Lightning and Flame

by V. S. Holmes

  Alea nodded. “I think I agree.” She caught sight of a cloaked man in a far corner. He could have been watching the singers, but the tingling on her arms told her his eyes rested on her instead. “Giire, where’s the privy?”

  “Out back. There’s a two-person shed.”

  Alea nodded and ducked out the rear door. She stepped into the shadow behind the rubbish pile and waited. Within a moment the man emerged. To anyone else he would have looked intimidating, or at least dangerous. He was partway to the privy when Alea cleared her throat.

  “What are you doing, An’thor?”

  He froze and glanced over. “I could ask the same. I think I’ve more a habit for drinking than you.”

  “I’m fast catching up.” The air was cool, but the burn of drink made it a caress on her warm skin. “Did you follow me?”

  “Not on anyone’s orders, just my own curiosity.”

  “You’re not here to haul me back to Bren for a scolding?”

  An’thor snorted. “Hardly. Besides, I think even he would understand this.” He leaned against the rear wall of the Hare. “You’re trying to burn back the shadow in your mind with alcohol. Trust me, it won’t work. Right now, you think it does, but in an hour, a day, it’ll be back and angry at your attempt.”

  She sighed and slumped onto the stoop. “I know. I’ve tried it before. It wasn’t so much the drinking I wanted, but the dancing, the people.” She tried to push back her hair, only to realize she still wore the wig. “How’d you recognize me?”

  He snorted. “I’m old enough to trust my instincts. If my skin crawls at the sight of a blond girl in a bar I’m willing to bet there’s more than meets the eye. Besides, your brows don’t match that color, not even a bit.”

  She sighed. “You think everyone else noticed?”

  “Doubtful. They need the visual to recognize a noble. It’s all about symbols with humans. They like tidy boxes with clear labels.”

  “And you don’t?”

  “Neither of us fit into any box I’ve yet encountered.” His smile was faint but genuine. “Did you want me to walk you home?”

  “I think the Destroyer can protect herself on Ceir Athrolan’s streets. I think I’d like to wait a while.”

  “Maybe I’m the one who wants protecting.” He glanced over. “You’ll be headed north soon. Do you want me to send word to my people on the border?”

  “I’ll leave next week, the night after the address. I still hope the Crown is in Claimiirn, but if not, I’d be grateful for their help.” She fiddled with one of the wig’s curls. “I won’t be going as the Dhoah’ Laen. It’s far too dangerous for people to think I’m on the road, and certainly Azirik has spies enough.”

  An’thor made a show of examining her. “You’ll be going as Miss Sell-Love then?”

  Alea glared at him. “I do not look like a whore.” Her mock anger melted into a smile. “I’ll go as a soldier.”

  “I’m sure Her Majesty will lend you a uniform or two.”

  “I’m not telling Her Majesty.” She stared at the cobbles. “I said I didn’t want many to know. You and one other. Not even Bren, until I’m gone at least.”

  “Who else? Surely not Arman.”

  Her expression darkened. “I doubt I’ll see him before battle. I had a lover in the army. I’ll ask him for the uniforms. He’s a captain and not too much taller than I.”

  “I didn’t take you for the lover type. Then again, lovers are like drinking, and lessen the loneliness for a while.”

  Alea nodded. The warmth of alcohol was curling back, pulling away from her mind. A fragile carapace protected her sanity from the jumble of angry, dark thoughts. Someday, soon, it would crack.

  An’thor must have seen something of her thoughts on her face. “Whenever I’m close to breaking, it’s because something is coming to an end.” He jerked his head at the tavern. “You’re about to break, Lyne’alea. Care to tell me why?”

  “I’ve learned about all I need to destroy the gods. It’s not like I can practice. The only thing left is finding my Crown.”

  “Don’t forget Her Majesty’s address—you get to wear a pretty dress and a serious face once more before you go.”

  She laughed. “I suppose. Such things seem so unimportant.”

  “And drinking in a slum tavern doesn’t?”

  Her eyes flicked to his black ones. “You know these little things matter most of all.”

