by V. S. Holmes
Arman sneered at the man. “Just need a bit of drink.”
“I thought the general told you not to drink, said it was part of your warning from the queen.” Sousa sat on the edge of the table.
“You’re a pecking hen, Smytheson. Everyone needs a drink and a tup.”
Kal shot Sousa a look at the unusual vulgarity. “Have you taken lessons from Hasian ?”
Arman voice rumbled. “Leave me be. I’m no company tonight.”
Kal shrugged finally, and returned to his table. After a few failed attempts at conversation, Sousa followed.
Arman was nursing his third mug when a hand touched his knee. It was a barmaid who often worked there, but her dark curls were loose and her dress nicer.
“I don’t often see ye apart from yer friends.”
He gave her a fleeting smile and turned back to his mug.
“Yer lonely.”
He shrugged, taking another sip.
“You have been here awhile yet.” She gestured to the stool beside him. “May I join you?”
He shoved his own seat down to make room for her, more out of politeness than interest.
She smiled nonetheless. “Ye didn’t come around before a month ago. Did ye just join up? They respect you an awful lot.”
“I joined the war last year.” He wondered absently how she did not know the story.
She leaned back against the bar. “Has anyone told ye that ye look like the Rakos guard?”
He laughed, then realized she was serious. No wonder she treats me like a man. She knows no better. Nor was she here when I fought Hasian. “I’ve heard that a few times. Most say he’s taller though.” It was not strictly a lie. The thought that he was normal again, even just for a moment, made his heart light. “You’re not working tonight?”
“No, it’s Mara’s night.” She grinned. “Care to buy me a honey ale?”
Arman motioned the girl who must have been Mara over and ordered before returning his attention to his companion. “Were you raised here?”
“Just to the west, in the city’s villages. I’m one of five daughters, so we each make our own way.” Her mug arrived and she took a sip. “Did you come from a large family?”
“No. I helped my Ma run her inn and took over my father’s blade-smithy after he passed.”
Her eyes widened. “I cannot imagine losing my Ma or Pa.” she tilted her head. “Ye crafted blades? Fighting must come naturally.”
He shrugged. “I have a hand for knife-throwing and foot combat.” He turned toward her a bit more. She was lively and curious, kind if not very bright. “I’m not a killing man, though. I prefer a good celebration—my city loved her festivals.”
“Ye had many?”
“One for every forgotten season and some just because we felt like it and others out of habit.” His smile was slight, but it felt good. “Does Ceir Athrolan have many?”
“Just the first of the seasons and midwinter and midsummer. We celebrate the first planting and the harvest. Mostly they are for the common folk, thought the palace needs little reason for a ball or feast. Tell me about yers?”
He thought for a moment then leaned closer. His hands waved, as if painting an image of Vielrona with his gestures. “The city is small, tucked into the hills, but every festival the streets are awash with lights. During midwinter we light a lantern for every person we loved and lost. The entire city glows and there is singing and dancing.” He explained his favorite details. She bought him his next drink, and he hers until she laughed at each extravagant story. He could almost forget why he had decided to drink.
“Care to catch some fresh air?” Her offer was sudden.
He helped her into her cloak, though the air was warm. They moved further into the city, walking aimlessly. The moon was high in the sky and shed bright light across the quiet streets. It could not have been much past midnight, but the streets were deserted. “You should go south sometime, see the midwinter festival yourself.”
She shivered and he absently put an arm around her shoulders, rubbing her arm.
At a street corner she paused, turning to face him. “Ye have a woman to go home to?”
He froze, suddenly realizing where he was and what he was about to do. You’ll never have Alea. This girl is here and willing. “I’ve not had a woman in a long while.”
“Ye can tonight, if you want.”
You’re just a man tonight. You have no future with Alea. He tightened his grip on her hand and lowered his mouth to hers. She kissed him once, twice, then lead him up the stairs of the building on the corner. It was a boarding house and her room was small. A single window overlooked the rear alley. Her bed was against the left wall and neatly made.
