Smoke and Rain (2 page)

The 20th Day of Lumord, 1251

The City of Berrinal

Bren decided Berr was not a beautiful country, but its timelessness grew on a man. It was wedged between the curl of mountains running along the eastern coast and the rocky shores of the ocean. He was growing used to their hosts after spending the better part of two months among the Berrin.

He sat in the rear of a small rest house, the closest establishment to an alehouse the Berrin had. His feet were propped on a narrow stool and he held a large mug of hot
ucal
, the fermented seaweed drink preferred by the locals. His staff bearer sprawled similarly beside him. Both wore the brown uniform of Miriken soldiers, though Bren's was newer. His ever-increasing height forced him to be outfitted more often than any man had a right. The heavy copper emblem hanging from his neck, however, was old and worn. The center shone from the number of times he had rubbed a thumb over it during prayer or thought. He fiddled with it absently now. “Korir, you should ask for a foot rub." His voice was low. The gray landscape lent itself to silence, and the Miriken were reluctant to break it.

Korir snorted, "I would be as likely to get a man as a woman. I've had too many surprises this journey already." The Berrin cared little about whether one was born male or female to fulfill certain gender roles. This led to several confusing and embarrassing situations when the more rigid Miriken had first arrived.

"It will be a relief to be back among our own city girls," Bren's grin was roguish.

"Are you growing tired of the new culture already, Corporal?"

Bren laughed. He had practically run to the ship when they received orders to sail for the mainland, eager to set his feet on anything other than Miriken soil. Bren was about to order another drink when a head popped through the door to the main room of the alehouse. "Corporal Barrackborn, Milord King asks for you."

Bren handed Korir his mug. "Here, I might be awhile." The streets were haphazard and winding. By the time he arrived at the top floor of the embassy manor his cloak was coated in a thin dusting of salt. Berrin seafearing shamed all others, though Mirik was an island kingdom herself. The former lived and died by the waves, and the sea filled every aspect of their world, from patron gods to officers' titles in their army. Bren tidied himself and pulled the leather cap off his short, auburn hair. He rapped on the door softly.

"Milord King? Corporal Barrackborn here."

"Come in," the voice was distant.

Bren kept his head down as he shut the door behind himself. "You asked to see me, milord?" He was careful with his words. Though Azirik was never anything less than intelligent, the man's single-minded drive could be described as insanity. Now the king sat at his desk, peering at scattered military maps. His long hair had been laced with gray since Bren could remember, only the crown still a light red-brown.

"We are leaving Berrinal within a week. The negotiations finalize tomorrow. Save the hideous pomp, we are free to leave anytime afterward. I need a troop to move west. I sent Lieutenant Gransa south several weeks ago to hunt down rumors about Laen in Sunam. Cehn was defeated, but they lost the creatures. I want you to lead a second troop west, to cut off their escape in Athrolan."

"I am honored, milord, but would Lieutenant Serik not be more suited?"

Azirik's bright blue eyes flicked up to Bren with an unreadable expression. "Serik has been gone a week."

Bren forgot himself, "What, by Toar, does 'gone' mean?"

Azirik rose and walked to the window, ignoring his soldier's insubordination. "I do not know if you noticed, Barrackborn, but Mirik is not what she once was."

Bren had noticed, he would have been a fool to not. War changed Mirik. He witnessed it all from the soldiers' barracks where he had been raised. None dared mention the fall of the city, but Azirik would have to be blind not to see what his declared war was doing.

"Many lesser families sought safer cities years ago, when I first honored the gods with our dedication."

Bren did not break the long silence that followed the king's statement.

"Barrackborn, the capital is closing. All the higher born have fled the kingdom. Enough of our soldiers have family in the lower nobility. Serik was one, and he tried to follow his parents. The desertion was punished properly two days ago." He paused. "You are promoted to Lieutenant. You leave in four days at the head of Serik's troop. They are your men now."

Bren bowed his head, "Thank you, milord. I am honored to do all I can for the gods."

