by V. S. Holmes
“I don’t mind.” Alea turned back to the boy. “You hear many of the stories living up here?”
“All of them. An’thor writes me letters, and sends news. I heard about the Rakos—do they really turn into monsters?”
Alea was taken aback. She had not heard that version of the story. “I think they create them or something. The Dhoah’ Laen’s guard, he’s fearsome. Fights too fast to see, full of all kinds of anger.”
“You fancy him?”
Alea started. “Admire him. You can’t fancy the sun.” A rumbling growl rose from the engine, and steam rolled past the windows of the cart. Wheels ground on rails and the train lurched into motion. They cleared the hall and emerged onto the tundra. The brown scrub grass was already dotted with frost in the valleys. Her white knuckles relaxed their grip on the bench after a few moments.
“Rest while you can. It’s a long trip to the capital.” Tennic leaned back against the wall. His eyes closed, but Alea would have bet her last coin that he was wide awake.
Her face pressed to the window as she stared out, listening to their metallic heartbeat thundering across the bleak landscape.
Chapter EIGHTEEN
The 20th Day of Lumord, 1252
The Tundra of the Northlands
ALEA JOLTED AWAKE. The Ageless stood and stretched around her. The train still hurtled across the landscape, but now it was dark. She wiped the grubby window with her sleeve and peered out. It was night, though she could not have slept for more than an hour. The moon had yet to rise and the stars spilled across the sky. The undulating landscape could have been Sunam, but the dunes and valleys were snow not sand.
Mel’iend glanced over at her as he rose. “We’ll just be a minute. Feel free to stretch your legs, just hold on to something if you’re going to walk around.” He grinned and followed the others into the cart at the front.
Alea rose, rolling stiffness from her cramped shoulders. The rhythmic motion of the carts on the rails was akin to a ship at sea. Albeit a very stormy sea. After a moment of peering out the windows along both sides, Alea sat back down. The Northlands were decidedly plain. The snow was only a few handbreadths deep from what she could see. Despite the thick clothes she was no longer sweating, so the temperature seemed to steadily drop. After a moment Mel’iend appeared from the door to the rear cart. Frost rimmed the fur collar of his jacket and made spires from his eyebrows.
“You went outside?” Alea’s heart bounced in excitement.
He nodded. “For a bit at least. You want to come?”
She followed him through the rearmost cart, filled with some of the boxes and chests she had seen in the warehouse. “You use this thing to travel because of the cold?”
“Because of impatience. Cold bothers us little.” He held the door open for her at the end. “We’ve got a few, depending on where we’re going and the weather. During the deep snow we can’t go very far unless the engine has an icebreak on its bow.”
A narrow causeway connected the carts, protected from the worst of the wind and cold by a flexible leather sheath. Alea crossed nervously, staring at the white ground flashing between the slats of the walkway. The other railcarts held canvas-covered boxes and barrels. In the rearmost, Mel’iend showed her how to lace up the face of her hood to cover her nose and mouth.
“Trust me, it hurts when the hairs inside your nose freeze.” He grinned at her disgust and shouldered open the door. Instead of a causeway, a narrow balcony hung from the back. Mel’iend gestured her onto the walk. It was achingly cold, but the air was fresh and she took a few deep breaths.
“Thank you for coming out with me. I know you just braved the cold.”
His soft, hissing laughter surprised her. “We’re born for this weather.” His face grew serious. “We should make the capital around dawn. Keep your head down and your eyes open.”
A shiver completely unrelated to the cold crawled down her spine. “You’re the king’s son?”
“Warlord. And yes.”
“So you’ll inherit?”
“Ah. No. Inheritance works differently with us. The staff does not pass by blood, but to the most worthy warrior. It tends to be a cousin or nephew, but that is circumstance only. Warlord Edrodene’s uncle was Warlord before him.” He shrugged. “I have no wish to rule, and few skills, so I doubt I’ll be chosen.”
“You’re young yet.”
“Seventy-two.”
Alea’s brows shot up. “You look fifteen.”
“That’s about the age a human becomes an adult, right?”
