by V. S. Holmes
“Save a few rooms. Looks like someone tidied up—only a few arrows and all the dead stacked.” He glanced up at the tower. “This place is eerie enough, the dead only make it worse.”
“We’ll deal with them in the morning.” They were nearing the bridge when footfalls clattered ahead. Athrolani patrols don’t wear hobnails. They rounded the bend to see crossbows leveled in their direction. Eras raised her hands carefully. “Don’t shoot.” Her gaze inched over the high-collared coat of the foremost warrior. Other than its grey color, it was identical to the black one Eras herself wore. She reached out, palm up in the Asai gesture for deference. “I’m Nei’phieras liu Aneral, General of Athrolan.”
The man in gray frowned. “Daughter of Lenu’phieras?” When Eras nodded, he lowered his bow and placed a hand on hers. “I’m Albi’giran. I know you only by name, but I rode with An’thoriend for a time.”
Greetings through, Eras stepped back. “What happened here?”
“It’s better told by a fire and after supper. We saw your camp. Might we join you?”
Eras’s mouth twitched. “If we can agree to not wave weapons about any more.”
Albi’giran’s bow was both humorous and genuine. He fell into step with Eras as they returned to the river bank. “You found the tower?”
Her mouth twisted. “Why haven’t you buried them yet?”
“We arrived three days ago. We’ve been scouting, searching for survivors.” When Eras looked at him, curious, he shook his head. “None.”
The Athrolani guards around the camp sent up whistled warnings, but Eras waved at them. “Hold, they’re with me. Lay a fire.” She hid a smile at the soldier’s grateful sighs. The Asai stayed at the edge of the camp, watching as tents were moved to make room for the fire. Eras’s gaze inched over them, curious as to how used to humans she had become. They are my people, and yet look foreign. Her features were angular and ashen; those of the Asai were exotic, almost awkward, and grey-brown. Their red hair was long regardless of sex, though it was not immediately clear which were male and female.
As stew was passed about, Albi’giran crouched beside Eras, his bowl balanced on his knee. “This attack—it was due to the war?” His tawny eyes were bright.
Eras glanced over, her surprise mocking. “The Asai are less isolated than I thought.”
Albi’giran’s smile was humorless. “When we hear stories of the Laen and Rakos, we tend to listen. Our group was a scouting mission to learn more of this war and to protect our secrets.”
“What do you mean?” Eras absently watched her men settle into tense conversation with the newcomers.
“We each carry a chest filled with our most precious tomes. Our leaders knew attack would come. They wanted our knowledge to be preserved, if not our people.” He scraped his bowl clean then laid it at his feet. “I told you our tale, now tell me yours. You come to ask for help?”
Eras pursed her lips. She was suddenly aware of how expressive she had become while living among the Athrolani. “Her Majesty of Athrolan asked me to see what numbers we could gain.”
“And you were sent after half your blood. Do you fight for the gods or the Laen?” Albi’giran’s companions glanced over at their captain’s words.
“The Laen.” Eras forced her hands to stop fidgeting. The Asai read stillness as honesty.
“Ca’nuran, what think you?” Albi’giran’s gaze flicked to an Asai woman leaning on a tentpole. Like him, she wore the long coat of command.
“Battle is a cycle. A king too set in his ways, or a land with no one to lead. We rarely involve ourselves and the situation still resolves. Why is this different?”
Eras shifted to see the woman better. “I may have been unclear earlier. You asked if we fight for the Laen. We do. One particular Laen.”
Albi’giran’s expressionless facade slipped and his brows rose. “I told you, I rode with An’thoriend. I was with him when the Dhoah’ Laen was cut down.”
“Then you did not ride with him long enough. The true Dhoah’ Laen was forgotten in a small city-state. She’s trained and returned to us, ready for battle. She has a Rakos guard who has become an Earth Shaker and a brother who is taking over Mirik and allied himself with the Nenev.”
The female Asai met Albi’giran’s gaze for several moments of silent deliberation. When he nodded, she turned. back to Eras. “We’ll join you then, when we’ve laid this city to rest.”