Azirik was silent again. He finally looked up, as if remembering Bren's presence, "You may go."

Bren bowed and showed himself out. He had wanted to finish his
ucal
, but now he just wanted air. Though an orphan, he had worked hard to educate himself. He knew serviceable economics, and if the higher born were fleeing the city, it did not bode well. The economy would be in waste and the common folk would starve. The commoners were the backbone of any city, and without them the city would fall.

He steadied himself as a particularly large wave made the ground lurch under him. The constant rocking of the Berrin capital, perched upon natural seaweed-supported islands and constructed rafts, wore on Bren's nerves. He pulled out a tattered bundle of cheap paper bound in canvas. With each advancement in the army, he had found it useful to record his thoughts before writing formal officer's logs. Perching on a wall at the edge of the ocean, he dipped a metal camp-quill into the ink.

Milord King made me Lieutenant of the Eighth this evening. This promotion is exciting, but I fear for the causes. I am told my predecessor deserted to be with his family, who, like many others, is fleeing the country. I never question my king, or even considered the logic behind the war. I know once I began I could not stop. Questioning orders is not my place. If Mirik cannot support this war, then what will become of us? Soon I will lead a troop into Athrolan, hunting the Laen. I
know I will have honor in destroying them, but I cannot say if the gods will care, or if Mirik will be rewarded for her dedication and sacrifice.

Φ

The 22nd Day of Lumord, 1251

The City of Vielrona

The quiet clicking of Arman's pliers distracted him from the eerie silence. Though quiet was preferable to the groaning of the injured refugees, he could not shake the feeling that he was surrounded by the dead. He leaned back to shed more light on his work. The hilt in his hand was intricate and the carefully placed garnets and topaz glittered under the single lantern. Though his father had been a true bladesmith, Arman's talents ran closer to artist and jeweler. Wes had taken over the heaviest smithing. Tending to the survivors had cut into Arman's work, but he found it was peaceful to work while he stayed through the night. He was tightening the wire wrapping around the hilt when ragged breathing cut through his focus.

A woman in a corner by the hearth tossed in her sleep. Arman poured a mug of water and crept over to check on her. Her dark hair was tangled across her furrowed brow. One white-knuckled hand clenched the sheets.

Nightmares.
He had no doubt most of the survivors would have them. He crouched beside the cot and dipped a cloth in the cool water of her washbasin. She muttered incoherently as he wrung it out and draped it over her forehead. Her face was the rich brown of the Sunamen, but her pale forearms told him she was not native to the desert. He pressed a finger to the place just below her thumb that his mother had shown him. He was not sure what to feel for, but her heartbeat was strong, if fast.
Dreams, even nightmares, are good. It means she will probably live.

Once her movements had settled, he returned to his seat. The room was quiet again, but he was distracted. He fingered the wood handles on his jeweler's pliers, thoughts drifting. A few of the survivors had woken, though most were too ill to be truly aware. Between festering wounds, exposure to the cold desert night, and dehydration, it was a wonder any had lived to see Vielrona. His musing was finally interrupted by familiar sounds drifting from the kitchen below. Arman glanced outside. It was dawn.

After a minute the door opened quietly. His mother moved from cot to cot, her fingers feather-light as they checked pulses, fevers, and bandages. Her smile was warm when she glanced up at him. “How are they?”

Arman wrapped his work and tools. “Well. It was a quiet night. That man's fever rose. He barely stirs.” His expression was grim. “That girl, there, she had a nightmare an hour ago. Settled when I put that cloth on her forehead though.”

Kepra's face softened when she followed his gesture. “No doubt she has heartbreak. She wears a betrothal ring.” She squeezed her son's hand, “Off with you, Wes will wonder why you're late.”

Arman changed into a clean shirt before taking the stairs two-at-a-time. He grabbed a pear from the hanging basket at the end of the long bar, biting into it as he left. He licked his thumb and pinched the wick of the lantern hanging beside the inn's wooden sign.

