by V. S. Holmes
His steward entered with a short bow. “Milord?”
“Can you have thirty-four thousand great-pieces placed aside? Here is the writ authorizing it, and I would like it to be safeguarded in the lower treasury under Authority of the Treasurer. Today, understood?” His words were quick as he wrote the paper for his steward.
“You’re the Treasurer, sir.” Currow answered with a frown. “Why not have it under your personal authority?”
“Because this is not for me. It’s for our future.” Daymir sat back. “Now please, time is wasting.” When the man was gone, the heir moved back to his window, watching the clouds thoughtfully. My aunt is a good woman, but too kind. An alliance with a broken nation? The fostering of a soldier-king? These will only quicken our fall. With Alea on their side they would win, of that he was confident. The queen looks only as far as victory, and does not see the hole of bankruptcy that yawns beneath us. After a moment he checked the time and began to tidy his desk. If he hurried, he could see the Dhoah’ Laen just before she called for lunch. With a smile, he grabbed his cloak and headed for the door.
Φ
The 23rd Day of Aeme, 1252
An’thor’s stern knocking woke Bren midmorning. He groaned a response and dragged himself to let the man in. “What is it?” He tugged on a shirt and hopelessly tried to order his hair.
“I am sending word to my capital. The queen’s address is in less than a month. You should be there.”
“I was assuming to be.” Bren rinsed sleep from his mouth with the stale water beside his bed. “Everyone else is leaving though. Whatever happened to a united front, with allies and all that? Eras is weeks gone and Arman left a night or two ago.”
“He saw you?” An’thor eyes brightened with curiosity.
“I’m as close to her as he’ll let himself get.” Bren sighed. “So why did you wake me to tell me things I already know?”
“Brentemir, this will be your first public appearance as Lord Commissioner. You need something better than the garb of a Miriken lieutenant. Both for the address and for battle.”
“I take it all back.” Bren flopped onto the bed. “If being a lord means pompous clothing, I renege.”
An’thor snorted. “Valadai will get you squared away, and I’d recommend Master Rulhan for your armor.”
Bren rose, composing himself. “All right. Why are you writing home? Are you calling them here? I could use a few troops.”
An’thor bated. “Yes, and asking them a favor for your sister.” He grinned and ducked out of the door.
Bren looked at his bed longingly, but called for Valadai instead. While he waited, he tugged open the chest at the end of his bed. His Miriken armor lay within. It was boiled leather with bronze mail beneath. It bore as many scars as his own skin. An’thor’s right, though, I need to look the part. He had been taught to mend armor as well as the next soldier, but this was different. He ran his hands over a few of the deeper dents, feeling unexpected nostalgia. You saved my life enough times.
Valadai’s arrival pulled Bren from his reverie. “Lord Commissioner.”
“Master Valadai. An’thoriend informed me that I will be standing state beside Her Majesty for the address. I need to fit my titles.”
The man hid a smile well, but his eyes softened. “I can have your measures taken from any clothes you brought with you. What colors were you thinking?”
Bren dug about in his wardrobe for the set that fitted best. His middle had grown thicker since leaving the army. He paused as Valadai’s words sunk in. “Colors?”
“Yes, my lord. You may have noticed the court finery here often has a palate.”
“Oh. Well. Mirik’s colors then. Vermilion and green. More of the former, though. It’s a fierce color. Good for a Military Commissioner, don’t you think.”
“Certainly. And the style?”
Bren groaned. “Something serviceable. I’m not a peacock. I liked the outfit for the ball during our last visit. But with a Miriken half-cloak, please.” He stopped Valadai as the man began to bow himself out. “Might you tell me where to find Master Rulhan? He’s a smith.”
Valadai’s smile broke free from its restraints. “Yes, milord. He is the head of the Smithing Guild, and his smithy makes all the armor for Her Majesty’s troops. He’s behind the barracks and the stables.”
