The 37th Day of Lumord, 1251

The City-state of Vielrona

Sunlight flooded across Alea’s upturned face. With her eyes closed, it was almost like home. The wind brought the scent of damp stone, however, and the low sounds of sheep and cattle from beyond the houses. A breeze tugged at her black scarf, nipping with the promise of winter. The gate clattered shut and Alea’s eyes snapped open. “Mistress Wardyn.”

Kepra’s smile was bright, almost as impish as her son’s. “Morning, Miss ir Suna. I’m glad to see you’ve ventured into our garden.”

“Morning,” Alea added belatedly. “Might you know where your son is? I wanted to accept his offer to show me about.” Whatever Arman’s opinion was of his mother’s teas, Alea’s strength returned over the last few nights.

Her spirit had not.

“I just saw him at the market, but he often comes home for lunch. If he’s not busy I’m sure he’ll show you about.” Kepra lifted the basket resting on her arm. “Let me put this on to roast and I’ll find you a cloak.” She paused in the doorway, frowning at Alea’s feet. “You ought to wear shoes, miss.”

Alea glanced down at her feet, covered in the battered sandals she wore all the way from Cehn. “These are comfortable.” These are a piece of home.

“Suit yourself. Before winter comes, though, we ought to get you fitted for a set of boots though.”

Guilt slid into Alea’s heart and she tucked her feet under the cover of the chair. She had no money. Borrowed dresses were one thing, but shoes cobbled for her alone were another.

A tuneless whistle heralded the younger Wardyn, followed by his appearance around the corner. One hand sketched in a cheaply bound journal, but despite not looking at the cobbles he did not trip.

He slipped through the garden and was halfway down the path when he paused at looked up. “Milady.”

Alea offered what she hoped looked more smile than grimace. “Morning. Are you busy this afternoon?”

Arman frowned, then grinned. “You want to see the city. It was a slow day, I’m sure Wes can handle the stall. I’ll grab lunch.” He ducked inside then poked his head back through the door. “Have you eaten?”

Alea nodded. She had not, in fact, eaten, but the idea of leaving the sanctuary of the inn churned in her stomach, and she thought it poor form to vomit all over her host’s boots.

Arman reappeared, mouth full and humming tunelessly. He tossed Alea a thick length of fabric. “You’ll want a cloak.”

She arranged the cloth around her shoulders and fastened the worn hook before following him to the gate. Nerves tingled up her arms and her fierce grip on the gate’s latch was slow to relax.

Arman either did not notice her anxiety or was pretending not to. “This road is East Twist,” he explained around the bite of roll. “If you are ever lost, just ask for it, or for the Ruby Cockerel.”

Bright red paint decorated the battered wood sign he indicated. I never had to worry about getting lost before. Houses and walls that stood below the tiny porch upstairs in the inn now towered above her head.

“You all right?”

“Cities look larger from their streets.”

Arman tilted his head. “Did you never explore Cehn?”

“Not on foot. None of us did. The ihal and his eldest son occasionally went on diplomatic errands, but that was rare. We kept to ourselves. He was always worried about safety, especially when Mirik began to skirmish on our borders.”

“I can’t imagine that. The lack of exploring, I mean.” Arman pointed at her borrowed cloak. “Tie that about you and don't mind the stares. People’re curious about the refugees.”

Alea did as he suggested, then lifted her chin and drew a deep breath. “Lead on.” She tried a smile, which Arman returned before turning back up the road. His longer legs took one step for every two of hers, but he chose an easy pace. East Twist curved sharply and spilled onto a wider street. Clustered, narrow houses overhung the passerby, but that was not what made Alea stare.

“Everything’s green. Plants on the roofs. Vines are everywhere.” Low laughter startled its way from her throat. She barely recognized the sound.

“Wait a few more weeks—the hills turn red and orange before winter.” Arman nodded up the street with barely hidden impatience, “Shall we walk past the markets?”

Winding narrow paths navigated the booths, and Alea was glad for the slower pace forced by their turns. Seemingly little sense dictated the market's layout, but a pattern arose as Arman navigated the chaos. Closest to the fields were stalls offering fruit, livestock, and farming tools. Household wares were the next circuit in. Deeper still, one found cloth and finer wares. Arman mentioned his own blade stall was within the last.

“Do you craft at the stall or just sell your work?”

“Just sell. There’s not enough room in the market and we make enough smoke to be a bother. Most workshops are across the river in the Rattles. Wes—my friend who does the heavier forging—lives above our forge.” He glanced over as she steadied herself on the stall's wall. “Want to see the river and take a rest?”

“Please.” Lively people and colors drained Alea’s newfound energy. It is as if Cehn was a wonderful dream and now I've woken to this disorienting world. A low wall ran along the edge of the market, the hewn stone forming one bank of the river below. Muttering water and the distant music of a performer several streets down underscored the cluttered noise of the market. Arman perched on the stone, legs dangling over the steady current.

Alea took a spot beside him, peering down at the dark river. Sunken stones loomed in the depth, stained brown with rust. “In Cehn we had a spring—It made the oasis—but no rivers. You’re lucky.”

“Farther upriver, where it’s deeper, we swim.”

Alea glanced over, brows arching. “I can’t imagine swimming when it’s so cold.”

Arman lifted a shoulder in a shrug. “It’s a bit cold now, but in the summer most at least wade to cool down.” He grinned. “Though I don’t suppose we know what true heat is.”