  He sank onto the stoop with her and drew a flask from his cloak. “I’ve drunk too much Athrolani liquor to enjoy it anymore.” He tipped it back swiftly before handing it over. “So what’s your plan, with the gods? I assume you’ve told no one, protecting them from seeing what you’re capable of.”

  She sipped slowly, enjoying the flavor of wood oil and nutmeg. “It’s a bit eerie how well you know me.”

  “Nonsense. I only know myself.” His grin bloomed slowly. “So how are you going to save us all and raise the Laen to power?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “I’m going to rip the gods’ souls from their bodies.” An’thor was silent for several moments and she glanced over, handing back the flask. “Should I have protected you, too?”

  He swirled the alcohol in his mouth thoughtfully. “No. Not really. I’ve seen terrible things—not as horrifying as that, perhaps, but to far better people.” He rested his head on the wall of the tavern. “The worst part of what you said is knowing what that will do to you.”

  “That’s why I’m here. I’m drinking on the stoop of a tavern in the slums because in a month’s time I might be something too twisted and monstrous to do so. I knew becoming the Dhoah’ Laen would change me. I knew I wouldn’t be exactly human any more. I knew I’d do terrible things, to myself, to Arman. I never bargained for losing my sanity.”

  “None of us do.” His hand was dry and warm on hers.

  She laced her fingers with his, tilting her head back to look at the autumn stars. “I’m scared, An’thor.”

  He followed her gaze, hand tightening around hers. “Me, too.”

  Chapter SIXteen

  The 11th Day of Lumord, 1252

  The City of Ceir Athrolan

  BREN STOOD IN THE CENTER of the throne room. It was swept and polished down to the last corner and the walls were hung with great flags of the capital and cities. The wooden panels were slid back so it adjoined the ballroom. It was an hour before the address would begin and he stared at the throne. How will I help lead Mirik if I can’t even face a foreign nation without nerves? He was already dressed in his finery, a mass of quilted vermilion. This is a war address and I look like a peacock. Slippers on stone interrupted his bitter thoughts. Expecting Alea, he turned with a smile. Tzatia regarded him with empathy. “Thinking on your own responsibilities?”

  He looked away sheepishly. “Yes, your majesty. I usually need space to think, and with the streets so crowded this seemed the better place.”

  “Should I leave you to your thoughts?”

  “That might be dangerous.” He laughed and offered her his arm. “Care to take a circuit with me?”

  “Indeed.” She took his arm graciously.

  “How are you today?” He set off along the pillared wall. It was a poor substitute for pacing, but it would have to do.

  “I look forward to today. It feels as if we have been standing still. Perhaps that stillness will break now.” She glanced over. “Soldiers are not the only ones to become stir-crazy, Lord Commissioner.”

  Curiosity nagged at Bren’s tongue. “May I be bold?”

  Her eyes crinkled. “You’re learning court ways well. What makes you wish to be bold?”

  “Daymir, your majesty. Alea told me. I’m sorry something so troubling occurred before battle.”

  Her face clouded and her chin went up. “He made poor choices and I protected us. I know what he said, but I could not take the risk, not when we are at war.”

  “Hard choices were not named on a whim. Have our other allies arrived?”

  “Th
e Banis emperor’s offered troops will arrive soon, and your own men will as well I heard.”

  “Within the week, though I can only bring just under a hundred and thirty. It’s something. And General Aneral returned I saw.” He paused. “Have you heard from Arman?”

  Her mouth thinned again. “Arrowlash ran out on his promise to accompany our fleet to the north. They waited for him for hours at the docks, but he never arrived. I fear the worst from him.”

  “With due respect, your majesty, I know him well and he is no deserter. If he left there was a fair reason for it.”

  “I don’t speak of desertion, but of madness, Lord Commissioner.” She sighed. “You were raised on war, but I was not. As a young woman I thought the most terrifying choice would be whom I married. I chose wrong, in the end, but I was also wrong in thinking that was the worst choice to make.”

  “And you’ve learned the most terrifying?”

  “Sending our people to war. I love each of them and I send them to their doom.”

  “Some, yet, will live.” They rounded the chamber, close to where they had begun their walk. “If you forget that, war will drive us all mad. A cause keeps us sane.”

