The 30th Day of Lumord, 1251

The City-state of Vielrona

Violence stripped the world naked. Even the gray sky seemed to hang closer than the parched zenith of the desert. Alea watched ponderous, rain-heavy clouds through her narrow window. She was the room’s only occupant, now, the remaining survivors well enough to be afforded privacy. Or dead. She could not bring herself to wonder at her future. Raw, hollowness gaped between her rips, tenderness scoured from her heart by the bones of everyone she ever loved. A slamming door downstairs heralded Arman’s return from work.

“fates', it’s biting out there!” He let out a dramatic shiver. Boot falls pounded up the stairs and paused outside her door, but he did not knock until he returned from his room.

“Yes?”

He nudged open the door. “Evening.” He grinned when he saw her by the window. “Good that you're getting some air. You want supper? It’s chowder. I could bring you some up.”

She frowned at his boots, as if they had asked her the puzzling question, “I’m not certain what chowder is.” And no amount of food could fill this void.

“Ma's chowder is better than any you’ve ever had!” Arman's smile faltered. “Though if you’ve never had any, that’s not much of a boast.” He disappeared, leaving the door ajar.

Alea looked back out the window. It did not seem to matter how she answered. People were as distant as her surroundings were close. A wooden tray clattered onto her bedside table. It held a bowl of creamy soup.

When it was clear Arman would not leave until he saw her eat, Alea tested the food warily. Bitter greens joined sweet vegetables and thin slices of fish. Her stomach’s rumbled response startled her. I don't even recognize hunger anymore.

“I don’t know your name.” Arman pulled a chair up beside her bed.

Alea blinked at him, then returned her attention to the soup. “Lyne'alea ir Suna.”

He frowned. “Suna—that’s the surname of the lord?”

“Cehn's ihal was Ahme'reahn ira Suna.” Rolling, guttural sounds of the Sunamen tongue were sweetly familiar.

“You’re Sunamen?”

The only people who considered me such are dead. Only when she caught Arman's wince did she realize she spoke the thought aloud. “I did not mean to share that.”

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

“The ihal took me into his household as a favor to an old friend.” She finished the soup in silence and set the bowl back onto the tray.

“You’ve been sleeping better?”

Alea wrapped her arms around her middle. The question was intimate and uncomfortable. “I'm afraid I need more rest. Thank you for the meal.”

He seemed to want to ask more, but finally nodded and left, taking her dishes with him.

The stripped mattresses around her looked macabre, an echo of 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 to the Laen.

She blinked.

Crescents marked where she bit her knuckles to keep from crying out. I'm safe. Some people lived. Sleep was a poor choice with memories so close, but anything was better than being awake.

Φ

The mattress creaked under him as Arman rolled onto his stomach. Evening eased over the land, lengthening the mountains shadows until the sun’s warmth was only a memory from summer. He could almost taste the frost in the air, though it was still weeks away from winter. The view from the window was different from that of his bedroom and he caught sight of the faint winding trail through the hills. I wonder how far they’ve made it by now. It was a perverse preoccupation, his curiosity about the Laen. Still, something nagged at his thoughts. Even when they were far from his mind echoes of their power crackled in his bones. It made him itch.

“Where’d you go?”

His attention returned to the woman beside him, tucked into the warmth of their shared sheets. “Nowhere, just thinking.”

Veredy turned on her side and propped her blonde head on a crooked arm. “You’ve been doing a lot of that lately.” Her hand traced the line of his brow, as if checking for wrinkles. “I feel like you’re lost.”

“Not lost. The refugees brought a lot of worries, is all.” He snorted and nudged her nose with his. “I don’t want to lose this life we’re building.”

Her small mouth curled into a smile at his use of “we,” and she laced her fingers with his. “There’s no rush. I’ll be here. You have time aplenty to work on your business. Maybe in a year or two, we’ll find a place of our own, a place with room enough for children.”

Arman smiled too, but he knew it did not reach his eyes. All they had worked for seemed removed now, one step more distant than before. Instead, his focus continued to return to the Laen.

The ice in his bones. The burning curiosity, almost obsession, just shy of dread.

“If it’s not the threat of mortality, what has you so concerned?” Veredy asked, clearly realizing Arman was far from letting the dark thoughts go.

Arman’s gaze roved over the wood grain of her bedroom walls. “I feel like Vielrona failed them. There was a citadel in these mountains, one we guarded. Did we forget our roots?”

Veredy tossed on her back, frowning. “Arman, we’re not their guards. When Vielrona protected them, we had the strength of the Rakos, their fire and fury.” She glanced at him. “Did the Laen say something?”

No, they placed memories that aren’t mine in my head, images and feelings I can’t erase. He hoped the sensation faded once he passed the Laen’s message on to their guards. Part of him, though, the piece still entranced by traveling storytellers, would miss the feeling. Perhaps growing up in Vielrona made him view Laen differently. In the distance, the taller building of the Guildhouse dimmed its lights. “They just asked me to look out for their guards—human ones, not Rakos.”

