Smoke and Rain (4 page)

The emotions she had ignored raged, released by her angry words. Her weakened legs finally failed her and she stumbled. She caught herself on the edge of her bed, praying Arman had not heard her fall. She crawled to her chamberpot, heaving until nothing was left in her writhing stomach.
Please let him not hear this.
In Sunam discussing one's emotions was common, but showing them was not. It was something only young children did, who knew no better.
What does it matter if you act like a child? Neither ihal
or Ahren are here to see you. You are not Sunamen, not truly.
Fear welled in her gut again and she choked on the sobs that exploded from her chest. Memories of her foster siblings tumbled through her mind, each image ending the same—with blood-stained sand and clouded eyes.

Alea was no stranger to isolation. It was not in the usual sense—she had friends in Cehn. Few had been close, but Alea never minded. Instead it was the isolation of the mind. Life was a play she watched. It was an engaging one, to be sure, but still separated from her by an invisible wall. She once asked her foster-father about her past. The response was vague and spoken with as much concern as if he remarked on poor weather.

Now the bubble surrounding her had burst and she was raw from the strange new breeze buffeting her mind. It did not matter that others had no such barriers. It did not matter whether it protected her from the world. She would rebuild that wall. Perhaps it protected the world from her.

She did not know how long she stayed curled on the floor, trembling and weeping. Muscles cramped when she finally pushed herself upright. She could not bring herself to get back into bed. For better or worse, she had survived. There was little sense or probability in spending the rest of her life in bed.
I need air.
She always hated closed spaces, especially when panicked. Remembering Arman's offer, she stepped quietly into the hall. It was deserted, but voices drifted from the common room below.
The aforementioned patrons must be arriving.
At the opposite end of the hall from the main staircase was a narrow door. Finding it unlocked, Alea opened it to find narrow stairs winding up to the smaller third floor.

A door to her left bore a child's scratched letters.
Arman's room.
Another door opened onto a porch. It was barely more than a ledge, but looked out over the front of the inn. Alea folded her arms on the open rail and tilted her face up to the sun. The warmth felt better than she expected. The city before her was smaller than Cehn, and cradled in the northern foothills of the mountains. Most of the surrounding buildings were two-storied, the lower half built from thick beams or stone and the upper with plaster. Many rooftops sported moss and most houses had kitchen gardens. Plowed fields lay just beyond, bordered with a low stone wall. A river wound through the city. Across a bridge were larger houses built of stone and official looking buildings. Alea supposed she was in what Arman had called the Lows, and the other buildings were a separate district.

She was suddenly aware of someone watching from the porch's doorway.

Arman had remained quiet, but smiled when she turned around. “It's a nice place to think, isn't it?”

“I always like to be someplace high when I have too many thoughts. It makes them seem smaller, perhaps.” She looked down at the rail, picking at the weathered wood. “I am sorry for my words.”

“As am I. I have seen my share of violence, but it was long ago.” He gestured to a wooden chair, the cushion of which he hastily beat clean. “We've lived here since I can remember. I can't imagine what you see, looking at it with new eyes.”

Alea looked out at the city again. “It is greener than I am used to. And cold.” She frowned. “You are not part of Athrolan, though, correct?” The vast kingdom was something of an enigma to Alea. Sunam occasionally received news, fashion and metals from its northern neighbor, but nothing as formal as an alliance.

“No. We are not a part of Athrolan, Berr or Sunam. Vielrona started as a guard city for the Laen. Most just consider us outlaws now. We have a lot of fine craftsmen here, though, and make decent trade.”

“What is your work? Do you inn keep with your mother?”

“I design and sell blades. My father was a blade smith and when he passed my friend Wes took the clients. He does the actual forging, but has little skill for business or art.” He faltered. “Did you study in Sunam?”

She frowned. “The ihal
was very strict about our studies. He wanted each of us to learn as much about the world as we could. I enjoyed economics and learning about plants and trees – we had so few in the desert.”

“What of history? That was always my favorite.”

“It was not mine. Ihal said we must learn the past, however, so we would not make the same mistakes.”

“Is that why he sheltered the Laen?”

Alea's breath hitched.
How could he know about the Laen?
Her foster-father had done everything in his power to hide the truth about the strange guests that arrived three days before the attack. She had known from the beginning that the attempt was pointless.
And we were repaid our kindness with death.
“Maybe. He said he had news for them, something about their first visit years ago. I do not remember them coming before, perhaps I was too young at the time.” She glanced over. “Sunam was divided in its opinions of the Laen. Is Vielrona a sympathizer?”

It was Arman's turned to frown. “I would like to think so.”

“How did you know about the Laen in Cehn?”

Arman glanced at her, his brows raised in surprise. “They came here, too. We brought them with the survivors. You were too ill to be awake, I suppose. They left shortly after arriving here.”

Alea shook her head. She knew what their presence meant. “It does not matter if they only stayed long enough to use your privy. The Miriken will know. They knew in which wing of the manor the Laen stayed. It was the oldest part of the building, designed to be a stronghold. We used it for the children.”

Arman winced. “They attacked there first.”

“And yet the Laen still survived.” Alea tried to keep the frustration out of her voice, but fell far short. She looked away. “I am sorry. I am not opposed to the Laen. I never truly had an opinion either way. They survived. They protected themselves, as my family was cut down around them.” She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment. “I'm not certain whether I want to speak about it just yet.” She rose carefully. “Thank you for talking with me. Perhaps when I'm ready you could show me the city?”

“Of course. Can I do anything to help?”

“Just….” She drew a shuddering breath and turned away. “I wish you had left me for the vultures.”