  “I hope you are right. I cannot fathom fighting the gods, but I do not doubt your sister. I need to trust that we can win, and my faith is sorely tattered.” She stepped away. “Forgive my dark musings, but thank you for listening.” She smiled. “If you ever have concerns of your own, I will return the favor.”

  He bowed and watched her walk away, his frown reappearing. I’ll have lines deep enough to swallow someone if I’m not careful. He laughed at himself. And now I sound like an old maid. Thinking on the queen’s words, he strode to his room, unlacing his tunic as he went.

  Φ

  The thunder of conversation seeped from the throne room. Behind the lines of nobles were the officers and higher born commoners that could squeeze into the back of the hall with the scribes and clerks. Their retelling would flood the city streets minutes after the queen dismissed the gathering. Bren peered through the door as they waited to be announced. Advisers ringed the throne’s dais and the general and commander flanked the throne itself. Instead of state attire, they wore armor and weapons.

  Bren grinned, turning to Alea. “I think we made the right choice.” After his conversation with the queen, he donned his new armor. He still wore the vermilion shirt and brown breeches, but his bronze-washed mail and breastplate glinted in the torchlight of the anteroom. A vermilion-trimmed forest green cloak was clipped to the backplate and boiled leather pauldrons.

  Like him, Alea wore her armor over her dress, the silver and blue skirts the only softness in her out fit. The loose ends of her hair curled in a breeze Bren could not feel. Kemmer and Aldac stood along one wall, fidgeting.

  Alea glanced back at them. “Think of it as a battle. It helps, I promise.”

  Their laughter died as Tzatia rounded the corner with her two chiefs of staff. Her grey and white dress matched the steel of her eyes as she nodded to them. The herald’s piercing call stilled the conversation in the hall beyond and Tzatia breezed through the doors on the tail of her titles.

  Alea grabbed Bren’s hand, squeezing it tightly for a moment. She had her brother, his men, and a room full of allies. She had never felt more alone.

  “I’m with you, sistermine.”

  “Dhoah’ Lyne’alea of Le’yan!”

  Her power rose, marbling her skin slightly and shadowing her eyes. The chill of the ocean rolled from her shoulders as she moved down the aisle through the crowd. She was distantly aware of Bren and the other Miriken Commissioners entering behind her. The walk seemed to take no time and forever at once.

  “My allies, both legendary and human, I thank you for standing beside Athrolan today as we face the growing clouds of war.” Tzatia took Alea’s hand, and the commissioners’ in turn, then turned to face the crowd, hands clasped before her. “My people, I have called you to this assembly to speak of a threat against us all. It is known that Dhoah’ Lyne’alea and her guard, Rakos Arrowlash face genocide. The gods and their human army, led by Azirik of Mirik, are their enemies. As allies to the Dhoah’ Laen, they are our enemies as well. Mirik’s ally, Berr, attacks our borders daily, and this strengthens our resolve against them. In less than a month’s time we march to war. I called you here today to listen to your thoughts, your concerns and to answer them.” She sat gracefully in the throne, Alea and the others taking seats beside her. “Those who wish may come forward.”

  Most of the nobles had family in the military and their questions had been answered weeks ago. Those that stepped forward now were city folk, those who were concerned their crops and goods would be siphoned to feed the soldiers of the campaign or if the city would be without protection.

  Tzatia heard each concern with patience Alea could only dream about. Finally the queen raised her hands. “Your concerns are valid. Yes, much of your harvests will feed the army, but you will be compensated, as will those of you who have skills of tanning, smithing and the like. Athrolan is my child, my love, and my greatest priority. I will never leave her unguarded. Our army is marching, as are the men of one of our naval flotilla, led by Commander Dorcal. Much of the navy will remain here. They may be unused to land, but they were born on it, and I trust they will do fine.” A smattering of laughter broke out and Tzatia smiled briefly. “A battalion will remain as well.”

  “Your majesty.” An older duchess rose and dropped into a curtsey. “What if our troops cannot defeat Lord Azirik?” She stumbled over the title. With Bren usurping Mirik from under his father’s reign, titles were unwieldy things. “What if they come for us?”