The streets were just beginning to bustle, but Arman navigated easily. As a child these streets had been his playground. The market spread across the northern end of the Lows and a wide cobbled street cut a swath through the jumble of stands. Arman sidled through a few narrow streets then ducked under a cloth roof of a knife stall. Wes already perched on a stool too small for his bones. He glanced, “Morning!”

Arman nodded back, his thoughts still hazy from lack of sleep. “Did you sell the branch-hilted one yet?”

Wes sighed, “No, but Megg is eying for her suitor.”

Arman made a face at the name and finished his pear. “Which one?”

Wes cackled and laid his whetstone aside. “The richest, you are to be sure.” He examined the edge of the blade he held. “Speaking of gossip, did you hear the street-talk yesterday?”

“What now?” Arman tossed the core of his pear into the ditch along the edge of the street. He ignored the curious stare his friend shot him and set about unloading more wares.

“Mistress Jehan said you were taking up with the Laen. Said they asked a favor.”

“And where would she have gotten that?”

Wes looked at him as if he had been dropped on his head as a babe. “Her boy cleans the privies on your street.”

“I know. All the Jehan's lie, Wes. They made up that tale that you were marrying the widow of Burrow-heel.”

Wes rolled his eyes, “She's about as fetching as my cousin's bull.” He flashed a wicked grin. “Her son, though – he's the proper combination of tall and narrow.”

Arman let out a short laugh. “If you ever finish the dagger with the jasper pommel perhaps you could give it to him.”

“Handsome sons aside, Arman, I worry when people talk. Saying you spoke with them is one thing – what is this about a favor though? The Jehan's lie, but the whole Lows do not.”

Arman had not been to the market since returning with the survivors. He was happy to be back, but the easy banter was a bit too pointed for his tastes. He elbowed Wes sharply. “Now you sound like the Jehan's.”

Φ

The 23rd of Lumord, 1251

Screaming was the only sound, blood the only scent. Rough hands ripped at Alea and she stumbled. Beside her Ahren thrashed on the ground, his body opened by a sword. The women her foster-father had hosted were clustered near the center of the oasis.
They are Laen. They will help.
It was desperation, not certainty that cemented the choice. She staggered towards them, eyes fixed on their silver-tinged forms.

Her thrashing legs flipped her out of bed. She gasped, choking on the memory of smoke and fear. Her body poured sweat, but gooseflesh crawled up her limbs. Distantly she realized she was screaming.

“Settle, my lady. You are safe. Settle.” The woman's voice was low, the language different.

Careful hands pressed on her arms. Alea blinked into focus. Her head was pounding. With a steadying breath she took stock of her surroundings. The room was plain, but well built. Hers was one of several beds lining the walls.
An infirmary room then.
She turned to the woman whose hand still rested on her elbows. Her hair was more gray than brown and her dark eyes were kind. “Hello.” she spoke Trade, the common tongue of the northern kingdoms.

Alea jerked a nod to show she understood. “Where-” her parched throat cracked and burned.

The woman smiled. “You are in Vielrona, your ally-city. This is my inn, and I am Kepra. My son helped bring you and the others here.” She helped Alea climb shakily under the coverlet again and lifted a mug from the nightstand to Alea's left. “Drink this, but slowly. Too fast will make you sick.”

Alea did as she was told. It was bitter and hit her stomach like a blow. When she had finished, Kepra offered another mug of water. “You need to drink. You have been very ill. Your fever is breaking through. I am terribly sorry for your losses.”

Alea saw her eyes flicker to the ring on her smallest finger and followed her gaze. Aching despair flooded her and she turned from the proffered mug. She did not want to eat.
If only I had not woken, had not been found.

“You need to drink, to eat.” When Alea still ignored her, the woman put the mug on the bedside. “I will check on you often. One of us is always here.” She rose, but paused before going back to the seat by the window. “When my husband passed I thought I could not go on. Sometimes, though, the happiness you find after great sorrow is all the sweeter.”