The 38th Day of Lumord, 1251

The City-state of Vielrona

ALEA’S EYES WERE CAVERNS in her face. While the mirror was copper, unlike the silver she was used to, she knew the differences were not due to the material. Her tan paled until she almost looked Athrolani. Grief and illness sharpened her features.

“Alea your eyes, they’re darker.” Ahren's last words were already faint in her memory. She might never recall the event fully. She wondered if she even wanted to. What she remembered was horrible enough. With an irritated glance at the mirror, she adjusted her makeshift jahi. It was pointless to still wear the garment—sun and wind here were an echo of the desert’s ferocity. Still, it was one more layer between the new world and her tattered mind. Her wall was almost complete. She straightened herself and followed the clattering of pans downstairs.

The inn's common room was deserted and Alea paused to admire the space anew. She briefly wondered at the wealth required for Kepra to own such a space, but each furnishing seemed simple and well cared for. She peered at a stylized metal sun hanging above the door.

“Arman's father gifted me that when I told him I was bearing his child.” Kepra's soft voice was warm, as was the hand that touched Alea's shoulder briefly. “I thought it made the place homey.”

“My ihal had a tiny statue on his desk. It was his wife's favorite. Whenever he held it there was such light in his eyes.” She looked down.

“He must have loved her dearly.” Kepra bustled back into the kitchen. “Breakfast? How did you find the city?”

Alea sat quietly, fingers brushing the wood of the bar. She felt vulnerable, open, but it was as refreshing as it was uncomfortable. “The market was interesting. Vielronan food smells so different. I like the spices you use.” Her throat was tight. “I feel a bit lost. I’m used to whirlwind days.”

Kepra paused, her dark eyes resting on Alea for a moment as if gauging her strength. “I’d welcome the help if you wish to keep busy. I have more vegetables that need peeling and cutting.”

Alea’s smile probably looked desperate, but she could not keep the happiness from her face. She hastily tied on an apron and followed Kepra into the heat of the kitchen. Some of the vegetables were strange, but peeling and chopping were the same in any kitchen. Noontime was accompanied by loud men, sweaty and dusty from the fields, and Arman with a small canvas-bound book. He smiled at his mother and, noting the crowd, chose a stool at one of the kitchen counters. He sat, book open, with a cheap quill in one hand and a mug of stew in the other. He was mostly finished when Alea coughed softly from the farthest corner.

“What are you working on?”

Arman choked on his potato, breath wheezing for a moment before he turned to peer behind him.

Alea waved from her stool beside the stove. She was sure her face was smattered with flour from dumplings, but her hands were too covered to try and wipe it away.

“A design for a client.” He raised his voice, “Ma?” When Kepra glanced around the doorframe he continued, “Why’d you enlist Miss ir Suna to cook?”

“Perhaps you could ask her yourself, Arman. Don’t be rude.”

Arman turned back. “You don't have to earn your keep yet, you're still recovering. And you could eat in the common room.”

Alea looked down, smiling. “Business keeps thoughts away. There are too many loud men out there and the kitchen is warm.”

Arman still looked surprised when he cleared his dishes. At the doorway he paused. “If you want something else to keep the darkness at bay, there’s a library I’d gladly show you.”

He was gone before Alea responded, but she turned the thought over in her mind. Her foster-father had a library of his own and gifted her with books. What titles await me in this city?

Kepra's voice cut through her thoughts. “I just have to clean. You seem lost in thought—do you need to rest?”

“Arman mentioned a library.”

“I'm afraid we only have two books of our own, but the Guild's library is extensive. Were you thinking of visiting tomorrow?”

“I was.” Alea swept the countertop clean and began to scrub the wood. “My foster father gave me a poetry book. The collection here might have new ones.”

Kepra stared at her a moment, brown eyes thoughtful. “May I ask you something?”

A note in her soft tone made Alea pause. Fingers picking at a stubborn piece of dough stilled. “Of course.”