Bren flushed and waved his thanks. He collected his armor with a disparaging sigh and headed across the palace. He followed the smell of burning and metal to the rearmost part of the barracks. The rhythmic noise was close to deafening and he had to shout at a young apprentice for directions. Bren dodged through the smithy toward a Sunamen man twice his breadth. “Are you Master Rulhan?”
The man shoved the metal he was working into the coals and turned, motioning Bren into a side room. His dark skin was stained with ash and his black braids were cinched with copper bands. He wiped a hand on his apron and offered it to Bren. “I’m Master Rulhan. What can I do for you?”
Bren took the hand. “I’m Brentemir Barrackborn.”
Rulhan’s brows rose and he bowed. “Forgive me, my lord.” He grinned as he straightened. “Best be adding those titles on there, though, else some might not take you serious.”
Bren flushed and held up his armor. “That’s partly why I’m here. I’m told soldier’s armor is not seeming of my rank.”
Rulhan took the pieces, surveying them with a strict frown on his leathery face. “How have you lived this long?” The question was mild, but the smith winced. “The craftsmanship may have been serviceable once, but it looks like a blind man used this for a chamber pot.”
“Given the number of times I had to repair it myself, it’s a wonder I’m still here.”
“Some god must fancy you.”
“I think it’s more likely my sister scares the wits from any god.”
Rulhan glanced up, eyes unreadable. “She does my people honor.”
Bren had forgotten, almost, that the Sunamen had raised Alea. “I’ll tell her so.”
“At any rate, I’ll begin from scratch. The lad will take your measures, but first, tell me of your fighting style and your weapons, so I might design the best piece for you.”
Bren’s eyes widened. He had always worn whatever was large enough. It was often old and ill fitting. To have armor designed solely for him was a novelty. He grinned and began his explanation, looking over Rulhan’s notes and making changes where he saw fit. It took the better part of an hour before he was measured and on his way again. He made a mental note to send Arik and Kemmer to get their own armor to be repaired or replaced. He was headed to his room when Alea emerged from her own, dressed in a split skirt dress and breeches. Her mood was reserved.
“Good morning.” He smiled broadly.
“How have you spent your morning?”
“Busily. I just came from the arms-smith. An’thor made it known that my armor was not fit for me to wear and I had to order new clothes for the address as well. Will you have new things made?”
“Of course.” Her eyes sparkled impishly at his ignorance. “My dress is already ordered though.” She paused. “I was thinking about having armor made for myself as well. What do you think?”
“I think if I were Azirik I’d piss myself. Where were you off to?”
“I wanted to find an empty training hall. Being still is giving me nerves.”
Bren gestured to the rear of the palace. “Those in the palace are often empty. Care for some company?”
She leaned on his doorframe as he changed into old clothing. “I saw Daymir in passing yesterday. He said you trained together for an afternoon?”
“We did. We spoke little, but he seemed more at ease afterward. I hope we can develop a rapport.” Bren made a face. “I hope he doesn’t think I’m completely incompetent.”
She laughed and fell into step beside him as they headed towards the practice courts. “I think he worries about inheriting as much as you. It would serve you well to become friendly.” She p
ushed open the door to the training hall to find it deserted. She surveyed the room while Bren lit the torches. Racks of wooden or dulled practice weapons stood along one wall. The floor was covered in sawdust. “It smells like Vielrona.”
Bren began his forms, broadsword humming through the air. His movements were careful and slow, building strength from the control. Every few steps he glanced over at Alea. Power filled his sister’s body, black snakes writhing under the pale surface of her skin. She moved her hands in the strikes and blocks of a hand-fighter, but they were careful and slow. Each strike sent lightning crackling across her fists and up her arms, the block smacking with the force of a wave. The patterns her feet traced in the sawdust were edges in ice. Her hair whipped as she turned, water droplets surrounding her as they spun free from her skin.
When she came to a stop Bren applauded. “Toar, Alea, you’re amazing.” He began to move faster, adding speed to the force of his blade. They moved in mutual silence, pacing around the room like circling predators. The bell tolled close to noon before Alea spoke again.
