by V. S. Holmes
“What are you talking about?” He stepped towards her again.
She slapped him across the face. “A writ to move thirty-six thousand crown to an account accessible only to you? You think I would fall for this again?”
His mouth dropped open, both at her blow and her words. “Fates, Tzatia. You think that was swindling?” His temper rose. “It was for our future! I am not your husband. I inherit this nation and I intend for it not to be bankwasted when I do.”
“Not anymore.” Her hands shook as she offered an envelope. It was decorated by her royal and personal seal as well as those of several advisors. It was address to him.
Dread filled him. “‘Not anymore,’ what?” He opened the envelope quickly. It was a formal document stating his attempt to steal from the crown. It stripped him of his titles and power as Treasurer and his right to the throne. “You’re jesting.” He rubbed a hand across his eyes. “Tzatia, I was thinking of Athrolan. You have seen Mirik fall to the consequences of war. I was trying to aid our kingdom, not better myself! You can stop this now. Revoke it.” Alea’s words about fear and desperation echoed in his head.
Her mouth set in a determined line. “It’s done. I sent it to the scribes. If your actions were only for the kingdom, why did you propose marriage to Dhoah’ Lyne’alea? Was that for us as well? You could have destroyed our alliance!”
“She’s interesting and intelligent and would make a good ruler. I enjoy her company.”
Tzatia turned, running a hand along the back of her settee. “I no longer recognize you as my heir, or Treasurer of the kingdom. You are stripped of your lordship and gallantry, relieved of all estates, excepting those of your father and excused from court and my person.”
He realized then that she was serious. “For what little my word is worth, I only ever thought to raise our home.” He bowed. “Forgive me for choosing the wrong path by which to do so. Good night, your majesty.” He showed himself out and moved stiffly down the hall. He contained himself until he once more stood in his manor. As soon as the door shut, he slumped against the wall of the anteroom, a trembling hand over his eyes. Every constant in his world was gone. He drew a breath, then another. This was what he was good at—clearheaded thoughts while the world crumbled. He never thought it would be his world. He swallowed hard, mind racing, and called for Currow.
“How was your visit with Her Majesty, my lord? You did not stay as long as I expected. Would you like me to order your supper?”
Daymir ignored the offer. “Have all my personal affects packed. They are to be shipped home, to the estate. All my accounts and debts are to be paid off—from my personal funds, please. The furniture not owned by the crown will be sold, as will all horses save for my jumper and charger. All but the nuclear household staff is dismissed with compensation though the end of the month.”
“My lord?” Currow stared at Daymir, a deep frown on his face.
Daymir looked up. Currow had served the Xain family since Daymir’s father had inherited. They knew each other like family.
“Is this about the funds you transferred?”
“I was safeguarding for after the war, so we would not have empty coffers with which to rebuild. She saw it as swindling, like with Parkvenir. She disinherited me and stripped me of all titles.”
“Is there anything else I can do for you, my lord?”
“Stop calling me ‘lord.’ I am no longer one. I am simply Master Daymir.”
Currow bowed his head. “I’ll set your affairs in order then, Master Daymir.”
“Currow?”
“Yes, sir?”
“I would appreciate your utmost discretion and haste.”
“Of course, sir.”
Daymir watched him go, then hurried up to his study. It was no longer his, truly. He penned a reply to Alea and sent it out. He was halfway through packing the contents of his desk and bookshelves when the second shock wave of the events hit him. He sunk onto the floor beside the trunk of books. He drew off the ring of the royal house and the seal of Treasurer. All that remained was his personal signet ring, alone on his hand. He felt naked.
Φ
The 1st Day of Lumord, 1252
The Feld de Barran
Dense clouds obscured the windswept rocky fields below. The air whipped as Arman passed, curling around him and through him. It tickled. He grinned, though he wondered if it was truly a smile when his body had no more form than smoke. Leaving Athrolan lifted a mass of lead from his gut. He was not sure it if was due to what he left behind or flew toward. Tzatia had asked him to accompany the fleet, but something deeper drove him south. He crossed leagues in minutes, his unsubstantial body wheeling with each gust of clouds and air.
