by V. S. Holmes
“I’ll be grizzled and old ‘fore Toar takes me!”
“I’ll become king or maybe a duke,
I’ll be rich and more handsome you’ll see!”
Alea fell back laughing breathlessly. “Dancing is better than singing by far. What other steps might you know?” Across the camp came the sound of others singing, a fiddle and horn joining the raised voices.
“Reka taught me one of the Border dances for victory in battle.” When Alea urged Bren, he handed his flute to Kal and began to stomp gracelessly around the flames. After a moment the pattern emerged and Alea joined him. They whirled, the others rising as well, Kal abusing Bren’s flute to their steps.
Φ
The music pierced through Arman’s mind as he and the other Rakos edged along the outskirts of the camp. The myriad songs and dances combined oddly, but the desperation and joy were not lost on him. He had almost reached the cliff tops when he caught sight of Alea. She was spinning around with Bren, a strange series of steps that looked more like combat than actual dancing. He crept closer before realizing what he had done.
The woman before him was not the Alea he remembered. Eras’s hard words about his expectations echoed through his mind. No, she’s not what I expected, but she’s everything I could want. His steps brought him closer still, until he stood in the trees just outside the ring of firelight. Her power pulsed over him, her off-tune singing drawing a smile onto his face. He warred with himself, watching her dancing and feeling the firelight between them. It was likely the last night he would live through and he knew exactly where he wanted to be.
There were three lights that burnt in the heart. The first was the bright, violent flash of passion. The second was a slow steady burn—the approach of spring, knocking ice from the streams and frost from the grass. It was freedom.
The third was brighter than the sun. It boiled through his body, burning everything else away until a single thought remained. Surrender. He swallowed hard and stepped into the firelight.
Φ
Alea’s breath came in gasps of laughter. The campfire roared higher, shedding light onto the man standing a few paces away. Alea’s steps slowed and her breath faltered. Kal’s music stopped. The man across the campsite was different. His blonde hair was longer and his tanned skin dusted with strange metallic scales. She would recognize him anywhere, not from the color of his hair or the set of his wiry shoulders, but by the crackling heat of power crashing against her mind. Of course he’d be here. At the end of all of this. She felt Bren’s eyes fixed on them, but he did not speak.
Arman took a step closer, more like a wary animal than a man. He cautiously extended his hand, the low hum of a tune drifting from his throat. Bren pulled his flute from Kal’s loose grip and echoed the notes softly. He played again, faster, the notes dissolving into the liquid of music. Arman’s hand still reached between them.
It fit that they would meet at the end of this journey, in the firelight before the glare of battle. She thrust every thought from her mind, every bitter word, and grabbed his hand. The stillness broke and they whirled, the steps coming faster now, more assured as Bren’s tune wailed through the night. She danced for victory without hearing the music, pouring her heart into the steps with her Rakos guard. The tears on her cheeks were salty and warm and she was not sure if the sobs racking her body were of laughter or weeping. Her boots and his beat into the still soft ground, and she hoped their steps would shake the very earth under the gods’ feet.
Chapter TWENTY
The 8th Day of Valemord, 1252
The Athrolani Camp at Claimiirn
THE FIRES WERE BANKED and the remaining music quiet. Alea nestled the kettle further into the fire. She glanced up to see Arman disappearing into the forest. “Arman?” He froze at the sound of her voice and she could see his jaw working. “I understand if you’re angry, but could we talk?”
“Resolution before death?”
“As grim minded as you are, you were never a fatalist.”
He drew a breath then followed her inside her tent. When she sat on the edge of her cot he took a seat on the chest across from her. His body was that of a man, not the boy who followed her to war a year earlier.
“I can’t understand your anger.”
He looked down. “A lot of things have changed since we last spoke. Civilly, I mean.”
“We both deserve honesty. I haven’t always given you that, or known what to say.”
“Then I will be honest as well,” He offered.