She stirred the small stove and lit a candle by the bed before stepping into his arms. She was modestly curved and her hands were knowing as they moved up his back and over his shoulders.
He returned her smile and wrapped his arms around her waist, trailing his lips down her neck. She smelled of hazelnuts and her warmth comforted and wounded him all at once. He pulled back and kissed her softly. She backed towards the bed and tugged off his jerkin. The familiar jolt of heat and attraction did not shoot through him. He felt no flush on his cheeks. It’s been too long—almost a year! I need to remember the steps.
He pulled off his shirt and lay down atop her, propping himself on his elbows to kiss her again. He pulled back to look at her and she smiled. He distantly noticed her eyes were grey green. Almost silver. He pushed the thought away and moved to touch her again, but stopped. His body refused to respond. She’s beautiful, and yet my body is as moved as if I’m learning arithmetic. He nuzzled her neck, willing himself to react, but to no avail. He sighed roughly.
“Are ye all right?”
He closed his eyes, his jaw working. “I don’t think I can do this.”
“What is it?”
He rolled off her and sat on the edge of her bed.
“Someone is in yer heart?”
He nodded, holding his head in his hands. “I’m sorry. You’re a beauty and I would have been glad to be with you.” Her hand froze on his shoulder and he glanced back at her.
Her eyes inched over the scars on his chest and the handprint over his heart. She brushed the hair from his eyes. “When we kissed, yer teeth.... Ye don’t just look like him, ye are the Rakos.” When he nodded she drew back. “The Dhoah’ Laen. You thought you could get her out of your blood because we look alike, dark hair and pale eyes.”
“Dammit, it’s not like that, at least, not on purpose.” Arman sighed. It’s not like any human woman could compare. He knew the words would sound cruel and held his tongue. His eyes flashed yellow and his fist clenched her sheets. Wisps of smoke curled from between his fingers.
Her gaze hardened. “I think you should leave.”
He dressed quickly, without looking at her or arguing.
She waited silently until he was at the door. “I’m sorry. Ye seem like ye would make a good lover. I hope she returns your feelings.”
He did not answer and let himself out. He bolted to the palace, his mind anywhere but on his steps. He stumbled twice before he forced himself to slow. This is ridiculous. Who heard of only being able to bed the person you care for? He shoved his way through his door and fell onto his bed. His eyes stared at the bare ceiling. One hand drew Alea’s letter from his desk. It was tattered from myriad readings. Each time the tone seemed different, as if the words conveyed her changing emotions. Or mine. He read it again, his fingers clutching the parchment. When the paper singed, he put it away, unwilling to burn it just yet. He had been happy to spend his life beside her as a friend, a guard. Now he wondered if he could stand that. Who knows what she wants from this life, if she will be able to get it even. Who knows if I will?
Heat built. The thought of Alea, both plain and with black fog in her silver eyes made his body ache. He closed his eyes tight and drew a shuddering breath. Fates help me.
Φ
&nbs
p; The 31st Day of Lineme, 1252
The City of Mirik
Alea found better rest in the rumble of Mirik’s barracks than in the peace of Le’yan. Her dreams were meaningless and forgotten when she finally woke. She rolled over, peering out the window beside her bed. It was dark and the moon was high. The air smelled of pine and freshly turned earth. She was still tired, but fatigue and hunger were pushed aside by something more pressing. She settled herself on the coverlet and closed her eyes. Her mind reached out to Athrolan.
The mental journey took moments, not minutes. Burning yellow-green blossomed in the depths of the city when she focused. Arman was in a common district boarding house. She arrived in the hall and stepped into the room, passed through the door as if it was nothing.
The room was dimly lit and it took her eyes a second to adjust. When they did, her breath stopped. Arman was in bed, bare-chested, his legs entangled with those of the young woman beneath him. Her dark curls were loose and her bodice partly unlaced. The floor bucked beneath Alea’s feet and her chest clenched.