  Alea raised her hand. “Your majesty, may I answer?” Alea leaned forward when the queen nodded. “This battle is not to defeat Azirik and his men. Not solely. Azirik has something I need to defeat the gods. I will not allow him to win, which is why we have mustered so many allies.”

  Now a young man stepped forward, the son of a lending house owner, by the expensive outfit he wore. He knelt on the flagging before them. “Your majesty, Dhoah’ Lyne’alea, I have a question about those very allies. The Stonefaced and Ageless, they are strong fighters and an obvious choice, but a new government with few soldiers? Is Azirik still not king?”

  A stony silence swept the room while Alea searched for a response.

  Bren saved her the trouble. “Azirik was king. As his son, I took the responsibility of my small nation from his incompetent hands. There is a law of Mirik, as in some other lands, that a when a monarch puts another person or persons before his nation, then he might be made crownless. I have followed this law.”

  “What of our other supposed allies, your majesty?” The man continued, acknowledging Bren’s answer with a respectful, but dismissive wave. “You bound us to Dhoah’ Lyne’alea. She may stand before us, but she stands alone. She claims power, but what of the strength behind her. Where is her Rakos guard? Has he abandoned her and chosen a better side?”

  “You’d best speak with respect when addressing milady, boy.” The low voice rumbled through the crowd, butting the man’s tirade short. Mutters sprang up as people turned to peer behind them. The doors to the throne room were open, a frightened page holding his hands out, as if to say he could not prevent the intruder. A few paces into the room stood a bright figure. It was not armor that made him gold, for he wore none, but the curls of the flame in his hair and the coal-bed glow between the scales covering his bare arms.

  The inside of Alea’s cheek bled from her effort to remain silent.

  Arman’s grace as he approached the throne was nothing less than predatory. “You ask where your allies are? General Aneral returned from the Hartland with two dozen warriors. Lord Commissioner Barrackborn brings a few hundred men. An’thoriend’s people number in the hundreds as well. And now, your other concern about milady’s guard is put to rest, for here I am. And I did not come alone.” He stopped before the young man, his head cocked like a raptor r
egarding a rat. The moisture in the air from Alea’s power evaporated with a hiss in the heat radiating from his Rakos scales. “So unless you have anything else to add: as you were.”

  The man backed away into the silent crowd. Arman turned back to the dais, nodding to Tzatia and Bren before his gaze flicked to Alea. He took a knee, one fist touching his brow, lips and chest. “Milady, I bring you more Rakos. I hoped to bring men from Vielrona, but the gods saw to it that nothing was left for me to take.” His words were quietly sincere, but his voice tight.

  Alea’s heard plummeted at the mention of Vielrona. “I thank you, Arrowlash.”

  He rose and moved to stand behind her. He was close enough that she could have taken his hand. The tension was a physical wall between them, connecting and dividing them at once.

  Tzatia rose, the crowd following suit with the rumble of feet upon stone. “This assembly is closed. We thank you for your thoughts and trust that we have soothed any concerns. May fates bring us victory and peace.” With the closing “So it is said,” still echoing from the dome, Tzatia swept from the room, the others following after her.

  Bren’s breath burst from him in a cascade of nervous laughter. He turned, sobering at the sight of his sister’s face. Alea stopped in the open hall that branched to the various wings. “Please, can we talk?”

  Arman was already halfway to the stables. He stopped, but did not turn. “I came long enough to say and do what the damned people needed to see. That’s all. I will see you at war.”

  Φ

  Narier arrived just after midnight. The room was dark when he shut the door and the hearth was cold. “No one saw me come, promise. I went through the gardens just in case.” He edged in, peering from Alea’s made bed to the privy door. “You here, Dhoah’?”

  She rose from her silent vigil by the curtained window. “Thank you.”

  Narier tossed her the pack. “Should be everything you need.”

  The uniform and armor were just the proper amount of worn. She stripped her gown off, the motions devoid of any seduction, and pulled on the captain’s clothes. “I’ll be out of the gate within the hour.”