have to grow accustomed to, he supposed. The older and more influential of the Kit crowded into what looked like a common room. The smell of ale and dead rats confirmed Bren’s suspicion that it was once a tavern. The faces before him were ruddy and worn, but fire burnt behind their eyes. He grinned. It was as if he looked into a broken mirror to see a hundred reflections of himself.
“I suppose you’re curious. Arik said you were willing to hear me out, and I hope he’s right. I gave him a passage to read, from this book.” He held up Rauld. “It talks of an oligarchy—a government of a few men, rather than one king. They answer to many ministers who represent factions of the people. I imagine it’s much how you rule yourselves now.”
He had their attention, but he needed more than passing interest. “For a monarchy, it’s dangerous stuff. For me, it’s the brick for a foundation. For you, I hope it’s an answer. Arik tells me I’d have your support should I wish to claim the crown. I’m asking you to join me in governing ourselves. I am a soldier, a military officer. I understand times of war. I would accept the role of acting king as head of the Miriken military. After the war I would step down to rule alongside others. Rauld calls these men Premiers, but that sounds daft to me.”
“And why is this better than being ruled by Athrolan?”
Bren peered into the crowd. The lanterns at his feet blinded him to the farthest rows. “Tzatia is not Miriken. She is full of rolling fields and white stone. She does not have the green at her back. She has never stood on the red cliffs and looked out over the open ocean. Call me poetic, but we need someone who knows what we are.”
“Why won’t you take her up?” This time it was Arik who asked.
Bren met his eyes. Whether the question was curiosity or accusation, he could not say. “Azirik killed this city with the crown on his head. He burnt the soul out of the world with another. Perhaps it’s time that we go without one.” He glanced from face to face. He did not see smiles, but he saw relief. He had their hearts. “Arik, how many are in Talic, across the island?”
“Three score, ruled by the governor’s nephew.”
“Send word to them, and to those in the green, call our people home.”
A young woman leaned forward. She dressed like a hunter. “Who should we say calls them, then?”
“Say their Military Commissioner is acting king, and he needs them.” He knew his hands shook, knew his voice was low, and there were no rafters from which it could ring. A king might need steady hands, a booming speech. He smiled. He was not a king. He was Miriken, and he was home.
Φ
The Isle of Le’yan
Alea stood on the steps of Le’yan’s deserted hall. An hour separated her from the dim light that passed for dawn. Alea brushed a hand over the wood of the door. Elle said we would not enter here until after the war. Nightly wanderings in places she was not allowed was a childish habit, but persistent. War is already here, even if they cannot hear the clashing.
She pushed the door open, surprised when it was not locked. The Laen did not need to hide things from one another, only from her. The air within the hall was still, but not stale. The exterior was plain. What were you expecting – they dress in grey. The single elaborate piece was the black wooden door at the opposite end of the hall. Silver and iron spirals inlaid the wood. Some had been treated to look iridescently blue, like a beetle’s wings. The design was too regular to be decorative, but too asymmetrical to be artwork. A language, then. What it said was lost on Alea, but she recognized the emblem in the center. It was a silver handprint. It was not inlaid metal, rather it had been burnt into the wood. Her fingers shook as she laid her own hand over the mark.
Nothing happened. She let out a wry laugh. She shook away the thought of saying the words around the door. That was too theatrical for the Laen. They focused on directness and a single path. A grin blossomed on her face and her power curled from her hand. It did not sweep across the door’s surface. Instead she forced each piece to follow the metal symbols. Sweat beaded across her brow and shoulders.
The click of the lock was soft and the door swung open. The stairwell beyond was dark, but the steps were smooth and broad. Alea’s bare soles whispered on the stone as she descended. Something tugged her memory, but she could not place it. Was it the smell of the air? She stumbled when the stairs ended abruptly. It had taken many minutes, long enough that Alea guessed she was at the base of the cliffs. A gust of wind hit her as she stepped through the doorway into blinding light. It smelled of salt and burnt skin.
The pulsing sphere of souls looked different than before. To her physical eyes, without her power, they were blinding, the colors lost in brightness. The black wound across the surface was knit with blue, bruise-colored lines radiating outward like gangrene. She did not regret her choice to bring Arman back. There was guilt there, surely, but it was not for what she had done to the bleeding souls hanging before her now. For them, she only had disdain.
“Why?” Behind her Elle’s voice was low, tinged with as much morbid curiosity as fear.
“Why did I do this?” Alea did not look away, merely turned her head to speak over her shoulder.
“Why did you do it for him? Protection?”
“Bren could have protected me. I can protect myself. I thought it was to repay my part in Arman’s death. That’s true, in part, but not my reason.” Her eyes narrowed on the black, oozing wound. Selfishness marred the heroism and further darkened the terror of her actions. “I brought him back because I cannot fight this battle without him.” It was not the ful
l truth, but it was as close as she dared.
“But why did you leave them like this?”
“What is this place?”
Elle paused, but seemed to see that Alea was only taking a meandering route to her answer, not avoiding the question. “Before the Division this is where we created the Laen. A birthing chamber, if you will. Lynelle trapped the power of the gods’ souls here so they might not access it.”
“She trapped your power, too. As long as the gods’ souls are bound here, the power of the Laen is trapped. Each of you dies and adds to the cage, but that power is gone, caught here.” Alea paused. “I ripped them open because you’ll need that power.”
“The gods will gain power as well.”
Alea shrugged. Whether I win or lose, there will be an after. “Then I’ll handle them.”
Elle shuddered. “You said you found a way to control yourself?”
“Every time I lost control it was because my power left my body. When I was attacked in Vielrona it came on its own, killing those men. In the tower when I was captured, it destroyed enemy and ally alike. It ripped all of Arman’s knives away from him.”
“All his knives? He has many?”
“He has a bandolier of them.” Alea frowned at the tangent. “But I took them from him and the distraction caused his death. When I work through it, as if it is a glove over my mind, within my body, then I am in control.” Her voice grew soft. “I was going to show you, today.” She sighed and rose from her kneeling. “It is almost dawn.”
Elle followed her back up the stairs in silence, their footsteps comfort enough. The white light of dawn streamed through the hall’s open door. It was just warm enough to burn mist from the dew-drenched steps. Alea stopped at the top, looking down at the crowd of Laen who had gathered there. “Good morning.” Alea met Elai’s eyes. In the back of her mind, the shadow rose. It built, creeping through her thoughts.
