The 22nd Day of Lumord, 1251

The City of Vielrona

Quiet clicking of Arman's pliers distracted him from the eerie silence. Though 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, carefully placed garnets and topaz glittering under the single lantern. Though his father had been a true bladesmith, Arman's talents ran closer to artist and jeweler. Wes took over the heaviest smithing. Tending to the refugees cut into Arman's time, but it was peaceful to work while he stayed through the night.

Ragged breathing interrupted his focus.

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

Nightmares. Doubtless, most 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 light brown of the Sunamen, but her pale forearms told him she was not native to the desert. He pressed a finger to the place his mother had shown him, just below her thumb. 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 settled, he returned to his seat. The room was quiet again, but he fiddled with the wood handles of his pliers. 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 lived to see Vielrona. Familiar sounds from the kitchen below startled him from his musings. Arman glanced outside. It was dawn.

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

Arman wrapped his work and tools. “It was a quiet night. That man's fever rose. He barely stirs.” He frowned. “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. A pear waited in the hanging basket at the end of the long bar, and he took a bite as he left. He licked his thumb and pinched the wick of the lantern hanging beside the inn's wooden sign.

Smaller market vendors already tied the wool screens back from their stalls. Shopkeeps hung signs between yawns. Arman tossed a copper guild-mark to a baker. “Morning Fina!”

“Good to see you’re back to work. How’re the new folks, Arman?” She handed him a small, hot roll from the tray on her counter.

“Most still fighting. Thanks!” He shot her a smile and slipped down a makeshift street. 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 between a gem vendor and a jeweler before ducking inside his knife stall.

Wes already perched on a stool too small for his bones. “Morning, Wardyn.”

Arman nodded back, his thoughts still hazy from lack of sleep. He handed Wes the roll and returned to his pear. “Did you sell the branch hilt?”

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

Arman made a face at the name. “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 and unloaded more wares.

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

“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 Jehans 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—”

“Not to mention, dead,” Arman interjected.

Wes 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 jasper pommel perhaps you could give it to him.”

“Handsome sons aside, Arman, I worry when people talk. Speaking to them is one thing—what’s this about a favor? Jehan's might lie, but the whole Lows do not.”

It was a relief to return to stall-work after days away, but the banter was a too pointed for his tastes. City gossip is as wicked a mistress as Megg. He elbowed Wes sharply. “Now you sound like the Jehans.”

Φ

The 23rd of Lumord, 1251

Screaming rent the air, followed by the sickly-sweet tang of blood. Hard hands yanked Alea to the sand. Beside her Ahren thrashed on the ground, his body opened by a sword. The strange women her foster-father hosted clustered near the center of the oasis. They’re Laen, they must help. Desperation, not certainty, cemented the thought. Focusing on their silver-tinged forms, she staggered toward them.

Thrashing flipped her out of bed. Memories of smoke and fear choked her. Gooseflesh followed the drip of sweat down her limbs.

“Settle, miss. You’re safe. Settle.” The woman's voice was low, the language different.

Careful hands pressed on her arms. Alea blinked into wakefulness. Her head pounded. She drew a steadying breath and took stock of her surroundings. Nothing hung on the sturdy walls, but embroidery decorated the pillowcases and curtains. Several other beds and cots crowded against the wall. A makeshift infirmary, then. Everything, from the rough wood to her nightmare seemed incredibly distant and unimportant. Even the pain in her skull throbbed from leagues away.

“Hello.” The woman spoke Trade, which told Alea she was near Athrolan. She ducked her head to catch Alea’s gaze with her kind brown eyes. Gray striped her brown hair at the temples.

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

“In Vielrona, your ally-city. I’m Kepra and this is my inn. Those women brought you and the others here.” She helped Alea climb shakily under the coverlet again before handing her a mug from the nightstand. “Drink this, but slowly. Too fast will make you sick.”

Bitterness and an earthy aftertaste rolled from her tongue and hit her stomach like a blow. Once she forced herself to finish, Kepra offered water. “You’ve been very ill, but your fever is breaking.” Her eyes flicked to the ring on her smallest finger. “I am terribly sorry for your losses.”

Despair was a flooding ache and Alea turned from the proffered mug. She did not want to eat. If only they hadn’t found me, hadn’t saved me. If only I never woke from my fever.

“You need to drink, to eat.” When Alea still ignored her, the woman put the mug on the bedside. “I’ll check on you again, soon. 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 couldn’t go on. It took years, but sometimes the happiness you find after pain is all the sweeter for it.”

After a moment the terribly familiar sound of needlepoint broke the silence. Alea buried her face in the covers and wished she could weep. The Mirikin may have taken her home when they destroyed Cehn, but with Ahren, they took her future. There’s nothing left. Tears would not come.

Φ

The 27th Day of Lumord, 1251

Watching three ill people was far easier than a roomful. Arman fiddled with a loose fitting on a stiletto’s handle between cursory glances at the sleeping forms. The blade was satisfactory, but he had made better.

Cold inched up his spine again. His reaction to the Laen was slow to fade. Wes’s words the night the Laen left still made him scowl. I’m not about to run into the woods after them.  Curiosity nagged at him, however.

He glanced out the window, measuring the moon's height with mental thumb-thickness. Any moment now the young woman’s nightmare would start. His hands stilled. The Laen said she was part of the governor’s household. Maybe she knows more about where the Laen are headed. And whether the gods’ armies could follow them here.

Right on time, the girl began to toss. Muttered foreign words sharpened with fear. And anger. He laid aside his work and crouched beside her bed. His mother said dreams—even bad ones—were the soul's way of facing conflict, helping to understand a deeper part of yourself. Arman was inclined to believe it, but this girl dreamt horrors enough. He shook her foot gently.

She came to screaming. Strings of sweat-damp hair and rolling eyes made her wild. He held his hands out, trying to appear gentle. At least my hair is yellow, and not brown like the Mirikin who attacked her. Her gaze flitted between the open window, the beds, the door, calculating. Finding her bearings. After a moment, her eyes finally rested on him. They were gray.

He offered a smile with a cup of water. “You’re safe. This is Vielrona. I’m 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?” Rasping accented her words as much as Sunamen.

“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?”

His calm expression faltered. “I don’t know who you knew. The Laen brought survivors here and tended you. This is my mother's inn. She said you woke to her, but you mightn’t recall.”

“Brown hair, kind eyes.”

Arman smiled. “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’ll 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 appeared calm, save for her eyes. Fear and despair brewed there, a distant, approaching storm. He hoped he would not see it break.

Φ