Albi’giran frowned. “Will you stay and help us?”
Eras shook her head. “I didn’t stay when they were living. I certainly won’t for the dead.”
Vinden leaned on the tree beside the general, watching as the Asai dispersed into the darkness. “That was it?”
“You expected a conversationalist?” Her mouth twitched. “A great debate? A stirring speech, the inspiration from people united? Really, Vinden, it’s like you don’t know me at all.”
He snorted. “I suppose you are more forthcoming than we realized.”
Eras sat back on her heels. “To you I am a stone, to them, a font of expression.”
Φ
The 16th Day of Aeme, 1252
The City of Ceir Athrolan
Furtive knocking interrupted Bren as he crouched to bank his fire. He had gotten used to having the evenings to himself at Mirik. He debated pretending he was already asleep.
“I know you’re awake—I can hear you messing with the fire.” Arman’s growl muttered through the door. “Just open up?”
Bren rose with a groan and let the man in. “I suppose I’ll have to become accustomed to all-hours-visitors if I’m going to be commissioner.” Bren sat on the end of his bed, watching Arman seat himself by the fire. “I was starting to wonder if you were still in the city.”
Arman ignored the veiled question. “What do you know of the Rakos?”
Bren shrugged. “Just what I’ve read, and that’s not a lot. Scarce information about you people it seems. They controlled fire, created some sort of monsters.” Bren’s military training caught the tension around Arman’s eyes. “I’m wrong?”
Arman slid from the chair onto the hearth, and rolled up his sleeves. He stirred the fire with his bare hands. The sparks he displaced rolled upwards, across his hands and curled around his forearms. He flicked them away after a moment. He did not meet Bren’s eyes.
“You’re not burnt.” Bren gestured to the yellow, peeling skin on Arman’s arms. “Is that what I think?”
Arman stood abruptly and tugged off his shirt. Scales dotted his shoulder blades, wrapping around his biceps and spiraling across his chest. Small ones formed white ridges along his forearms and neck, this skin flaking around them as they grew. The largest, armoring plates were bright gold.
Bren ran a hand through his hair. “When?” He was at a loss. “Toar, what does this mean? You’re saying they didn’t make the monsters—creatures?” He corrected himself hastily.
“They became them.”
“Can Alea do something?”
“She cannot know.” The blond man bared his teeth. “This is something out of both our control.”
“Then why tell me?” Bren’s eyes were taught to see weakness. He picked out the trembling in Arman’s hands, the pulse thundering in his throat, but the only weakness in the form before him was in the eyes. “You’re going mad.” He wished it was only an insult, but the Rakos’s eyes were manic.
“I chose this and Alea cannot know.” The command held no trace of a question. “I want her to remember me like I was the last time I saw her.”
“I won’t tell her, not until she asks and I have nothing more to tell her but lies.” Arman’s first statement caught up to Bren. “What do you mean, you chose this?”
Arman began to pace. “I had to be something greater, so I could help her. I thought of the uncertainty and fear she had when she first learned her power. We are opposite. So I gave myself fearlessly to my Rakos side. I do more than control fire. I create fire. I am fire.”
“You sound like this is the
end. You can’t turn back?”
“I saw things in my power—like when I saw that soldier’s thoughts on our way from Hero. I saw the future and past. I saw the battle. I felt my death.“
Bren suddenly understood. He needs someone to know. Even if she remembers him whole, he needs someone to know why. A knock interrupted his next thought.
“Bren?” Alea’s voice was soft. “Are you awake?”
Bren’s gaze flicked from the door to Arman. The Rakos leapt onto the ledge of the open window. He shook his head, commanding Bren to silence, before jumping into the gardens below. Bren waited a moment then opened the door.
Alea smiled a greeting at him, but her eyes traced the room behind. “I wanted to see you for a moment. I thought I heard talking. Are you alone?”
Bren nodded and shrugged sheepishly. “Just talking to myself. Come in.”