“A little bit young, but yes.”
“Then the ages are comparable.”
“You must at least be a decent fighter for Edrodene to allow you to come with this group.”
“He wanted me out of the way.” His crooked smile reminded her of Arman’s.
“How long until dawn?”
“Five hours. The nights are already growing longer. Less than a month and we’ll have no sun at all.” He pointed to the frost forming along her hood. “We should get back inside, you’ll have ice-burn before long.”
When she returned to her seat she leaned back, staring at the snow outside. Mel’iend’s suggestion to keep her eyes open threw shadows over her excitement and confidence. The Ageless seemed a rough race, however, and perhaps it was only the difference in culture that the boy warned her against.
She did not remember falling asleep again, but she woke several hours later. The cool blue of the northern sky heralded dawn. Tennic was rousing the others and barking orders in a guttural tongue. Seeing she was awake, he jerked a thumb at the windows opposite her. “If you want a view, it’ll be out those windows. My men must ready for arrival.”
Alea crossed the cart and perched on the newly vacated bench to watch. The snow here was deeper, and Alea realized that perhaps it never truly melted. She shuddered. She could never stand to live in a world so cold and dark. The tracks curved north, affording Alea an expansive view of the white tundra. She made out the shape of mountains ahead, pale against the lightening sky. With the cool, thin air, sunrise was swift. There was no gradual bloom of light and color. The sun exploded from the icy horizon, light billowing across the glittering snow. Alea blinked stars from her eyes and looked north.
There were no mountains. The buildings of Neneviir gleamed in the sunlight. At first it seemed as if the walls were made of glass blocks, but as they neared, curving further, she saw it was not glass, but ice. The blocks were as long as she was tall and stacked together with only the cold and snow to bind them. The spires and minarets were supported by delicate iron frameworks. The rust from the beams and pillars bled red across the blocks.
The city was large, predominantly a single building with sprawling wings and several storeys. The western half was still shadowed by its own bulk, and where the light had yet to touch, Alea saw the walls were lit from within by great oil lamps. A row of arched doorways greeted the steam engine as it glided to a halt before the great iron doors to the city.
Every piece of the building before her, the machines used to get there, even the face of the warriors that guarded the door, told her what it took to live in this bitter environment. This is where An’thor’s strength was born. There was no compromising in this snow-covered land. Compromise brought death. She swiped at her cheeks, half expecting tears. There were none, but her heart ached.
Mel’iend poked his head through the door to the stairs. “Come on.”
She stood and quickly gathered her pack. Her bow would only suffer from the weather, but she missed the statement a visible weapon made. The half dozen warriors that had accompanied her flanked the cart’s exit. Honored guest or prisoner? When it came to politics, she realized they were often similar.
Tennic glanced over at her. “Edrodene will see you within the hour. We’re to eat and warm before the audience. Afterward you’ll be given accommodations.”
“Thank you.” She shouldered her pack and allowed them to escort her up the ice-b
lock stairs and through the doors. She had thought the ice would be slippery, but the constant cold maintained the ridges carved on the surface. There was no courtyard, save the line of stables and berths for the engines. She supposed they rarely received visitors who did not also live there. The doors opened into a wide hall. Despite the inherent chill of the ice, it was comfortable. Straw dusted the floor and heavy oil lamps hung from the ceiling. It was militant, but not savage.
They brought her to a large anteroom equipped with an iron-lined fire pit and several chairs made with fur stretched over an iron frame. No trees means no wood.
“We’ll be a moment.” Tennic pointed to the food lain out. “Help yourself.” The Ageless huddled in a far corner, rapidly discussing something in their tongue. Tennic barked a harsh rebuke when Mel’iend faltered, clearly wanting to ask Alea more about the warmer parts of the world.
Tired of sitting, she paced around the room absently. There was no artwork or decoration, only serviceable tables with food and drink. She chose a handful of dried fruit. After a moment she looked over at her escorts. Mel’iend’s eyes flicked between hers and Tennic. His expression was that of seasickness.