She did not remember returning to her body, only that she was back in her own room. Ice filled her skin. She was not certain what she felt. It was not as simple as jealousy, but she recognized the acrid taste of it in her mouth. Arman accepted her as the Dhoah’ Laen before she even did herself. When she retreated behind the high, cold walls of her mind, he stepped casually inside of them. He did not force his way in, with loud words and narrowed eyes. He’s the only one who can step inside my defenses and not be destroyed. When the world was a mass of confusing, distant muted tones, Arman was a point of brilliant color as real as her thoughts. Her stomach was too tight to eat, but she could not stand to be alone. Her hands fumbled with the breeches and jerkin left for her.
The mess hall was loud and the smell of food and ale strong. The chatter nearest the doorway died as she entered. Her eyes found Bren’s, willing him to recognize the plea on her face.
She was grateful he saved his questions until they were shut once again in his room. She curled her feet under her as he lit the lantern on his desk. He sat beside her, frowning. “Are you all right? Do you want food? There’s stew and bread. I think the fish is gone, though.”
Her fingers knotted in her lap. The strange space between her mind and the world seemed suddenly greater, and even her own voice was muffled by the distance. “Did Arman speak of me at all?”
Bren frowned. “Not to me, not after our first letters. I sent yours, which I assume he received, since he replied to mine. I heard he bruised up a soldier in a bar for insulting you, but the tale did not come from him.” He peered at her. “What is it?”
“Defending me is his duty. He said nothing?”
“Alea, he’s a quiet man, and private, at least in regards to you. What is this about? Didn’t you talk to him like you did to me?”
“I tried, but it’s as if there’s a wall between us. I could see him, hear him, goodness I could even feel the heat from his skin. Even when I shouted, it was like he barely sensed me. I was like a ghost. I thought I needed practice, then I thought it was because of the distance.”
“Sistermine.” He took her shaking hands in his own, but her voice stopped his words.
“I tried again, just now. I wanted to tell him I was home. I thought now that I was back, it might work. It didn’t, though I didn’t wait long enough to say anything. He was with a woman. In bed.”
Bren’s eyes widened. “What? No, Alea, you must have been wrong. It must have been someone other than Arman.”
Her gaze pinned him, blazing angrily. “Bren, our souls are bonded. I can feel him breathing when he’s in the next room. I know him.” She turned away, anger bitter on her tongue. “Besides, I could see enough skin to recognize his scars.” She pressed a hand to her stomach. “I feel ill, but my body is too tense to be sick. I don’t know why this hurts. I can’t even say if I’m angry.”
Anger was fleeting and hot. They had made no promises, and so she knew his actions did not justify anger. She sighed, placing her head in her hands. Her words were direct and calculated. Behind the wall of eloquence she was safe. Safe from what? Betrayal? The Laen had betrayed her, she supposed, but neither had she ever truly trusted them. They had never promised not to hurt her. Had he promised to love her? Love only her? “He promised to keep me safe, keep my heart safe. And here, he’s the one breaking it.”
Bren’s brows rose. “Alea, do you love him?”
She shrugged. “Our bond wasn’t marriage vows and I know it. When someone is with you each step, helping you as you help them, facing each hardship and joy together, it’s easy to forget.”
Bren rested his forehead on her shoulder. “I don’t know what to say. I didn’t expect this. In my last letter I mentioned that it was a relief to hear from you while you were in Le’yan. Perhaps he thought your silence meant you didn’t want to speak with him.”
She drew a shuddering breath. She was too empty to weep. If she began, it would drain her until nothing remained, but a husk. “I can’t be distracted. I will give all I have to the war. Everything else will come afterward.”
Bren opened his mouth as if to speak, but a sharp knock sounded at his door. His eyes lingered worriedly on her for a moment, but he rose and opened the door. A squire stood outside, shifting from foot to foot. “Yes?”
“Lieutenant, I mean, Lord Commissioner, sir. There’s a man here for you. Says he traveled a long way and you’re expecting him.”
“Commissioner is fine, Gecken.” Bren glanced back at Alea. “Do you mind?
She shook her head absently. Her grief was deep, but contained behind the mighty walls of her calm and power. A simple visitor would not disturb her. “I can go, if you wish.”
