by V. S. Holmes
“I’ll stay here until then, in case anyone saw. They’ll think you’re me.”
“You could always don one of my gowns and stay in the library.”
“I fear black is as garish on me as vermilion.”
She was grateful for the joking reference to their first conversation, even if it was a poor attempt at humor. She fussed with her hair for a moment. “How do captains wear it? I’ve seen the general wrap her braid around her head.”
“Either that or cropped.”
She twisted her braid up and about. The second time her shaking hands dropped her hair pins, he took pity on her. His fingers were gentle at the nape of her neck as he pinned the hair into place. “Alea—”
“Don’t, Narier. Please.” She jerked away as soon as he finished and grabbed the pack.
“I wasn’t going to talk you out of it, or be cruel.”
“I know.” The door clicked softly shut behind her and her boots echoed along the hall. She was not ready for good-byes.
Φ
The 11th Day of Lumord, 1252
The knock was pointedly quiet on Bren’s door. He jerked it open, mouth already thin. “Arman. Should have known.”
Arman rolled his eyes. “You have time for a drink?”
“Yes, and so does Alea, I’d warrant.” He closed the door and pulled a flask from his desk. “Your boorish behavior does not make me like you much, Rakos.”
“You don’t need to like me.”
“Sure would make things nicer, though, wouldn’t it?” He poured them both a few finger-widths and screwed the top back on. “What brings you back here?”
“A long story.” He looked down at the alcohol, face shadowed.
Bren frowned. In the weeks that had passed, it looked as if he had lived years. “Vielrona?”
“Fell. The gods destroyed it.”
“Gods? I thought they only acted through Azirik.”
“Their best power is through him, I think. He created that storm on the Iron Sea. I imagine he did the same. This time it was acid clouds and poisonous gas.”
“Your family?”
“My Ma’s dead, and my friend Wes and the girl I thought I’d marry.”
“I’m sorry, Arman.” Bren looked away. “I wish there was something I could do.”
Arman glanced up. “There is one thing. Nothing large.” When Bren nodded, Arman continued. “I’ve a friend, only one left, really. He’s a locksmith and his name is Kam-Rit Eltena. His wife is Celly. By the time you see them they’ll have a babe. They need a home and work. I told them to come north and find you. I told them Mirik would be home now.”
“I’ll do what I can. We’ll need craftsmen surely.” Bren sat back. “The woman you wanted to marry—how did you leave things?”
“I ran off with a mysterious woman barely a week after proposing marriage. How do you think we left things?”
“Terrible proposals seem to collect around Alea.” Bren laughed and poured another drink.
“You botch one recently?”
“No, but Daymir did, before he was disinherited. Asked Alea to be his queen.”
Arman choked on his drink. “You’re joking.”
“I wish I were. He was fuming when he left, which wasn’t a bad sight.”
“He wanted her power, I assume?”
“I think he enjoyed her company. The power didn’t hurt, though. Part of me is surprised she doesn’t have more suitors. Perhaps they’re too scared of the rumors.” Bren hid a smile. “Even Narier no longer visits her.”
“Narier, what does he have to do with the price of Banis silk?”
“He told her she was too powerful, too inhuman for him now. He said it gently, but it was still a pointed reminder about how she is viewed.”
“He’s a coward.”
“You’re just unhappy he’s bedded her.”
Arman’s eyes widened and he looked up. “He what?”
Bren’s expression sobered quickly. “I thought you knew.”
“Knew Narier took advantage of her? What kind of brother are you that would allow that?” Arman grimaced. “What kind of guard am I that I didn’t notice? The man beheads people for fate’s sake!”
Bren rolled his eyes. “Arman, this is war, soldiers kill people. It was during the siege. He was kind and funny and saw her as a woman.”
“You should bed him if you like him that much.”
“He’s not really my preference, I’m more for the darker men.” Bren’s deadpan grew serious. “Arman, if she doesn’t love you, that’s the end of it, but you certainly don’t make it easy. She doesn’t want a guard, she wants a friend. She wants a lover.”
“I do see her as a woman.”
“You don’t treat her as such.”
