Smoke and Rain (3 page)

Alea rolled over, her back to the woman. In a moment the silence was broken by the terribly familiar sound of needlepoint. Alea buried her face in the covers and tried to weep.
With Cehn they took my past and with Ahren they took my future. There is nothing left.
The tears would not come.
Let me leave this foreign place. Let me see my ihal
and Merahn and Ahren again.
She repeated the litany until sleep took her and memories played havoc with her dreams once more.

Φ

The 27th Day of Lumord, 1251

Arman was grateful some survivors had recovered enough to move out and find work. Watching three people, however, felt awkward. He fiddled with a loose fitting on the stiletto’s handle. It was a fine piece, but he had made better. He ran a cursory glance over the sleeping forms. The cold-itch walked up his spine again and he shuddered it away. He understood the reaction to having the Laen in his house, in this room. It should have faded by now. He scowled at Wes' words the night the Laen left with their precious burden.
I will not run into the woods after them.
Still he harbored a nagging curiosity over the strange women.

He glanced out the window, measuring the moon's height with mental thumb-thickness.
Any moment now she'll start her nightmare. It will last two minutes.
His hands suddenly froze on his work.
She was found in the manor, just like the Laen. She might have seen something. She might know more.
The interest bordered on morbid, but not unnatural, he told himself. They gave him a memory, the image of the pale man. It was natural to be curious.

Right on time the girl began to toss. Her foreign words were muttered and fearful. And angry. He laid his work aside and crouched beside her bed. He rested a hand beside her ankle. His mother said dreams – even bad ones – were the soul's way of making you face things, helping to understand a deeper part of yourself. Arman was inclined to believe it, but this girl had dreamt horrors enough. He shook her foot gently.

She came to screaming. Her eyes rolled, and strings of sweaty hair made her look wild. He held out his hand peacefully, and tried to look as gentle as possible.
At least my hair is yellow, and not brown like the Miriken who attacked her.
Her gaze flitted between the open window, the beds, the door. He could see it was not random, but calculated.
Finding her bearings.
It took a moment, but her eyes finally rested on him. They were gray.

He offered a smile with a cup of water. “You are safe. This is Vielrona. I am Arman.” He stopped himself from telling her it was just a dream.
It was real to her, once.

Her shaking hands spilled water across the coverlet, but her eyes narrowed when he reached to help.

“How long?” Her words were raspy and her accent odd, but understandable.

“How long have you been here?” He kept his voice low and calm.

Her head jerked in a nod.

“Ten days. Your fever broke the night before last.”

“Who else?”

He felt his calm expression falter. “I do not know who you might have known. We brought the survivors here and have tended you. This is my mother's inn. She said you woke to her, but you may not recall.”

“Brown hair, kind eyes.”

Arman smiled at her description. “Yes. Do you need more water?”

She looked around, the strength on her face crumbling. “I want to sleep.”

“I'll make you tea. It will help.”

When he returned she had straightened her covers and was wearing a shawl wrapped around her head.
Right, all Sunamen wear head cloths.
She looked calm until he met her eyes. A storm of fear and despair brewed there. He hoped he would not be there when it broke.

The 29th Day of Lumord, 1251

The Boden Province of Athrolan

AZIRIK SCRATCHED AT THE raw skin of his brow. The heavy bronze of Mirik's circlet was familiar. The warm copper of the gods' Crown, however, chafed at both Azirik's flesh and mind. The past years seemed surreal to him. His thoughts had always tumbled over one another. Now, as he sat on his horse, watching soldiers dismantle tents, voices were among his thoughts. They had not been there before. He had not wanted Mirik's throne, and his abrupt ascension at 23 found him unprepared. Almost twenty years later he still felt swept by the inertia.

“Milord King, message from the south!” A young man rushed up, his dull clothes flecked by a horse's foam. He fell into a bow, still panting, “Cehn has fallen!”

“And? Did you find the girl?”

The boy nodded. “She is with others. They sheltered with the ruling family.”

“Was she destroyed?”

“No sir. They escaped. They still move north.”

Azirik waved the boy away and looked down at his reins. He hated the Laen because that is how it was in Mirik. The gods were worshiped and the Laen were evil. His personal detestation, however, began when he took the throne. His lover had dashed his every certainty with one sentence:
“Azirik, I
 
am Laen.”
If such a thing occurred today, he would have ordered both she and her son be executed. His thoughts had been clouded with his father's death, however. Their son was sent to the barracks and the woman allowed to flee. The next morning, Mirik's crown still unfamiliar on his brow, he declared war on her entire kind.

Azirik nudged his horse forward, trotting to the head of the forming line. Most kings would give encouraging speeches at the beginning of a march, but Azirik remained silent, even when his men greeted him or brought news. His mind was already too busy. The gods' voices trickled through the Crown they had gifted him. A Crown existed for each of the three pieces of the world. That of the human's world was lost with the last of the Laen's ancient guards, and the Laen surely had their own. Azirik announced that the gods' had given him theirs in acknowledgment of Mirik's devotion to their cause.