Φ

The 36th of Lumord, 1251

The Oasis of Cehn, Sunam

Sand hissed under the horse's hooves as An'thor trotted north. He was silent, but alert. His eyes fixed to the ground. His clothes were made for bitter cold and glaciers, but the hardy leather and many layers were suitable for the dry heat of Sunam. The swath of sand abutting the mountains was hard-packed, closer to his native tundra than desert.
Far easier to track when the sand doesn't move with each breath of wind.
He tugged the silk wrap that normally insulated his jacket tighter around his face. The Sunamen had the rich tan skin that protected them from burning, but An'thor was not so lucky. His skin was a clear white, the blood vessels a visible purple network just under the surface. Being born in a country where true summer lasted only one of the 49-day months made him less accustomed to sunlight.

Like the Laen, the Nenev were a race from centuries past. A people of ice and progress, their minds turned like gears. Isolated, they had become mostly legends, but they were rarely heroes in the tales. A tattoo curled from his bicep, up his throat and across the left side of his face like an eddy of wind. The black ink had long ago faded to an ashy gray from age and weathering.

He rode steadily, noting where hooves had kicked aside rocks or scuffed the parched earth.
Seven horses. Two fewer than when we were separated.
He had found one body three hours before, the simple arrow notably Miriken. He wondered how many Laen would be left when he finally caught up with them in Cehn. His horse's head hung low, and his gray coat shone with sweat. He looked as tired as An'thor felt. “Almost there, Theriim. We'll rest when we reach the city.” He rubbed the weary animal's neck. He felt more guilt from the failed promises to his horse than those to himself.

When he had first joined the warriors escorting the Laen, there had been dozens of the women. Their protectors were a surrounding shadow, unseen, but always present. A week ago, however, a skirmish with the Miriken had forced the Laen to break ahead while their guards bought time. Now An'thor feared separating might have cost the Laen too dearly. He understood the Laen's adherence to balance – he had seen too many things rise, fall, and rise again to disbelieve that life came in great cycles.

With his gaze fixed on each irregularity of the ground, it was several moments before he saw the smoke. The early autumn day was hot, and the horizon shrouded in heat haze. Despite the ripples distorting the air, An'thor recognized something was wrong. He urged his gray mount into a lope, his stomach clenched in certainty at what awaited him. Wind moaned as it whipped through the still smoldering city at the edge of the oasis. Loose sand and ash rasped across the sandstone and burnt wood. Even the lower levels of the manor were razed. “This was a massacre.” His voice was low, and his horse's ears twitched in response.

Bodies littered what he assumed was the main street. Those who had survived the initial attack and the flames that followed had been methodically killed as the army moved out. An'thor's gaze slid over the light clothes of the residents searching for a gray dress, a cloak. His eyes picked out marks that  told him the manor was attacked first, and he nudged his mount into the private courtyard. The horse drank deeply from the sputtering fountain as An'thor eyed the bodies sprawled across the stones.

The household's staff had tried to make a stand, and just inside the ruins of the building were the
ihal
and his sons.
Still no Laen. Could they have escaped this?
A darker thought of capture followed on the first's tail. Children's bodies were scattered in the garden behind the manor and a pregnant woman had fallen several paces farther. An'thor was accustomed to violence, but he did not enjoy it. He forced himself to search each building before finally admitting the Laen were long since gone. He finally dismounted to examine the tracks leading east from the city. His legs ached as he crouched to touch the marred sand.
I'll rest when I know where they've gone.
It was a promise he rarely kept. Hundreds of hoof prints from the Miriken disturbed the ground. He noted the ridges where wagons had followed and winced. “They easily could have been captured.” He examined them for a few more paces then whistled for his horse. If the Laen were captured, he would follow.

He turned to see his mount nosing a pile of horse dung on the road north. He frowned. The desert sun made quick work of any moisture. The bodies littering the city were already desiccated. He nudged the dung with the metal toe of his boot. “This can't be more than a few weeks old.” His gaze inched over the road's bricks. It was less obvious than the open ground, but he could see where sand had been scuffed away. His careful paces turned into a jog as he followed the trail farther north. No more than a score of riders, many bearing stretchers, if he gauged the depth of the prints correctly. The pile of rubble by the roadside bore several carved words.
A league marker.
He brushed the sand away, tilting his head to read. He could decipher little of the language, but he recognized a name: Vielrona. He had heard of it years ago, but it was little more than a town. His pale cracked fingers paused in their exploration. A square of gray linen was wadded into a crevice. Leaving a note was too great a risk, but a tattered piece of a dress was enough. He swung himself onto Theriim's back once more. He knew better than to pray, but the familiar weight of despair in his stomach told him they sorely needed hope.

Φ

The 37th Day of Lumord, 1251

The City-state of Vielrona

Alea began to see the sense in exploring the city. Her strength had returned, if not her spirit, and the confines of her room were becoming just that – confining. When Kepra arrived to collect Alea's breakfast dishes, the younger woman stopped her.

“Mistress Wardyn, might you know where your son is? I thought I might accept his offer to show me about.”

Kepra smiled, “He is in the market, but often comes home for lunch. I will find you a cloak.”

When she had gone, Alea pulled on the set of clothes she had been borrowing. She was growing used to wearing breeches under the shapeless dress, and though the black scarf was shorter than the
jahi
she usually wore, it was serviceable. In the same chest she found stockings and ankle boots. She had only worn sandals in Cehn, but the colder mountain air made her glad for the extra protection. A cloak awaited her on the bench by the common room door.
This inn has become my shelter. Outside of here is the world, and I don't know whether I am ready for the world again.
She took several minutes arranging it before stepping out.