“After this battle the true war starts for me. I fight the gods. I will do terrible things, things that I’ve damned the gods for. I’d rather not go alone.”
“I’ve learned what this war will do to me, and it’s changed my face and my body and my thoughts. What has it done to you?” His eyes were narrowed and glowing in the darkness. “I’ve asked a dozen people, and none of them, not even Bren, know what you’ll do. They have assumptions and the echoes of promises you’ve made, but you haven’t told a single one.”
“They won’t understand, Arman. I don’t blame them, really. Battle has to be a dichotomy. Wars can’t be muddled or they’d never be won. I’m letting them believe I’m good, that I’m some benevolent creature come to save the world. And I will save it, but not the way they want me to.”
“What are you doing, then? Raising the Laen to power? Creating new gods for them to worship?”
“I’m not making anyone worship the Laen. I’d never make anyone worship them—I barely tolerate them.” The vehemence in her voice surprised them both. “No, I think humans have had enough of worshiping. It’s time to turn our eyes outward.”
His eyes widened. “You can’t.”
“Arman, it’s the only thing left. All the power bound up in the Laen and the gods and even the Rakos, it needs to go back. We’re strangling the world just with our existence. I’m not raising the Laen to power. I’m destroying them, too.” The confession ripped itself from her heart, leaving her gasping for air to fill its place.
“Then whatever you need from me, I’ll give it.” His eyes shone with the bravery it took to care for her and the strength needed to leave his world behind.
“You said this has changed you. I’m sorry for that.”
“It’s all right. Truly.” He looked at his hands. “My place has always been here and this creature has always been me. I realized something, too.” His pause was not for effect or out of pain. He finally met her eyes. In that moment everything they had feared was bared between them. “Alea, this battle will kill me.”
She reached across the distance between them. “Your power lies in sacrifice.”
He shook his head. “No. It lies in surrender.”
“Then can you trust me? Tomorrow I need there to be no barriers left between our power. Whatever anger you feel, whatever resentment, needs to be set aside. You’ve begged me to let you into my thoughts. Now it’s my turn to ask you to do the same.”
“Of course.”
“No, Arman. I tried to talk to you while I was in Le’yan. My thoughts just slid right off yours. I could see everything, hear everything in your world. I even screamed for you to hear me, but I was like a ghost.”
“You saw everything? Shite. I thought you were angry with me. I thought if I found someone else it would stop hurting. In the end kissing her moved me about as much as a dry history book. She was angry and frightened—she should have been. She thought I chose her because she had dark hair and pale eyes. Truthfully, you’re so far above anything I could not really see the resemblance.”
“You can’t fancy the sun.” She laughed softly and waved away his questioning gaze. “I thought I asked you to take me off that pedestal.”
“Did I mention I’d been drinking?”
“From my experience that had little to do with it.” Her laughter joined his, low and warm in the confines of the tent. “I’m sorry I was distant.”
“I’m sorry I was an ass.”
“I’m
sorry I never let you in.”
“I’m sorry I never gave you a reason to.” He glanced outside. “It’s late and we’ll have a damned early morning. I’ll let you rest.”
She touched his wrist as he went to rise. “Please. When we were on the road you were always there. Just for tonight.” He faltered and she edged over on the cot, patting the vacated space.
Finally he toed off his boots, nudging them to sit beside hers. He slid under the coverlet with her, one arm propped behind his head. “I missed you.”
She rested their clasped hands on his chest. “And I you.” Her eyes slid closed, the lines of worry relaxing for the first time in months. “Good night, Arman.”
“Good night, Alea.”
Φ
The 9th Day of Valemord, 1252
Alea woke once, shortly before dawn. The body beside her was incredibly warm. She blinked as the face before her came into focus. Arman’s features were drastically different. Scales spiraled over his brow and cheeks, larger in the center of his forehead and the bridge of his nose. They were white-gold. The unaffected skin was tanned as always, but with a metallic undertone.