“I won’t hurt you, but stay in that corner, will you?”
Bren turned to see her in the center of the hall. He frowned, but did as she bade, tightening his steps. After a moment even his movements slowed and he simply watched.
“I have an idea about the battle, but it’s rough. I was hoping I might have your input.”
“I’m not sure what use I’ll be.”
“Is Arman still ours?”
“What?” His heart faltered at the ferocity in her eyes. “What do you mean?”
“You saw him the other night. I told you I could feel him breathe. You think I couldn’t tell he’d been in your room?”
“Alea, I’m sorry—”
“I’m not angry. I saw him, regardless, and I think I understand your reasons. Thank you for trying to protect me. Is he still ours?”
“You saw him.”
“I no longer know the man he has become.” Her words were clipped from anger or something else Bren could not name.
“Regardless of his words, or yours, he’s yours. He always will be, Alea.” He frowned. “What is your plan?”
“Watch.” She grabbed his hand briefly, just long enough for icy tingling to wash over him, then she let go. “Trust me.” She closed her eyes and spread her fingers. He watched her chest heave with slow, deep breaths. With each inhalation the air grew colder. Moisture dripped down the stone walls, pooling in the sawdust. The puddles grew, the water rising. It crept across the floor towards them and Bren mentally repeated Alea’s command to trust her. I hate water. He ordered his feet to stay still. The water was a pace away from him when it halted, still rising, but moving no closer. It continued to fill the room, roaring, thundering around them, past waist height. Still it did not touch him. I’m in a bubble of her power.
Alea was not, however. The water surrounded her, swirling over her head. It crashed against the ceiling and Bren wondered if he should break her concentration, if she would drown. He was about to call her name when her eyes flew open.
The silver light pierced through the water and her voice echoed in his mind. Imagine this, across an entire battle field. All our allies protected, all our enemies drowning. The power in her voice pulled terrified nausea to his stomach. Imagine the battle field covered in the power of the oceans and the other half burning, ignited with Arman’s power. The water retreated slowly, draining the way it had come. The damp sawdust was the only evidence of her colossal display.
Bren reached a shaking hand to his sister as the glow in her eyes faded. He had seen atrocities as a soldier. They had made his stomach tight, at first, even made him sick. Nothing shook him to his bones like she did. “I’ll need a bit of time to process that.” He sheathed his sword with shaking hands. Seeing the guarded expression on her face, he felt suddenly guilty. She was alienated enough. “I love you, still.”
Her smile was brief, and erased by a frown when he sank on to a bench. “Are you all right?”
“We’re going to win.” He could only manage a whisper, but there was no doubt in his words.
Φ
Alea tilted her face up to the sun. Though Bren had offered to accompany her to the smithy, she declined. He was dear to her, but his energy sometimes only highlighted her loneliness. A squire guided her quickly to the office in the rear of the forge. The door was open and she knocked quietly. “Master Rulhan?”
The broad man glanced up then stared. “Dhoah’ Laen?”
She smiled. The sight of his myriad braids and deep, rich eyes made her heart ache unexpectedly. “You’re of Sunam?” She used her native language, throat tight around the familiar sounds.
“As are you, I’ve heard.” He followed her lead and fell into the throaty Sunamen tongue. “What might I do for you today?”
“I’m looking for armor. Something light, simple.”
He leaned back, broad hands crossing behind his head. “If you care to have a seat, I’d gladly design you something.”
She sat, all nervousness erased by his low voice and the punctuating gestures that he had learned as a child. When he asked about her fighting style, she met his eyes. “I’ll need something in metal—no boiled leather, and I’ll need to move easily.”
He sketched a few more lines on his design and slid it across the desk for her to peruse. “May I ask what town you call home?”
“Cehn. I was raised by Ahme’reahn ira Suna, may he be blessed with peace.”