He hung his head. “I know. I’m too damned scared. I’m too much of a coward.” He inhaled sharply. “I found more Rakos. Two, at least. Hopefully they’ll find more.”
Bren leaned forward. The Rakos were something that even most legends did not dare to touch. “What are they like?”
Arman snorted. “I’ve only met the one and he’s mad. He was trapped in a temple in Berr. Chewed off his own leg years ago. Half the words he says are ‘fear.’“
Bren’s brows rose. “Sounds like quite the army you’ve got there.”
“I know. I’m hoping they’ll prove useful.”
“What can they do? Besides put anyone off their meal for a day.”
Arman laughed, the sound low and rattling. “The Rakos that changed, like they did, like I am, they weren’t called Earth Shakers for nothing.” He stood abruptly. “Please don’t tell Alea I was here.”
Bren stood, raking a hand through his hair. “I don’t have to. She knew, last time. Asked me flat out if you’d been here while staring at the window where you jumped. Don’t bother pretending.”
Arman winced. “Was she angry?”
“More at you than me. You’ve barely seen her long enough, Arman, but she’s changed. That mild girl you had bumping along behind you on the road is gone. She’s brilliant and terrifying.”
Arman paused in the doorway with a smile. “She always was. You just couldn’t see it before. I’m headed south again, I’ve got more Rakos to find.”
“You ought to find that fleet before Tzatia beheads you.”
“Let her try. I’m sure the navy can manage on their own. I’ll be back for battle.”
Bren watched him disappear down the hall. When the hall was deserted, he stepped up to Alea’s door, knocking. “Alea? It’s me.” No answer came and he finally turned away. It was fitting, he supposed, after the unity displayed at the address, that their nights were spent in solitude.
Chapter SEVENTEEN
The 12th Day of Lumord, 1252
The City of Ceir Athrolan
BREN HALF EXPECTED ALEA to accompany him to the docks, but his knocking was met with silence. He met Kemmer at the palace gates however, and grinned. The woman’s new armor gleamed in the sunlight.
“You look like a general, Kemmer.”
She flushed and saluted him, but her grin was wry. “Are you suggesting a promotion?”
Bren snorted and headed towards the docks where Aldac already waited. “I’m barely adjusted to my own new position. We’ll talk after the war, eh?”
She fell into step beside him, one hand resting on the head of her axe. “General A’hane does have a fantastic ring to it, Lord Commissioner.”
“Insubordinate A’hane has a better one.” He flashed the woman a grin. They had made bounds in the weeks working together. Though he joked with her, she was bright and however teasing her suggested promotion was, it warranted some thought. The letters from Mirik were swift and short, as were his responses, but nothing replaced seeing the fruit of his efforts arrive at Athrolan’s harbor. He was more than a bit nervous. Aldac stood by the largest naval dock, dressed like Kemmer, though his armor was his own. He saluted Bren, his expression far more serious. “Lord Commissioner. The signal went up ha
lf an hour ago. They’ll dock within a few minutes.”
Chains blocked the naval docks from the others, but a small crowd gathered against them, peering at Bren and his officers. The Miriken would arrive on three of the Athrolani ships, and it had been a long time since Athrolan paid host to another army. Another signal flag unfurled from the Naval watch tower in the center of the harbor’s entrance. The ships rounded the cliffs and coasted into the shallower blue waters. Bren clenched his jaw against its gaping. They were not Athrolani ships.
The two galleys were long, outfitted with green sails and new hulls. The third ship was larger, almost the size of the Athrolani battle ship. It’s prow was narrower, and the men lining the rails were dressed in a familiar bronze and leather armor. Their cloaks and tunics matched the brilliant vermilion of the sails furled along the new wood of the repaired triple masts.
“Kemer, did you know about this?” He tore his eyes away to glance at his first officer.
She shook her head, but her smile was bright. “No, sir. My brother promised a surprise, however. I think he outdid himself.”
“I think you have competition for your promotion.”
Her laughter drowned in the shouts of the sailors and dock hands as they guided the ships to berth.