She sat in the chair Arman had just vacated and tucked her legs up. “I met Lord Daymir for lunch again. He mentioned a few concerns about your plans for Mirik. I disagree, but many may not.”
“What concerns?” Bren knew many took issue with his lack of experience and breeding. Hearing it from a man as powerful as Daymir, however, made his hackles rise.
“How much support you will need from Athrolan. I suggest you meet with him casually. He said he wanted to speak with you and it might ease both your concerns.” She shrugged lightly. “Perhaps if you made some plans public, you would gain faith.”
He stared at the floor thoughtfully. “Lord Daymir seems intelligent. Perhaps he might have insight for some difficulties.” At Alea’s pointed look he held up his hands. “Not too much insight, I promise! I can do this without them.” He laughed.
She grinned, but he saw it did not reach her eyes. “I just thought I would let you know. I’m headed into the gardens for some air. Care to join me?”
“I should focus on the city. Enjoy the evening, though.” Bren took out his captain’s log and began turning down his covers.
Alea paused in his doorway. “You haven’t heard from Arman, have you?”
“I’m sorry Alea. I wish I had news for you.” Bren schooled his features into steadiness before turning. Her eyes were not fixed on his, but on his open window.
Φ
Alea stopped at the room beside her brother’s. She had heard voices, conversation, before she knocked at Bren’s door. Often she heard someone moving about on the other side of her wall, but there was never any light under the door. When she focused she could feel his location. Sometimes the heat and shimmering power felt only inches away. And just a moment ago, I felt him in Bren’s room. I smelled metal and ash on his chair and heat rolled from his window sill. Part of her hated Bren for lying, but the rest was still too stunned.
She hurried down the stairs to the garden, not bothering with a cloak. The air was balmy and beautiful, the sky clear. The gentle weather belied the city’s dark atmosphere. Clustered in the garden’s center were weeping cherry trees, the curtains of their boughs waving in the mild breeze. She found a secluded bench and lay back on it. She kicked off her slippers and let her feet trail in the waving grasses. It took only a mental beckon for her power to rise. Sparks danced across her fingers and palms. She had been practicing with water, but it lacked the excitement of lightning.
She reached out and caught a falling blossom, floating it above her palm as if on the surface of a pool. The silver sparks drifted up from her palm and into the petals. The electricity followed the flower’s veins, becoming a miniature lightning storm in the shape of the cherry blossom.
Heat suddenly shuddered through her and she looked up. A figure stood on the path several paces away. Only the silhouette of his shoulder and the golden glow of his eyes were visible.
The lightning in the blossom turned to ice then shattered, littering the ground with jagged crystals that melted after a moment. “Arman?” Her next words stopped him as he turned to go. “You won’t talk?”
“There’s nothing to say.” His low voice lilted familiarly, but there was a new echo of metal.
“You never came to welcome me.” Her words were calm, but her heart pounded. She sat up slowly, suddenly afraid she would startle him away. He’s not a wild animal. She peered closer, wondering at the uncertainty in the thought.
“I didn’t realize you were here yet.”
She sighed at the feeble excuse. “The fact that my return was heralded from the bell towers aside—I can feel your power across the city, I can feel your pulse. I know you at least sense me, too.”
“Is it so hard to think I might not want to see you?” His voice twisted into a snarl. “What did you wish to speak about, anyways?”
Everything. Anything. “What are you doing afterward?”
“After what?”
“The battle. The mending.”
The gold orbs of his eyes slivered in a wince and he snorted. “If there is an after.”
“I can do this without you, but I’d rather not have to. Why are you bitter? What changed? What made you love another, take her to bed?” She smelled smoke.
He ducked under the bower of the trees. “You could not deign to speak to me while you were in Le’yan, but you snuck about in my thoughts? Can I have nothing to myself?”
Alea jerked back. Her eyes burnt as if he had slapped her. “Perhaps I assumed, Rakos, but I thought friendship meant more than a night’s tryst. Fates, we’re soul-bound!”
“Our bond was a promise to fight and protect, Alea, not damned marriage vows! I can bed whom I will, without seeking permission!” His sudden use of her name was like a curse.