This war is making monsters of us both. Difference is, yours is beautiful. She closed her eyes and nestled closer. There were only a few hours of peace left.
When she woke again it was dawn. Arman was gone and the bed cold. The camp began to bustle outside, the clatter of metal pans and armor sounding through the campsites. She rose quickly and dressed before turning to the chest of armor. A dirty, battered envelope sat atop it.
She did not need the plain script to tell her it was from Arman.
Alea,
There are so many things I wanted to tell you, to share with you, but never had the words. Now, when I have them, I realize that you probably already know.
I know what I said in the gardens in Athrolan, but our bond is the closest to vows, our friendship the closest to marriage as I suspect I’ll ever come, or ever want to. This ring was the one my father gave to my mother. It doesn’t belong to anyone, if not to you.
With everything I have and am,
-A
Alea tipped the envelope over her hand. The gold gleamed dully in the early minutes before sunrise. She tucked the letter away and slid the ring onto her middle finger. Each motion seemed a ritual as she donned her armor. Each added weight was a manifestation of what rested on her shoulders. She was braiding the top half of her hair back when someone rapped on her tent pole.
“Yes?” She turned about, wrapping a leather tie around the end of her plait.
Bren stepped in. He watched her silently for a moment before gesturing to the breast and back plate she had yet to put on. “Would you like help?”
She nodded and allowed him to buckle the metal at each shoulder and about her ribs.
“I saw Arman this morning.” Bren’s words were soft. “I’m glad he came to see you.”
“I am too.” She reached for the box that held the two Crowns when Bren grabbed her hand. He examined the ring, his gaze thoughtful. “It’s what Arman’s father gave his mother,” she explained.
“You know what this means to him? What you wearing it means?”
“I know.” She shifted. “Bren, I—”
He drew her into a sudden, hard embrace. Their armor clunked as his arms tightened around her. “You can say it later.” He drew away. “We should be going, the men are gathering for you to see them.”
“I’ll be along.” She watched him go before sliding the Crown onto her head. It was cold, and sent slivers of tingling pain through her skull as if she had drunk something incredibly cold too quickly. She ducked from the tent and wound through the tents to the cliff tops. The assembled army was quiet, and she could hear the shouts and commotion of their enemy below. The sunlight moved slowly across the fields, inching down the cliffs. Alea moved down the line of men, her steps quick and sure. She reached the first row. She grinned at Narier. Her hand brushed his and she moved down the line, touching hands, faces, shoulders, bleeding cold into their armor and skin. It took the better part of an hour before she was through. Finished, she returned to their front.
“What I gave you allows me to find you and protect you when I must. It will not save your lives against every sword blow, but it will help in the end.” She tried not to think of all the faces that would not smile the next day. “You have my deepest gratitude for standing with me today.” She fumbled with what to say. There were no words that did not sound trite, or like a battle ballad. Finally she raised her fist to her brow, her lips, her breast, then threw it into the air. “Luck and love go with you.”
Her salute broke the stillness and the men mounted up or drew weapons. The forces moved forth, where the slope down to the fields was more gradual.
Narier appeared, followed by Kal and her other appointed guards. “We’ll go scout the battlements. We’ll be ready when you are, Dhoah’“
“Thank you Narier.” She was moving to follow when she caught sight of the approaching figures. Arman’s stride was purposeful, the four creatures loping beside him something out of stories. He stopped a pace away from her. “You have something of mine.”
She tugged the Rakos Crown free and placed it gently on his brow, brushing his cheek with her thumb as she drew away. Scales exploded across his skin at the contact. His pupils were blown and flames erupted through his hair. She grinned at him. “You look brilliant, Arman.”
His teeth bared in an answering smile. “And you’re magnificent.”