Two men stood at the helm of the battleship. The iron hair and weathered face labeled one as Oland, but the other Bren did not know. Arik waved an order to the soldiers as he and his companion disembarking first and striding over to where Bren waited. The soldiers filed out after them, the rumble of armor warming Bren’s stomach. Arik paused a few paces away and saluted Bren. His eyes smiled, but his face was serious. “Lord Commissioner Barrackborn.”
Bren offered his arm in greeting. “You’ve done wonders, Arik.”
Arik grasped the arm, but raised his chin. “It’s Commissioner of the Commons, now.” He stepped back and jerked his head at the man standing a pace behind him. “And this is Kole Gallik, Commissioner of Diplomacy and Negotiation.”
Something uncurled in Bren’s chest at the words. A year ago Mirik was in shambles. A month ago he was acting king of a starved, abandoned city. Now he had a government and army behind him. Pride. He took Gallik’s arm with a nod. “I look forward to working with you. You’ve done wonders.”
Gallik’s grip was firm and his plain face open. “I’m proud to see how far we’ve come since you arrived.”
The final lines of the soldiers disembarked, turning to salute him with a clatter. Bren waved at them, not bothering to contain his impish grin. “Oh, just wait until you see where we’re going.”
Φ
The 13th Day of Lumord, 1252
The Ruins of Claimiirn
Loneliness was sharpest in the enveloping noise and bustle of Ceir Athrolan. The rolling expanse of hills and forest edging the road was different. There were no meetings or calls for lunch. The noises were hooves on stone and animals preparing for winter. The leaves chattered in the wind. Alea realized she had forgotten how to be alone. There was no need for defenses or verbal sparring. She smiled and it did not feel strange.
The road east had been maintained until it met the small canyon through which they had sailed upon their arrival to Ceir Athrolan. Now, almost at the border, it was barely a worn line of earth. More often she guided herself based on the sun, instead of what may have once been road.
The autumn days were bright and crisp, just cool enough to urge her faster. With nothing to answer to save her own thoughts and those of her persnickety horse, her days were long and easy, her nights dark and often wakeful. It was only after a week that she noticed the first reminder of war.
The trees crowding the narrow road bore marks from passing wagons and the underbrush was battered by boot heels. She slowed, muttering an absent reassurance to her horse. The threads on low hanging branches were green, but that could mean anything. The average raider would benefit from the camouflage of green wagon canvas. She spent the next hour on foot, picking out details of the road’s previous travelers. The gravel crunching under her boots was a rosy brown. She was no tracker, but an army did little to hide their passing and by the time she emerged on the cliff tops overlooking Claimiirn, she knew enough to hide. The granite cliffs ringed the plains in a U that opened to the treeless hill in the northeast.
Athrolan’s penchant for cliff-top capitals did not begin with Ceir Athrolan, it seemed. The walls carved from the opposite cliff face were weathered, but the beauty still echoed. The low-slung sun painted the ruins of the former palace pink. The cliff where Alea crouched once sported a fort, only a few walls still standing. She crept to the edge, relying on the setting sun to blind anyone who happened to glance up. Azirik’s army camped below. The mass of tents and picket lines impressed her. And I thought the outguard was an army. She stopped counting tents at seventy and began estimating by how many fit under her upheld thumb. She was lucky that Azirik was not using the palace ruins for anything other than storage and officers’ tents. After a quick noting of guards’ locations, she edged back into the protection of the crumbling fort to wait until nightfall. Perhaps it was the approaching winter, but for the first time during her journey, she wished she could light a fire.
Φ
Midnight guard change was marked by a low trumpet and the muttering of picketed horses. Alea rose and stretched her stiff muscles. They no longer ached from the long days of riding, but lying on cold earth did no one any good. After the burning faded, she tied cloth scraps around her horse’s hooves and harness metal. It was a tedious process that did nothing to make friends with the intolerant animal, but when she finished they could have walked into the camp itself unheard.