“You were wearing gold and a ring on your finger. Arman said you were in the garden of the manor. You speak of your foster-family and your ihal with the same love. May I ask who you are?”

Alea stared. Many told her she was an intelligent girl without valuable history who would make a good wife for a wealthy commoner. She was lucky her foster-brother agreed to marry her. None of those things mattered now. Alea opened her mouth, closed it, and then opened it again, with the tang of stubbornness in her throat.

Kepra leaned forward and touched her hand. “You don’t have to answer. It may deserve some thought. It’s hard when we lose the people and places that defined us.” She took the dishtowel from the younger woman's hands. “I can finish up here.”

Alea thanked her then rose. She stopped just outside the bubble of noise from the other patrons. Her wall was strong and thick. Normally she disguised bitterness as wry wit.

Every wall has chinks.

Kepra’s words wormed through her defense, and anger lanced out, cold and crystalline. “I am Lyne'alea ir Suna.” Her steady voice belied her shaking hands. “I am the foster-daughter of Ahme'reahn ira Suna, ihal of Cehn. I was to be the wife of his second eldest son, Ahren. Our city was attacked a week before my wedding. Everything I ever knew, ever could have been, is gone. So, I am gone. I’m only certain of my name, which is borrowed, and that nothing will ever be as beautiful as it was before.” She kept her composure on her path through the common room, gripped tightly until she closed her bedroom door.

Deep, gasping sobs took her, and she wondered if she could ever stop. She slid to the floor, leaning back against the door. It was solid, only making the familiar things in her memories less substantial. Measured footfalls on the stairs forced her to bite back hitching breath. She bit down on her sleeved wrist to muffle her noise.

She heard a calloused hand press on the door. “Milady?” Arman's voice was gentle.

She did not respond. It was almost dark, but she had not lit the candle by her bed. I could be out.

“Ma told me you seemed shaken.” He paused. “Are you there?”

She cleared her throat. “I was just resting.” It was obvious, but she was grateful he afforded her the lie.

“I’m sorry I made these first few days hectic. I’m not good with grief. Do you want me to let you alone?”

“I don't want to be alone.” She wondered if the words were too soft for him to hear. She rubbed the marks her teeth left on her arm.

Rough fabric rasped as he eased onto the hall floor. “I've had a share of grief, but nothing like yours. If I lost Vielrona I’d lose which way was north.” He sighed. “I’ve heard what allowing the Laen to come here could do. Even bringing you here could endanger us. But I see you sitting at my hearth and I wonder how people could be so cruel.” He paused as if to check she was still listening. “Would it make it better if you learned the reason the Laen didn’t protect your family? If you learned your loss was not in vain?”

“No.” Her voice cracked. “If I learned we saved the world, it would hurt just as much. My family was my world.”

“I'm sorry, then. I don't know how to make it hurt less.”

“Thank you for talking to me. I think I can sleep now.”

He rose with a groan. “Very well.” He was partway down the hall when she peered into the dark corridor. “Arman, would you show me the library tomorrow?”

His smile was careful. “Of course. I can bring you on my way to the forge.”

She ducked back into her room with quick thanks and lit the candle by her bed. Walking the city made her muscles ache and she undressed slowly before sliding under the coverlet. Arman's words helped.

Closing her eyes, she thought of the spicy scent of the wood and curtains of ihal’s manor. Merahn's laughter as she held her firstborn. Alea smiled at the memory of Ahren's quick wit. They took a walk in the garden without escort a month before the attack.

His dark eyes had glinted when he saw her, presenting her with a hair comb wrought of silver and studded with onyx and lapis. He had just returned from negotiations in Vielrona and had found the gift in their market. “It matched your gray eyes,” he explained with a smile. “I am sorry our wedding continues to be postponed. I would imagine you're anxious.”

Alea laughed as she often did, then. “I waited years, Ahren. What is another month?” His hand sliding over hers surprised her, as had the kiss on her brow. “It is only until the rains come.”

She had not understood the sorrow in his eyes when he pulled away, thinking it was only from desire. “Alea, you know there’s a war on?”