“It was to keep us on track.”

“Excuse me, your majesty?” His captain paused as the king rode past.

Azirik had not meant to speak aloud. He ignored the man and burst into a lope. If all went well, the Laen would be eradicated by the end of the next year.
And then what will you do? This war is all you are.
He shook the thought away and motioned for the army to move out.

Φ

The 30th Day of Lumord, 1251

The City-state of Vielrona

Arman knew better than to ask around about the Laen, but for a man of few means, information was not easy to come by. He sat on the stone wall that served as the bank of the river bisecting the city. Wes' questions had bothered him more than they rightly should have.
Are they really the last? How can women so powerful be hunted to extinction?
His eyes roved the silhouette of the buildings. Centuries past one of the Laen cities had been nestled deep in the mountains and Vielrona had been it's citadel.
Now, when they need guards the most, they are helpless.
Remembering the image Liane had given him, he realized that was not strictly true. The man in the memory was alone, though, and as fearsome as he might have been, he was not a true guard of the Laen.

They had disappeared generations ago. Arman picked at the moss between the stones. The thought of the Laen still made shivers march up his arms. He wondered when the man would arrive, and if the strange sensations would stop. Only part of him would be relieved. Another part, one that still wanted to listen, wide-eyed, to traveling storytellers, would miss the feeling.
Perhaps growing up in Vielrona makes one respect the Laen differently.
In the distance the taller building of the Guildhouse dimmed its lights. The twenty men who made up the Guild, Vielrona's governing body, had been working later. Arman supposed an attack on their allies was cause for concern, but he wondered if the meetings had touched on the survivors or the group of women who had left a few days before.

He absently flipped through the canvas-bound book he used for blade designs. He found his fingers sketching the pale man and his gray horse that Liane had shown to him. Short, rough lines detailed the horse's mane and a fur cloak. Smudges colored the winding tattoo on the rider's face. Two graceful curves became the ivory horns that curled from the man's temples.

Arman held the book away, squinting.
Wes is going to think my tastes are turning to men, like his.
He snorted and folded the book away. It would be dark soon. He heaved a sigh and pushed himself off the wall. Answers would have to wait.

Φ

The sky felt closer than in the desert. Alea stared unseeing out the narrow window. Everything felt too close and real compared to home.
It is like the world is suddenly naked before my eyes.
She could not even bring herself to wonder at the future. There was only the present now. Her chest was hollow, raw, as if everything tender that lived there had been scoured out. Arman's brisk footfalls on the cobblestones below heralded his return from work. She listened as the door slammed beneath her and he let out a dramatic shiver. His boots pounded up the stairs and paused outside her door for a moment. He did not knock, however, until he returned from his room.

“Come in."

He shouldered open the door, smiling as he saw her by the window. "Good that you're getting some air. You want supper? It is chowder. I could bring you some up."

She frowned at his boots, as if they had asked her the puzzling question, "I am not certain what chowder is."

"Ma's chowder is better than any you have ever had!" Arman's smile faltered. "Though if you have never had any, that might not be the boast I meant." With a promise to return shortly, he disappeared.

Alea peered around the room. She was the only occupant now that the remaining survivors were well enough to be afforded privacy.
Do I remain in this room out of convenience or convalescence?
A wooden tray clattered onto her bedside table and startled her from her drifting thoughts. It held a bowl of creamy soup dotted with white and green vegetables.

Alea nodded her thanks and tested the food warily. The flavor was hearty and simple, but good. Her stomach’s rumbled response startled her.
I don't even recognize hunger anymore. Eating, living, are such trivial things.

“It occurred to me that I do not know your name.” Arman pulled a chair up beside her bed.

“Lyne'alea ir Suna.”

He frowned. “Suna – isn't that the surname of the lord?”

“Cehn's ihal
was Ahme'reahn ira Suna.” The rolling, guttural sounds of the Sunamen tongue were sweetly familiar, but brought bitter thoughts.

"You are Sunamen?"

"Of course."
The only people who considered me such are dead.
It was only when she caught Arman's wince that she realized she had spoken the thought aloud. "Forgive me. I did not mean to share that."

"I wasn't certain, with your coloring. You look Athrolani."

She finished the soup under Arman's curious gaze. "When the ihal took me into his household I had no known history." She remembered a specific group of survivors, the reason for the attack, but the memories were jumbled and she had no wish to dwell on the bloodshed.

"You have been sleeping better?"

Alea drew back, wrapping her arms around her middle. The question was intimate and uncomfortable. "I'm afraid I need more rest. Thank you for the meal."

When he had gone, she eyed the empty beds surrounding her own. The sight of the stripped mattresses was macabre. She remembered the bodies sprawled across them. Blood soaked into the beds' stuffing. Staring eyes clouded. Voiceless mouths cracked, dried under the sun. Her fingers ached from trying to claw her way out.