Veredy hummed in response, eyes already lidding again. They were unable to meet as often lately, and Arman tried to have the quality of their lovemaking make up for its infrequency. He kissed her brow and dragged himself from her bed. As much as he wanted their relationship to be more formal, too much stood in the way to marry just yet. “There’s no rush. I’ll be here.” His thoughts returned to the ring on Alea’s finger, the pain in her eyes when she spoke of Cehn. We don’t know that, Ver. They could have decades left together. They could have hours.

Φ

The 30th Day of Lumord, 1251

The Feld de Barran, Athrolan

“There are campfires in the hills.” Liane’s eyes did not move from the flickering on the otherwise dark horizon.

Hela settled onto the cold rock outcropping beside her. “Shepherds?”

Liane shook her head. “Unless our luck has suddenly changed, it’s the Mirikin.” She rose with a groan, pressing a hand to the small of her back. “You going to be alright till dawn?”

Hela smiled and held up a battered lute. “I’ll be fine. Besides, this ground isn’t comfortable enough to let me sleep. Get some rest.”

“Play quietly, alright?” Liane shot a narrowed glare at the horizon.

“I promise.”

Liane picked her way down the slope to the nook between wind-worn rocks where they made camp. Dark lumps curled around the screened coals. Liane suspected it was as much for comfort as warmth. A month ago, they numbered twenty-seven, their ranks filled with writhing power of warriors and healers. Liane’s gaze lingered on the girl tucked against the belly of a borrowed Sunamen charger. Now only three citadel guards, a historian, and a cook were left to escort the girl to Le’yne. If their guards still lived leagues of bitter mountains and barren grasslands separated them. And an army of Mirikin soldiers.

Liane settled in beside the girl’s sleeping form. Gentle notes of Mirrel in Winter’s Chill curled from the hill behind. Head pillowed on the horse’s flank, Moera’s young face relaxed into a smile. Perhaps a night free of nightmares was worth the risk of Hela’s music.

Their journey from the citadel of Emala began as an exodus. Now it was a divine mission. She might not be able to control it, but I know what I saw. When the Mirikin attached in Cehn, black fog exploded around them. No Laen ever wielded black power. It had to mean something.

Now, Liane’s own silver magic curled over her companions, easing aches, filling muscles with strength. The scent of salt and mountain springs drifted, alien, in the air. It was the only echo of home that still felt real.

“I miss home.” Moera’s silver eyes blinked open, following the invisible path south, as if she could still see the ruined citadel leagues away.

“I didn’t mean to wake you.” Liane did not meet her gaze. “Home’s Le’yne now, and we have leagues to go. You ought to rest.” Her thin lips clamped down on the rest of her words. She missed home, too.

Wind chattered through the dry leaves overhead. On the hill, Hela’s music stuttered into silence. Liane raised her nose to the eddying air. It brought the stench of fresh blood and hot metal. The gods.

Nerves sang up her limbs, turning aches into exhausted willpower. War did not make time for grief or compassion. She surged to her feet and shook the others awake.

“Wind’s changed, it’ll bring our smoke right to them.” She glanced at Moera, not thinking, “Put out the fire, would you?”

The girl waved her hand over the sullen coals, brow curled in concentration, then frustration. Finally, she kicked the bucket of drinking water into the fire with an exasperated sigh. “How can I bind the world if I can’t even extinguish a campfire?”

“You’ll learn in Le’yne, I promise. There are teachers there, better ones than I.” Liane’s voice cut through the soft sounds of the other Laen packing camp. “Move!” The cover of night would only last so long, and the stark landscape of the Feld de Barran offered little concealment. We must make Namus by dawn

Hela jogged down the hill, lute traded for her crossbow. “You smell that?”

Liane glanced at the historian sharply, slicing her hand through the air. Moera was already terrified. Panic would only make their ride more difficult. We’d be dead.

She coiled her braid under her cowl and buckled her swordbreaker onto her hip. In the citadel, it never saw use. In the wake of the war reigniting, the weapon bore dents and scratches. Muffled hooves thumped against hard ground as the others flanked the charger. The creature flicked its ears, unaware he carried the weight of the world in the form of a girl.

“Go. I’ll catch up.” Liane watched the Laen disappear into the darkness, pressing against the rising wind. She raised her hands, silver pooling in her palms, twisting tendrils erasing their footprints, wiping the stagnant stink of wet coals from the air. It was a sorry attempt, but she had to try. She did not know how the gods’ magic reached across the barriers splitting the world, but she would know the sickening smell, the heavy, itching feeling anywhere. She nudged her stolen horse into a lope.

She missed the desert air, the humid, ocean air whipping over the walls of Emala, and the cry of lemurs in the oasis. Le’yne was as much a home as the hard, cold ground where they made camp. I miss peace.

Behind them, a lieutenant pressed his palm into a fresh hoofprint.