Satisfied that she had done everything she could, Alea headed off along the cliff top, keeping to the tree line where possible. A trumpet marked the death-hour as she came upon the edge of the palace. The trees had dropped away, but she found a wall that still stood tall enough to hide her mount. After a few fumbling minutes she remembered how to tie the reins in a break-away knot and managed to tether the horse to an overgrown bush. The rough map An’thor had drawn was still folded in her pocket, but she had spent enough evenings pouring over it. The layout burnt on the backs of her eyelids. Her boots scuffed on the rough stone, but save for the two guards flanking the old rear gate, she saw no one.
Claimiirn was built at the beginning of Athrolan’s might, and her architects were humble. The halls were narrow and the windows small, protecting against attacks. There was none of the hubris shouted from Ceir Athrolan’s gleaming dome and arching aqueducts. Fourth hall on the right. Eight flights of stairs. Second door on the left. The treasury was an unlikely home for the Crown, but An’thor promised it would be the best to go there first.
No torches lit the stone, but the moon was bright and high in the sky still. At each window, Alea marked its location. Four hours until dawn. It would not do to find the Crown, only to be caught as the sun rose. Her impatience almost won out at the fifth stair, but she forced her boot falls into silence and continued down. She realized belatedly that she was tunneling into the depths of the cliff, and the treasury would be beneath even the level of the plains. The air seemed thicker and she felt the weight of the earth above her.
It was not until she paused outside the treasury door that she heard the footsteps. They were quiet, but steady, and approaching from above. She opened her mouth to breathe silently and crept along the wall. Her fingers found the door latch, cords of tendons standing out as she worked to open it soundlessly. The latch clanked as it opened and the footsteps above stilled. She heard a man’s cautious sniff. She hoped he suffered autumn allergies, but there were a dozen more sinister thoughts tumbling through her brain. She stepped backward through the door, feeling her way with a groping hand. The darkness within the treasury was absolute, so thick she could taste the black on her tongue. She swung the door almost closed, holding the latch up with a shaking hand. The stone was cold and damp against her ear as she pressed it to the crack between the
wall and door. She focused on counting her breaths. She had slowed them to every twelve seconds when the man finally turned and retreated up the stairs.
She turned, latch forgotten as she fumbled with the flint and hand-torch on her belt. The oil-soaked fluff she packed into the tin box shed only a small circle of light, but it was enough to get her bearings. All gold and finery were stripped. The only remaining hangings were torn or faded. The furniture and chests left were either broken or too heavy to easily remove. All were empty. I’m in the treasury of one of the wealthiest kingdoms ever to rise, and it looks like a tavern’s barren pantry. She checked every corner, each closed drawer, but there was nothing. She briefly dared to raise her power enough to sense the room around her, but the room was as still as before. She snuffed the tinder box and tucked it back into her pocket after a moment. Her fingertips stung from the heated metal, but she missed the comfort of its light and warmth. She crouched by the cracked door for another minute until her eyes were accustomed to the darkness again before slipping out of the treasury and back up the stairs.
Three flights above the level I entered are the royal chambers. If it’s in Claimiirn at all, An’thor said it might be kept there. Blood hissed in her ears as her adrenaline surged again. She was happy to be out from under the tangible press of earth. The palace could have been ruined by neglect. The scars of weapons on stone were eroded by wind and rain. The doors that hung crooked had fallen from their hinges. The sharp edges of windows broken by arrows were long since ground flat. The royal chambers were different. The lock was broken on the doors, like the others, but it seemed even time had not ransacked the rooms. Some things were sacred regardless of race or culture. An empty nursery, with all its broken promises was one such sanctity.
The massive wooden beams caved into the center of the room, the catapulted stone that crushed them shattered across the flagging. The bed was broken beneath and a cradle splintered beside it. Alea’s heart ached at the sight. Arman had told her the story of this room. Even with the distance of legend, it was heartbreaking. An’thor lost his son in this room. In that cradle. Beneath that beam. She shook away the tugging sorrow and turned to the smaller room that served as a study. The bookshelves were mostly empty, their contents stacked on the desk ready for packing. She opened each drawer quietly, fumbling for the latch of any hidden compartments or false bottoms. Next, she pawed through the chests and the wardrobe. Like the treasury, it was empty. If the Crown’s not here then the Ageless brought it back home. Seems I’m headed to Neneviir. She turned to the door and stopped.