“Ihal mentions it every day.”

Ahren's face grew serious. “Do you remember anything from before?”

“I was half a month old. How could I? This family is all I am.”

Ahren looked up at the fading light in the desert sky. “I’ll protect you. I know how precious you are.”

“Precious to you?”

He had answered only by squeezing her hand. Now, half asleep, Alea's mind paused on that. The image of Ahren's face dissolved into his expression when the attack began. He had the same sorrow in his eyes, haunting with the knowledge behind them.

Φ

The 39th Day of Lumord, 1251

“The tomes await, milady!” Arman knocked on her door before trotting downstairs. Alea finished braiding her hair and hurriedly tied her sandals before rushing after him. Arman turned, half a biscuit in his mouth while he pulled on a cloak.

She smiled briefly before looking away, but she knew he saw the shadows under her eyes. Half a pace allowed her to walk in his wake through the morning crowd, but her toes still found their way under more than a few boots. She picked out local Vielronan by their honey-colored hair and tan skin, but the city clearly had a history of opening their gates to those who needed shelter or business. Even still, gazes the slid over Aman paused on her. She wished her borrowed cloak had a deeper hood.

Arman swung open the Guild's wooden gate and showed her up a paved walk to a small building. “I’ll come by when Wes and I take our midday meal. If you're tired I can show you home, then.”

She nodded, hand on the door-latch. “Enjoy your work.” It was rare that she was alone in Cehn, with such a large household. Now that she had little to occupy her time she found herself unsure how to simply exist in her own thoughts. Especially when they are so dark. The low room was filled with scattered shelves and boards holding maps and charts. The hearth was lit, but low, and she hung her cloak beside one of the chairs before perusing the tomes. There seemed to be little order to the books' placement. Several books were piled haphazardly atop the shelves. She frowned at the titles: A History of the Gods, The Way of the Earth, and In the Name of Balance: The Teachings of the Laen. Chills rolled down her arms. Arman’s not the only one to think there was much more to the attack. The thought made her uneasy.

Turning she saw a new account, one she knew. Between Desert and Mountain was a dry retelling of Vielrona's political sparring with Athrolan to the north and Sunam, to the south. One illustration made her pause. It was the Minister of Vielrona meeting with the ihal of Cehn. She traced the artist's rendering of her foster father's face. His eyes were calmer than that, and his hair was always bound back under his jahi. She almost smiled, though, at the familiar face.

She shut the cover gently. History was never a subject she appreciated, preferring modern poetry and music. Finding a few volumes of nature-centered verses, she retired to the chair. After a minute she lost herself to golden grain and bitter ice in winter. By the time Arman arrived, she could almost recognize the taste of winter.

Φ

The 46th Day of Lumord, 1251

Alea was absorbed in a book on Vielronan plants when the door opened abruptly. After close to a week visiting the library, Alea knew most of the collection. It was close to supper and she expected Arman. Instead, a tall, unfamiliar man blocked the door.

He paused when he saw her, then doffed his cloak. “Forgive me, miss. I didn’t know the room was being used.” He stepped closer, allowing the torch at the door to illuminate him. Like most Vielronan his skin was gold. Gray threaded his long pale locks. Lines of a life filled with sorrow and joy etched his broad mouth and fierce eyes.

“I was just passing time,” Alea answered. “You’re welcome to your business.” She turned back to her book, only to be interrupted again.

“I know everyone in this city, by face if not by name.” His broad hands rested on the back of the chair opposite hers. “I don’t think I’m familiar with either of yours.”

Alea closed her book carefully and straightened. “I’m Lyne'alea ir Suna. I’m staying with the Wardyn family.”

The man regarded her searchingly before nodding. “I know where you came from and how you arrived. I'm glad you find our city hospitable. Perhaps soon we can have a better conversation.” He lifted a roll of maps from a shelf flanking the hearth, and with a smile, headed back toward the door.

“May I ask your name, sir?” Alea stopped him as he was fastening his cloak.