She met his gaze with a frown. His eyes bored into hers, as if willing her to understand. She dared not reach her mind out to his, but the horror on his face churned her stomach. After warring with herself for a minute, she reached her thoughts out to brush his for a moment, looking away as she did so.
Beware.
She pulled away quickly, before he realized what she had done. The conversation stopped abruptly and Tennic cleared his throat. “Captain, the warlord will see you now. Keep it short.”
She nodded once and followed him through the larger doors. The hall was closer to a training court than a throne room. The floor was once again covered in straw. A massive iron fire pit sat in a depression in the center. The tiers surrounding it were covered in fur for lounging.
A set of iron stairs stood across the hall. These too were covered in fur, and an older man sat on the second highest. If the other Ageless were weathered, this man was battered. His bull’s horns were chipped and scratched, the marks blackened from smoke. Each hip bore one of the strange weapons An’thor wielded. The metal beads in his dry, untidy braids rattled as he cocked his head. “Why are you here?”
She bowed deeply. “Warlord Edro’dene, I come from Athrolan with orders from Her Majesty Tzatia and our ally the Dhoah’ Laen.”
“Orders? I’m the lord here, not some human queen or Laen girl.”
Alea’s nerves began to sing. This was nothing like An’thor promised. “Of course. We share an ally, however. Lord Commissioner Barrackborn has allied Mirik with An’thoriend Domariigo.”
“So my brother said. He’s never been the brightest. Optimism is an unfortunate disease of the Hotlands. He seems to have contracted a rather strong strain.”
“He said I would be allowed to look through your great treasury for an artifact the Dhoah’ Laen needs. It’s nothing valuable to you, and not fine in its craftsmanship.”
Metal clanged as Edrodene slammed his gauntleted fist on a bare spot of stair. “Fine? You think we care about finery here? Are you blind, Captain?”
Her stomach sank. “Forgive me, Warlord. Your people are a powerful enigma to us humans.”
He snorted. “As for your rank—you think I’d believe they would send a single captain here without other guards or better instructions? They either have too much faith in you or you are not what they think.” A flick of his fingers caused Tennic and the others to draw the strange weapons from the holsters on their belts. A series of metallic clicks rang against the ice walls as their thumbs pulled levers back.
She did not understand how they worked, but she understood a threat when she saw one. She raised her hands slowly. “I come from An’thoriend. I want nothing more than to finish my business here and be on my way.”
Edrodene’s expression did not flicker and her heart fell. Her thoughts turned to the desolation she had seen upon her arrival. “You’re isolated here. It was fine, for a time, but your people are dying, fleeing, and you have no resources. Your machines are all well and good, but you have no one to work them.” The growing smile on the warlord’s face was grim. “Fates you can’t be serious.” She sank to her knees and sat back on her heels, hands still raised, but without fear. “You saw what side would give you slaves. You thought the gods and Azirik would help you enslave the world. Your cryptic letter allowed the lie, but I’m not fooled anymore.”
“Throw the captain in a cell until I decide what to do with her.” Edrodene flicked his hand again before looking away, as if she was no more interesting than the filth under his long, cracked nails.
Her pack was ripped from her shoulder, the force sending her skittering across the floor. She managed to scramble to her feet before two of the men grabbed her by the arms and muscled her through a different door. The stairs down were narrow and twisting. Even with her boots she stumbled often. By the time they emerged into a low hall her shins were bruised and her cheek skinned from the roughly hewn ice wall.
Here the floors and walls were iron, as were the thick bars across the doors of each of the dozen cells. It smelled faintly of decay, even through the cold, and the sickly-sweetness of blood hung in the air. The room at the end of the hall was open. A single oil lamp hung low, illuminating the chair bolted to the floor. She clenched her hands to hide their shaking. She knew an interrogation room when she saw one.
“I don’t know what you think to get from me.” Her words guttered out when one of the men slammed the side of his fist into her diaphragm. Her breath flew from her lungs and she stumbled sideways. They shoved her into one of the cells unceremoniously and slid the bars shut.
“Whoever you are, the Warlord will find out.”