Rulhan’s lined face softened into weathered wrinkles. “Oh, I am so sorry. I have not been home in many years, but I am lucky that its streets still bustle and my mother and brothers and sisters are as loud and playful as ever. What do you miss the most, besides your family, may they be blessed with peace?”
“The layers.” She looked up, noting the perfect understanding in the man’s eyes. “I miss the smell of the sand cooking under the sun and the spices blowing up to my window from the market.”
“And the way the palm fronds would hiss in the wind, the sand scuttling across the stones like women on their way to do the washing. I told your brother you did us honor.”
“Your words are kind, but untrue. I am a poor example of a Sunamen woman.”Alea slid the paper back to him. “This looks lovely, thank you.” She rose and made for the door, but his voice stopped her.
“How many sandstorms did you live through?”
She smiled. It was a common phrase, noting the speaker’s greater age. “Nineteen years’ worth.”
“You remember them well, then. You remember the rage with which they beat our walls. All those layers you loved, they tore them away until all that was left were our souls, sometimes.” He gestured to her. “Dhoah’ Lyne’alea, you are a sandstorm beating against the world. You are more Sunamen than anything.”
She pressed her brow against the doorframe. “Do you miss it?”
“Every day. Now, let me get to work on your armor, ahalni.”
Her smile broadened at the Sunamen term that meant both “sandstorm” and “terrible blessing.” The mirth felt strange on her sorrow-worn features and she maneuvered her way back across the forge. She took a winding route back to the palace, enjoying the sounds of the city and the warmth.
“Dhoah’ Lyne’alea, this is a pleasant surprise!”
Alea shielded her eyes to see Daymir crossing the street. She waved a greeting. “How is your day going, Lord Daymir?”
“Well. Would you care to join me for lunch?”
“Where were you thinking?”
“I was just returning to the manor, and planning on having whatever my household prepared. If you have an idea, by all means, direct me.”
Alea paused. What would he say if I asked to find a street vendor? If I wanted to walk the market? “Yours is a fine suggestion. I have a brief errand to run, then I’ll pay you a visit.”
Daymir gave her a true smile then. “I’ll await you patiently.”
Her errand was as much an excuse
as anything. She quickly exchanged her training clothes for a light gown. She glanced in the mirror and frowned. She looked like a noblewoman. How do I want him to see me? She never cared which side she showed to Arman. She had been weak and strong and distant in turns, and each new change he took in stride. Until now. She ignored the nasty voice in the back of her mind and turned back to her dressing table. Daymir was an ally and she would treat him as such. She unbraided her hair and removed all her jewelry. Another glanced in the mirror before she left told her enough. She was unquestionably Laen.
Daymir’s manor was one of the largest in the noble quarter. Centuries of water run-off had stained the white stone grey. The high, iron gate was covered with ivy and led into a small courtyard. She pulled the thin chain beside the gate that no doubt rang a bell somewhere deep inside the house. Moments later a serving man swung the door open for her. “Good morning, Dhoah’ Lyne’alea, welcome. I am Master Currow, steward of my lord Daymir’s house.”
Alea followed him through the large front door. The house was beautiful and she ordered her expression into careful appreciation. The finery of the palace was expected, but the beauty here was surprising in a manor for one family, even a royal one. Daymir himself opened the door and his greeting shook her from her admiration.
“Welcome!” He stepped aside to allow her through. “I’m flattered you took the time to visit me. The meal should be ready shortly. Would you like a tour of the house?”
She could not help but grin at his enthusiasm. “Please, it seems lovely.” She followed him through the lower storey. The large dining room led into an intimate parlor and a portrait hall. Everything was rich peacock blue, with copper accents. “Does the rest of your family live here as well?” Alea peered at the portraits of his siblings and parents.
Daymir followed her gaze, hands clasped behind him.”Only myself and the household. My sister married several years ago, and my parents are long passed. I manage the estate.”
“You seem forever busy. Is there much business being heir and treasurer, or is it the estate that concerns you?”