“I wouldn’t think so, no.” She even missed the layers of heat, the rippling air so dense it was a final layer of clothing over her skin.

“Besides, if we don’t jump in ourselves, our friends give us a push—” Shouted greetings cut his comment short.

Two young men approached from the center of the market. The first called his greeting again. “Arman!”

Arman stood, clapping the shorter man on the back. “I was wondering how long I could avoid you.” He turned to Alea, “Milady ir Suna, this is Kam—” he gestured to the man who had first spoken, “and Wes.” He nodded to the broad bladesmith. “Lyne'alea ir Suna is from Cehn.”

Kam's brown face split into a cheerful smile. “Milady Lyne'alea!” He bowed lavishly over her hand and grinned at her surprise. “It is our pleasure.”

Wes nodded his white-blond head. His gaze was respectfully curious. “Welcome.”

Heat spread across her face. Attention was uncomfortable, and being singled out as someone new was worse. “Thank you.”

“Kam’s a locksmith, and I've told you about Wes.” He glanced at the latter man curiously. “I thought you were packing in early to finish that blade by tomorrow.”

“Patch in the bellows gave again—I had to send it to Heggins this time. It’ll be at least tomorrow afternoon before we can have it back.” His gaze flicked to Alea again. “Have you had lunch?”

Arman nodded. “Just finished before we left. I was going to show her the rest of the city.”

“We're headed to an Upper bar. See you later?”

“Tonight,” he promised.

Kam and Wes were lost to the swirling crowd.

Alea glanced over, wondering at the look that passed between Arman and Wes. “They seem entertaining.”

Arman scoffed. “Wes is decent, though he has a filthy tongue. Kam loves women too much.” He jerked his head in the direction of the finer houses across the river. “Shall we continue? Do you need to rest more?”

“As long as we walk slowly.” Truthfully, her legs ached and her back was stiff after so many days in bed. I can’t go back to that room just yet. She fell into step beside him again, this time walking farther into the nicer part of the market, edging tall townhouses and a public garden.

“Here, try this.” Arman stepped into the shade of a bar’s awning. “It’s not alcohol, at least, not this one.” He slid a copper coin across the bar and held up two fingers and made a swirling gesture with his hand by his chin.

Alea watched the bartender combine several fruit juices and a splash of something bright blue. The result was a thick green drink she poured into two large, waxed leaves bound into a conical shape. She signed something to Arman and turned back to the interior portion of the bar.

“Ma Ha-jal makes the best drinks in the entire city. A bit expensive, but worth it. She imports her fruits from home, in Ban.”

Alea’s tentative sip flooded her tongue with the taste of cut palm fronds, grasses, and something spicy that lingered for a minute. Arman finished his in a few gulps, but Alea nursed hers as they crossed a narrow bridge. The streets were quieter, lined with stone houses. Despite her initial judgment, the city was small. The whole of it could fit twice into Cehn proper. If it still stood. Even the cluster of stone buildings Arman explained made up the official halls of the Guild were compact. They crowned the simple city well. Like Cehn's golden sandstone fit in the desert, Vielrona's gray stone and dark wood blended into the surrounding foothills.

“There’s a garden in the Guild's walls that’s a nice place to walk.”

Alea paused to lean against a wall. Her body dragged, and fatigue muddled her thoughts. “I think I might need to turn back.” She glanced at the sky. “Will it be dark soon?”

“Not for another two bells, but if you're tired we can go another day.”

“I'd like that.” She loved the greenery, and her garden at home was a sanctuary.

“Let me see if I can get a ride back.” Arman flagged down a small empty cart headed toward the Lows. “Tomas!” When the driver slowed his donkey and raised his hand Arman placed his hand on the seat's edge to haul himself up. “Mind driving us home?”

Tomas' hand stopped him. “Begging your pardon, Wardyn, but I won’t have her on my cart.” The man's steely eyes pinned Alea in place. “Allies or no, they shouldn’t have been brought back. Your girl here was with them. I'll not bring the Berrin or Mirikin down on my family.” He paused, shaking his head at Arman, “They'll be the death of you. That is how their kind are.”

Arman fell back, frowning. “Good day, then, Tomas.” His dazed tone told Alea he was as surprised as she. He was silent a moment then turned to her. “I am sure he just doesn't like strangers.”

“He doesn’t like the Laen, Arman.” She looked down, allowing a loose hank of hair to hide her eyes. She expected cultural misunderstandings, but in a city sympathetic to the Laen, Tomas' fear worried her. If he fears armies will come here, am I still not safe? She straightened, pulling a faint smile onto her face. “I would prefer to walk anyways.”

Φ

The sun's warmth disappeared with its light, and Arman shrugged deeper into his cloak. The bar Wes frequented in the Upper district was a fair walk away, but the distance usually sobered them up before they reached home. Arman heaved a sigh. Tomas' words irked him. That is how their kind are. He assumed most in Vielrona were neutral on the Laen, if not wholly supportive. Now he wondered if he was wrong.

He glanced to the north where the rolling hills of Athrolan stretched into blackness. Somewhere the Dhoah' Laen camped in the wilderness. Young. Hunted. He could not imagine the weight that rested on her shoulders. Vielrona should have welcomed her, raised our walls, and armed ourselves to the teeth to protect her. He kicked at a loose cobble with an angry growl. The world needed her, and she needed guards.