“I’m a captain in Athrolan’s army.”
The man shrugged before heading back up the stairs with his companion.
Alea watched him go before leaning against the bars. “I’m Lenna Grayhill.” Her voice was soft and wheezed over the “h” as she spoke. “I’m an Athrolani captain. I’m Lenna Grayhill.” Her words petered out, lips still moving soundlessly as she repeated her false name and rank over and over. Perhaps if she believed it enough, so would they.
It was two hours before anyone appeared, and her stomach was rumbling. Her adrenaline burnt through any food from the past day. This time there were four guards. One she recognized as Mel’iend.
She snarled at him. She had trusted him. A small part of her grinned when he refused to meet her eyes. “You think you’ll gain anything from torturing me? I know nothing—General Aneral isn’t stupid enough to send a confidant to a strange country, even one we thought to be an ally.”
“We don’t care about your strategy. We care about why you’re here and who you really are.” Tennic gestured to Mel’iend. “Read the letter.”
Mel’iend cleared his throat. “An’thor, I arrived at dawn on the 31st. Though not the most friendly, the Nenev have been hospitable. I’ll begin my search tomorrow. I trust I’ll see you soon. Luck and love, Grayhill”
Alea frowned. “You think he’ll believe that?”
“Has he seen your handwriting? We can persuade you to write it yourself.” Tennic’s grin had more teeth than the wind and Alea looked down. “I thought not. Send it out with the next raven.” He waited until Mel’iend retreated up the stairs. “Boy has no stomach for learning. It’s a shame he’s the Warlord’s son.” His black eyes flicked to Alea. “Now, let’s get to learning about you.”
The fact that the Ageless used “learning” as a euphemism for torture made her stomach twist tighter. Should I just reveal my power? Would that stop them? She had no doubt she could defeat a few guards, but the hundreds of warriors in the city above would be more difficult. Besides, I’d be hard pressed to escape on horseback. She grit her teeth as they unlocked her door and dragged her out. She brought her power up, not enough to color her skin or eyes, bu
t enough to envelope her mind. She would feel the pain, but it would be distant. They shoved her into the bolted chair and buckled her arms and legs down. She gathered everything she ever learned, everything that made her Alea, and tucked it behind the walls of darkness.
I am Lenna Grayhill. I’m a captain in Athrolan’s army.
The Ageless were not a stupid race, and despite the evidence, were not cruel for the sake of fun. Their abuse consisted of blows and bright lights and superficial wounds. She knew it was to keep her as whole as possible, not to be kind, but she was grateful nonetheless. She felt her lips move, repeating the litany of her identity, but she no longer heard her words. Her thoughts drifted to Reka, and wondered how the woman had fared before her death. Was Azirik cruel? Somehow the only times she pictured him, he was weeping.
Φ
The 25th Day of Lumord, 1252
The Orn de Galin Mountains
It seemed like centuries since Arman had last stood on the slopes of the Orn de Galin. The rocky slopes were stark, hawks circling on the heat waves rising from the outcroppings. Arman drifted upward on his own thermal. A curious bird flew too close, head cocked, eye turned towards the shimmering patch of air. Arman materialized his throat and mouth enough to rattle a warning call at the creature. He did not need distractions now. Below, Aral stretched on a rock, white belly turned to the warm sunlight. His crippled leg was ugly in the light of day, and Arman wondered how much the creature’s battered mind would actually help them. The mountain range was quiet, only the low moan of the wind breaking the stillness. He reached out with his mind, as he had before. Eana, where are you?
A hideous shriek echoed from the peaks behind him, startling the hawks into flight. There’s a reason nothing lives in these passes. Arman drifted lower, scanning the tumble of crags and stone. After finding Aral crippled and mad, Arman worried what awaited him with the others. He worried he was glimpsing his own future. A cave opened on a steeper slope below him. Bones littered the outcropping before the entrance. Most were those of animal’s, but not all. Arman coasted lower, finally solidifying on the stone before the cave’s mouth. At first he thought the creature crouched in the opening was a statue.