Ahead, the familiar crest of the Orn de Duhtain rose, barely scraping the underbelly of the clouds. He had seen so much, done so much, that even home looked quaint. Will Vielrona ever be home again? Will any of them know me? He bent, diving lower as he grew nearer the city. Besides, if there were ever a place the Rakos hid, it would be in Vielrona. The arms of the hills below curled about his home. His smile grew as he caught the brilliant glow of firelight. With so many torches, he must be arriving in the midst of a festival.
He banked again, wheeling closer. The smoke smelled of meat and acrid rot. The rubble below still smoldered. Few walls were left standing. Fates, not this. His tears and adrenaline sharpened his eyes, and they caught movement on the edge of the destruction. The fields that had once held cows were now a survivors’ camp. The bloated carcasses of livestock were piled high. The fact that some bore marks of butchering spoke to the desperation of those left.
Makeshift lean-tos and tattered shelters clumped in vague groups. There were only enough to house eighty, a hundred at most. Grief caused his concentration to stutter and his bones began to reform. He tumbled from the air, muscle and organs writhing back into place as they solidified. He exploded onto the ground, limbs shaking from horror and pain. Rage billowed. “This was my home!” The voice that tore itself from his throat was not one he recognized. The destruction was greater than he ever imagined, greater than anything he saw at Shadow. It was as if the mountains themselves had tried to swallow the city.
He was suddenly aware of the silence behind him. The camp was still, those closest staring at him. They were too exhausted to be curious, and pain had burnt away any awe that might have shone in their eyes. Arman staggered to his feet and turned toward them. They slowly went back about their work, not caring that a man just materialized from the clouds.
A familiar dark figure cleaned ashes from an old well and Arman stepped closer, waving smoke from his eyes. “Kam?”
The man straightened, blinking at him for a moment. Recognition swept the locksmith’s features suddenly and he stepped forward. “Arman?”
Arman nodded, not sure what to say, or how to begin. He could scarcely remember what he had looked like when he left Vielrona. They were separated by several paces, a haze of smoke and what seemed like a lifetime. “What happened?”
The darker man sighed wearily. All the characteristic jesting had gone from his face. “Come have a seat and we’ll get you what we can for a drink.” He brought the Rakos across the campsite to a small tent and gestured to an overturned crate. “Sit.”
Arman folded himself onto the crate, clasping his hands to hide his nerves. A woman emerged from the tent, shot a weak smile at Kam and turned to go.
“Cel, look who came back.” Kam’s voice stopped her. Her hair was lank and her body thin, save for her pregnant stomach.
“Celly?” Arman stood and swept her into his arms. The cold, awkward spell was broken and his embraced Kam, too.
“Arman, I can’t believe you’re here!” Celly held him at arms’ length. “Your last letter was so grim, I wondered if we’d see you again.”
“I wondered myself.” He gestured at her abdomen with a grin. “I see your marriage has been fruitful.”
She smiled and patted herself. “More than halfway t
here.” A shadow flitted across her face. “I expected to raise him on Gratchen Lane, not in a refugee camp.”
Arman looked away. He understood unexpected futures, but he had chosen his. Their child never could. “What the fuck happened?”
“The gods.” Kam crouched by their meager fire.
“What?”
“The gods struck us down. I don’t know how or why, but the very air turned to poison. Great clouds of brown gas covered the streets. It hit the market first, pouring out of the temples. We never stood a chance.”
“When? What of the others?”
“Two weeks ago.” Kam stared at the fire. “Wes is gone. Veredy, too.”
Arman dropped his head in his hands. The panic in his gut returned with a vengeance. “And Ma?”
Kam shuffled over and placed a hand on Arman’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry.”
Arman moaned. His mother, Veredy, Wes, they were pieces of him. They were the sand that formed the pearl of his soul. He had built his life around their existence. His chest was too tight for him to speak or breathe. He could barely hear Celly’s soft words over the roaring in his head.