Alea’s hand shook with strange urgency. Anger. It had been a long time since she had been this angry. This is not the Arman I knew. Her power surged. “You can keep your cheap bar-girl!” A crackling sphere of lightning shot towards him. It collided with a thin wall of flame, handbreadths from his chest. The wall swirled like magma. Alea’s power fell, retreating into her arms.
“Think you’re the only one who learned tricks?” Arman’s dissipated slower, his hair curling as flames licked along the locks. The beds of his nails glowed like coals. Smoke spiraled from between his bared teeth. “You think you really could have stopped that bolt if you wanted? Could you prevent yourself from killing me?” He wheeled and staggered away. “After all, that’s what you’re good at, Destruction.”
Chapter TWELVE
The 22nd Day of Aeme, 1252
The Eastern Coast of Athrolan
ARMAN’S STEPS WERE ERRATIC on the dew-dampened grass. He kept his power raging beneath his skin, though it had long since erased the chill of Alea’s power. In his mind, he still felt the ice. He paused on the cliff tops, staring down at the dusk-shadowed waves of the ocean. The city was a day behind him. A line of ships dotted the water. I was supposed to be on one of those. I was supposed to head north. Instead, he marched east, paralleling their path on the land.
He had left all but his most essential belongings in his room, and the key in the lock. He would not use it again, he was sure. New fire burnt in him, the heat of shame and regret. She wondered what I’d do afterward. The cruelty in his words embarrassed him. He could have simply run when she threw power at him, but his anger held the reins to his tongue. It was the only way he knew to drive her away, make it a bit easier to do what he must. Making amends does nothing, except worsen the hurt when I’m dead. It’d hurt more if we were close. It might break his heart to drive her away, but he preferred that over causing her deeper grief.
You’ll be unrecognizable by the time you regret it enough to change your mind.
He snarled at the voice and quickened his pace. The forest was thick here, and the trees twisted and ugly. His dreams had come more frequently, always the same voice snarling from the monstrous face. It was the voice that taunted him, first with An’thor’s words, then with his own. He hated it, but it was a sneering reminder than he was not alone. Each time he sunk into his power the glittering eyes appeared in the back of his mind
. The scar over one told him they were Eana’s, but he dared not focus on them for too long.
Fear. Fear.
“I’ll find you, you bastard. You and the rest of our mad brothers.” There were more Rakos in the world. Unrecognizable and forgotten, perhaps, but alive.
Φ
The 23rd Day of Aeme, 1252
The City of Ceir Athrolan
Daymir swirled the berries in the bottom of his liquor glass. The view from his family’s manor in the upper tier of the city was one of the best and offered the palace and cemetery beyond. He had been honest to Alea when he said few considered him the queen’s heir. The fact remained, however, that he was Tzatia’s closest living relative. And what will I inherit? A bankrupt nation of the dead? He was rarely given to dour thought, but Bren’s recent claim of Mirik’s throne had made him think of his own future. He folded himself behind the large desk by the window and pulled over a small collection of parchment.
He was the eldest child of the queen’s younger brother. Daymir’s sister, Jantia, married young, leaving him in charge of their parents’ estate when their father passed. Daymir’s head was one of business, and he enjoyed advanced arithmetic and economics while a squire. When he became a gallant, he took a post in the city, governing over the treasury and military coffers, as opposed to commanding men. It was a post that suited him. Now he was glad for the authority and foresight.
The papers before him were the checks and balances of the nation for the last two years. Since the Berrin began ferreting about on our borders. Athrolan had benefited from the influx of nobles after Mirik’s great exodus—the taxes on wealth increased and the city had padded her pockets, just in time for war. And war is damned expensive—drains men, resources, money. The money set aside for such things was long gone and Tzatia had been turning to other savings. Road repairs were two years late and all but the largest unguarded. Daymir helped his aunt pinch and stitch, taxing more and spending less, but it was hard and the cost of protecting their people grew ever higher.
He may have aged, but his interests had not changed since his days as a squire, and his foresight was still clear. “Currow?”