He waved her words away. “It’s about the war, you should hear it anyways.” He jerked a nod at the boy still hovering in the doorway, trying to glimpse the Dhoah’ Laen. “Show him up, then, and could you bring tea and mugs?” He sat once the boy was gone and looked back at his sister. “I received a letter from someone claiming to be An’thoriend Domariigo. You said you met him before?”
“Twice. The second time he told me about you, actually. I’m uncertain whether he is obnoxious or impressive.”
Bren snorted. “I still don’t believe my father’s informant is the hero of the stories. The letter asked for a meeting tonight. It’s either the legend or a madman.”
“There is a statement in there about the lack of difference between the two.” Alea offered him a distant smile. Further dark thoughts were interrupted when the squire returned with tea and a cloaked figure in tow. The boy set the tray down on Bren’s desk and bowed himself out.
Alea’s gaze narrowed on the man in the doorway. The wide cowl of his cloak allowed the lantern to light his pale face, and she noted the wrap around his head was the same as before, albeit further bleached by sun and stained from rain.
Bren rose and introduced himself. “You asked for a meeting?”
“Greetings, Commissioner.” The Ageless man’s words were rougher than before, as if his voice had walked the road along with his boots. His black eyes flicked to Alea’s. Bracing himself against the doorframe with one hand, he slowly took a knee. “Last I saw you, my lady, you were but a promise. Now I look on the realization of every hope we’ve ever had. How can they think to stand against you?” He hauled himself back up and gestured to the room. “May I, sir?” His words indicated Bren, but his eyes never left Alea’s face.
“Certainly.” Bren pulled a chair out and began pouring tea.
An’thor unclasped his cloak and folded it and his head wrap over the back of the chair before sitting with a quiet sigh. He took the proffered cup with a nod of thanks and sat back.
Bren’s wide grey eyes were fixed on the chipped, stained ivory horns sprouting from the pale man’s temples. They were short and curved, like a bull’s, barely reaching the crown of his head, but they easily marked him. The open curiosity told Alea her brother had never seen
the man without a cowl or wrap before.
His gaze flicked to Bren. “I’m glad to see you were as clever as I hoped. It’s not every man I can convince to desert Azirik’s army.”
Bren pulled a flask from his desk and added a healthy splash of alcohol to their tea. “Azirik did a fair share of convincing me himself, what with the blows and the anger and the threats.” Bren waved the memories away and replaced the flask. “We’re not here to discuss that, I assume.”
An’thor took a deep draught then peered into the cup. “Is this wraith?”
“It is and older than Toar, but good enough for my purposes.” Bren fixed the man with a pointed look. “You came here for a purpose, which I assume is better than drinking my liquor. My sister claims you’re the An’thoriend of legend, and I know you only as a double-crossing maniac.”
An’thor lips quirked. “Both can’t be true?”
Bren choked into his drink. “You waltz in here, assuming I’m going to trust my enemy’s informant?”
“He’s not lying.” Alea tilted her head. “This is the man who spoke to us in Vielrona, who told me about you in that wayhouse. He went by An’thor then, too. The Sunamen were not terribly familiar with your tales, but Arman heard a few.” His gaze met hers as if over miles, not meters, and she realized his mind was shielded by as many walls as hers. “He bears enough marks of grief for a lifetime as long as An’thoriend’s.”
An’thor’s eyes softened. “As do you, Dhoah’’ Lyne’alea.” He looked to Bren, one brow quirked. “May I continue, or is her word enough.”
Though there was no contempt in the man’s words, Bren scowled. “Very well, what did you wish to discuss, Sir Domariigo?”
“An’thor is just fine. I am no lover of honorifics. They make lesser men great. I came north to see what Athrolan was doing with Mirik. I arrived in time to hear you address the Kit. I thought I could ally myself with you. It would benefit us both. Will you hear my proposition?” When Bren nodded, An’thor handed him a parchment from his breast pocket.
Bren scanned it quickly before handing it to Alea. It was a letter with a reply written on the reverse side. The front was from An’thor, asking the addressee’s opinions on the war. The reply was abrupt.