“We were able to get her out for a proper burial, more than we could do for Wes and Ver. I can bring you to see her, if you wish.”
Arman rose with a stiff nod, still too sick to speak. She took his hand gently and led him through the camp. The dead were laid in achingly long lines. Some trenches lay open beside them, but the process was slow and the manpower weak. Celly stopped at one linen-wrapped form. A metal charm hung from the cord binding the shroud. He slid to his knees beside the body, his hand finding the sunburst charm. His fingers traced the metalwork rays, the holes cut in swirls and loops like flames. It was the piece his father made for her. It hung above their door for as long as he could remember. The sharp metal of the edges drew runnels of blood as his hand clenched around it. Part of him, that nasty voice in the back on his mind, had known this would be what he found. The shock still shook him to his bones.
He wrapped his mother’s burnt body in his arms, not caring about the smell. His tears finally came, scalding, burning hotter than his skin ever had. He held her long into the night, rocking in the rain. He told her about Alea and Bren. He told her of his conversations with Eras and the journey north. He wept and laughed in turns. His voice hitched as he explained what he was, what he had always been. It was well into the evening when he finally drew back. “I love you. I wish I’d been here. I hope you were proud. I hope you’re at peace.” He brushed his hand across her covered face. “I’m proud you were my ma.” He kissed her brow and stood, making his way shakily back to the tent where Kam waited.
The locksmith crouched by the campfire, glancing up at Arman’s approach. “This isn’t the homecoming you deserve.”
“It’s the one part of me expected.”
Kam handed him a tin cup of thin soup. “What brought you back?”
“I’m not sure. Her Majesty Tzatia bid me sail north, with the fleet heading off the Berrin, but I had to come here first.”
“Tzatia? Fleet?”
It struck Arman then, how different things had become. “The queen of Athrolan.”
Kam’s expression was closed. “You want to drag what able men survived into war?”
Arman looked down. “No. Your numbers are too small to make a difference against what we face.”
“What do you face?” Kam’s low voice was disbelieving. “You found a strange woman in the desert. A month later you ride off with her and we barely hear from you. What happened?”
Arman could not find the words. There was too much to explain, too much that he had avoided for so long. “What have you heard from the north?”
“The Dhoah’ Laen came. She’s fighting the gods and humans joined both sides.” Kam shrugged. “It didn’t feel like war, until the attack. Everything was so far away.”
“Alea’s the Dhoah’ Laen. We fight those who wish her dead and the world destroyed. Sounds trite when I put it that way.”
“I wondered as much, when the news came. You fit with her, you know. Maybe not at first, but the last weeks you were here, we all could see it.”
Arman was grateful his friend did not mention who noticed them most of all. He was not yet ready to hear her name again. He watched Kam’s gaze inch over the changes before him.
“Dore Jehan said you flew in on the clouds, formed out of the air.”
“Fates, you still listen to the Jehans?” The joke seemed to fall flat for a moment, then Kam snorted. His laughter pealed across the campsite, and tears leaked from the new lines around his eyes. Arman joined him, his belly aching with each guffaw. “You know, after all, I think the Jehan’s have been right about everything. Just not when we were ready to hear it.”
Kam sighed, mirth fading into fatigue again. “So what are you in all of this?”
“You know the Rakos?”
“You’re kidding? Fire in the hands and flying?” Kam poked the fire with a stick. “Could have used that.”
The accusation was not lost on Arman. “I’m glad you and Celly have each other. What’ll you do now that Vielrona...” He could not bring himself to say the words. “Now?”
Kam shrugged. “We were going to move north, settle in a town. We’d need a place for my work and her cooking and for a baby. I’m too scared to think so far ahead.”
Arman frowned suddenly. “I know a place you would be welcome, though it’s far.” The hope in Kam’s eyes set a new ache in Arman’s chest. “Travel to Ceir Athrolan and take a boat to Mirik. Alea’s brother is the Military Commissioner there, acting king right now. He’ll give you a good home and work. If you tell him who you are, he’ll take care of everything until you get your bearings.”