She squeezed his hand and stepped away. “On my signal, Earth Shaker.” She jogged up to the fort. The sound of horses and armor and orders faded as she entered the ruins. She saw the place she had camped weeks before, and found the winding stairs up to what was left of a watch tower. She passed Sousa and Henack on her way, returning their wan smiles. The battlements were broad and high, the granite warming to pink in the sun. She looked down at where Arman waited on the cliffs with the other Rakos. Catching his eye, she grinned wolfishly. Is it bad that I wish I could see their faces when we let our powers loose?
His laugh rumbled through her mind. Ready when you are, milady.
She watched the army move into place, horses wheeling and weapons gleaming. Below, Arman shrieked and leapt into the air. Power rose into her body, faster than before, pouring through the conduit of her Crown. Black fog erupted from her palms and the battle began.
The connections to her power were multiplied, as if what was once a river now roared as a delta. Every nerve seared with cold. The fields below were vast, covered in waving gold grasses. It will be a pity to stain it red. Her thoughts were absent and drifting. Everything was both muffled and magnified through the lens of her power. Azirik, come on. The sound of rending metal cut through the air and a mass of bloody-red power bloomed from the ruins of the palace. It expanded, blotting out the rising sun and the scant white clouds high above. The air stained crimson and grew thick and cloying. Vielrona was destroyed by burning clouds. The clouds pulsed, with each contraction they spit out sheets of glistening, oily rain.
The crawling wrongness centered around a brilliant spark of copper in her mind’s eye. Her fingers twisted, fumbling due to her injured left hand. With a snarl she ripped the bandages and splints away and began again. Her black fog writhed, weaving itself into ropes and bindings of a net. With a flick of her wrists, she flung it over the spark. Azirik’s attention swiveled toward her as she tightened her hold. The familiar reek of rot and sickness wafted towards her. Where have I smelled that? In her mind she saw the bright blue of Azirik’s eyes, bloodshot and stained with jaundice.
Φ
The general drew up, ignoring the stinging in her ribs. This was not the time for distractions. Her piercing whistle rang against armor. Those with halberds rushed to the fore, planting the butts of their weapons as another charge approached. The pain hit her, driving breath from her lungs. She cursed and pulled back, shouting for the Colonel of the North Regiment. “Hamacad!”
The man finally crashed through the tangle of weapons and horses, wiping blood from his sword. “General?” His gaze fell to the blood drenching her side. “Shite!” He grabbed her reins and pulled her horse away.
“Enough!” Eras spat blood with her words. “You’re acting general now. Leave me!” She slapped his horse’s rump with the back of her gauntleted hand. He glanced at her before rushing away to regroup her men. Her dismount was closer to a stumble. Her vision blurred and she ripped her helm off. The Asai rarely thought about their own deaths. It was a given, not something to be fought, and the Asai part of her knew it well. The human part of her mind raged against the relief in her limbs, and the sticky gore covering her tabard. Each breath sputtered through the blood in her throat. She dropped her bow and drew her knife before throwing herself into a knot of Miriken.
Φ
Bren whirled his horse about, twisting his blade in a circle above his head. “Regroup!” The rain splattered thickly against his new armor, the vapor rancid. He drove his men against the wall of Berrin again. He thanked the general silently for sending his charges against men he had never known. The enemy outmatched them by easily a thousand. He signaled for the men to press out, driving the wave of Berrin towards the general’s men. It took Bren several sword-swings to realize they were not the only ones protected by power. From the corners of his eyes he caught sight of the glittering coat of red deflecting all but the most direct blows. “Toar!” He blinked sweat from his eyes and whirled into the fray.
Berrin archers found purchase on the cliffs and rained bolts from above. Though distracting at first, the steaming rain did its work, the noxious smell choking air from faltering lungs and burning through exposed skin. Bren caught Hamacad’s eye and they signaled to fall back. The sight before them was bitter. More than half their number littered the fields. The Berrin and Miriken did not pursue them, retreating for the moment to gather their own forces.
Bren grinned. Whatever the cost, they had dented their enemy’s number. He trotted over to the commander and colonels. “We took a third perhaps,” he noted, drawing up beside them.