She blinked. Her teeth had made crescents on her knuckles where she had bitten her fingertips
I'm safe. Many people lived. They moved to different houses to recover. None of that was real.
She forced herself to climb under the coverlet and face the door. Sleep was a poor choice with memories so close, but anything was better than being awake.

Φ

The 34th of Lumord, 1251

The City-state of Vielrona

The water on Alea's nightstand lacked the tang of desert water. Her stomach rumbled when she had finished. The bustle of the city reached her ears through the open window. As foreign as the people and streets might have been, the sounds were the same. She peered out the window. Migrating birds looked like tattered black lace over the gray sky.
Right. He said it was autumn soon.
She was not certain what that meant outside of the most abstract sense. The desert had seasons, but really only the two. She rose shakily, finding a sun-warmed basin and pitcher by the wardrobe. The feeling of sick and sweat left her body as she washed herself and braided her hair. She felt clean in the way one only could after sweating illness from her body. In a chest at the foot of her bed was a dress that looked suitably sized and a plain black scarf.

Downstairs the inn seemed quiet, so it was with shaking steps that Alea descended the stairs. Sunamen architecture was delicate, designed to take advantage of any breeze. This inn was sturdy and plain. She paused at the foot of the stairs to rest, gripping the banister in one narrow hand. Arman sat at the bar in the rear of the common room. One foot tapped against the foot-rail, the other was hooked around the leg of his stool. He hummed absently as he peeled potatoes. Behind him Kepra bustled about, stacking clean mugs and bowls.

“Good afternoon,” her voice was pinched and nervous, and she was well aware how ill suited the saffron dress looked.

Kepra's smile bloomed as she caught sight of her patient. “My dear, I am glad to see you about.”

“Walking is not as difficult as I feared.” She glanced around at the empty chairs. She dreaded a crowd. “Will things be busy tonight?”

"Not for a another two hours probably. It's the farmers' sons and guardsmen who come most often and they aren't free until evening-fall. Did you wish to stay upstairs?"

Alea lifted a shoulder in a shrug. She did not truly care who the patrons were, but it would be rude to say so. She edged over and took a seat two stools away from Arman. She was relieved he did not rush to her side to help, despite her uncertain steps. She was barely seated when Kepra slid a steaming mug across the counter. “This should steady you some.”

Alea watched the swirling tea for a moment. “Thank you. For the tea. And your care.” She hoped the words sounded sincere, but she could hear the flatness in her voice.

“Ma's one of the better midwives in the Lows. Even if she gives you draughts that takes like cow's urine and feel like pond muck.”

Alea stared at him in surprise. The description was accurate, and it sounded like something one of her foster-brothers would have said.

“Arman!” Kepra flicked her dishtowel at her son. “Neither of you are the worse for it, and you would do well to remember your manners.” She took the potato from his hands. “Perhaps you could get our guest some food. I doubt she came down here for the company.”

While Arman did his mother's bidding, Alea glanced at the common room, noting the mixture of local wood and Sunamen sandstone. "Your people traded with us often. The combination is interesting." Her comment was more to change the subject than from actual interest, but Kepra either did not notice or chose not to comment.

"Vielrona would be much poorer without trade," Arman answered. "She's a convenient place to stop between Berr, Athrolan and Sunam. That reminds me, those who have recovered are welcome to take work here, if they are staying. Something for you to think about."

Alea caught the meaning underlying the words.
If you stay in Vielrona you will earn your keep.
She supposed it was only fair. Allies or not, the city-state had risked herself by harboring the survivors.

Arman added a plate of chicken and greens to the bar top before her. He waited until she had almost finished before breaking the silence, “If you wish for some fresh air I would be happy to show you the city. Or, if you would rather, there is a porch upstairs. I could show you the landmarks from there.”

Alea fiddled with her fork. She did not care about the city, though surely it was interesting. “I think I would rather keep to myself, if it's all the same to you.” She felt his frustrated expression. She rose. “Thank you for the food, both of you, but surely you'd prefer I not keep you from your work.” Her retreat up to her room was slow.

“Milady ir Suna,” Arman caught up to her at the top of the stairs. “I know you have suffered. I know you have nightmares. You should distract yourself, come see the sights. You are recovering well and ought to put the attack behind you.”

His expression was open and friendly, but bitterness filled her throat, “Suffered? Nightmares?” The words were thick with anger, but she kept her voice low. “You think I should be glad I survived? I have no history, no family. My only hope at a future was to marry my foster-father's son, and now both are reduced to sand-weathered bones!” Her vision darkened at the edges. She was overtaxing herself, but she could not seem to care. “Until you understand those losses, Master Wardyn, perhaps you should keep words like 'ought' and 'should' from your speech!” She ducked into her room and slammed the door.