“It’s a long way to travel, but I’ll tell Celly.” He watched Arman glance north. “You’re leaving soon?”
Arman’s silence was answer enough and Kam raised his hand to stall him. He ducked into the tent, emerging a moment later with a thick envelope. “I was headed to the message hall when the attack came. Fate’s would have it that I bore a letter from your mother.” He handed it to Arman. “When will we see you again?”
Arman’s jaw was tight. “I wish you both the best of luck. You deserve it.” He offered his arm, but not an answer. “Take care of each other.”
“You, too.” Kam gripped his friend’s arm too tightly. “You and Lyne’alea.”
Arman turned and disappeared into the darkness without another word. He flung himself into the sky, his grief and rage fueling his ascent. He wondered why, when his future was certain, his skin crawled with the pity in Kam’s eyes.
Chapter Fifteen
The 2nd Day of Lumord, 1252
The City of Ceir Athrolan
ALEA STEPPED INTO THE OFFICERS’ quarters, suddenly glad for the confidence respect gave her. She wore somber colors, though the seamstresses seemed to sew little else for her. Her knock on the doorframe was purposeful. “Narier, I need to speak with you.”
After a moment he emerged, his face tired and his eyes impatient. “Dhoah’ Lyne’alea.”
“I have a favor to ask of you.”
His lips thinned. “Listen—”
“As the Dhoah’ Laen I ask a favor of Narier, captain of my ally’s military.”
His features relaxed and the relief in his eyes hurt more than she expected. “Right. Of course.” His words echoed hers from their last meeting and he stepped aside. “Come in.”
“I’d still rather it was private.”
His laugh was little more than a sharp exhalation. “No one else is here.” It was a sparse room, only the trunks and the coverlets showing any homey personalization.
Alea took a seat at the long table before the small hearth. “I’m sorry for bothering you again.”
He raised the wick of the lantern and took a seat across from her. “I’m sorry you think that you bother me.”
“Narier, please.” She looked down at her hands. She wanted to
remain as aloof and practical as possible. The conversation was already veering away from her careful plans. “Please be consistent in how you act. I understand sharing the night and I understand distant civility, but I can’t waver between the two. I get enough of that from Arman.”
“Right.” He straightened and rubbed his hands together. “What can I do for you then?”
“I’m leaving Athrolan within the week. I’m headed east. It doesn’t matter if I seem male or female, as long as it’s not what I actually am.”
“How’d you expect to pull that off?”
“I’ve got the guts. They won’t expect it to be me. I need a patrol uniform. An officer’s. Do you have a spare?”
“You’re too small.”
Alea’s eyes narrowed. “You’re not that much taller than I am, Narier.” She faltered. “Why?”
“Why what?”
Her eyes flicked up to his, the layers of darkness and anger and determination peeling back to show the raw confusion and vulnerability. “I wasn’t looking for a lifetime, Narier, just company.”
“I can’t judge what you did in Shadow, Lyne’alea, because I may have done the same were I in your boots. Doesn’t mean it feels right. Doesn’t mean the dreams I have are good. You ripped the life right out of those people --allies too. You turned the laws of the world upside down for your guard. You might be great and powerful and fucking beautiful. Doesn’t mean you’re human. Not anymore.”
“Thank you for your honesty. I realize you were being kind before, not telling me all the truth. Thank you for that, as well.”
He sighed and scrubbed at his face. “Anything else I can do?”
She rose, shaking her head. The black shutters clanged shut over her heart and eyes once more, but she did not trust her voice.
Φ
Alea wondered at Daymir’s brisk response requesting her to visit. It made her nervous, but she hoped his bitterness was waning. Besides he’d be a fool to try to hurt me. She made her way quickly to the manor and rang the bell at the gate. Our courtship, if I want to call it that, was barely two months during a tumultuous time. What did he really think my answer would be? Sunamen courtships lasted years, sometimes even before the betrothal was announced. Perhaps the Athrolani do things differently. It was a moment before Currow let her in. His face was lined and looked more tired than before. “You received the message, Dhoah’ Lyne’alea?”
