“And on top of that, I received two new commissions for hilt repair. It’s the fine tooling that I like the most.” Arman glanced at Alea. She barely responded to his excited retelling of his day. Her dark gaze trailed along the road as if her body dragged its unwilling mind after it. “Are you alright?”

“What?” Her eyes flew wide and she almost tripped over a raised cobble.

“You seem lost in thought.”

She shook her head. “I'm just distracted. I met someone in the library today—Gluan Herdingman. He said he wanted to speak with me.”

Arman's laugh was closer to a snort. Of course, he did. “That was our Minister. His curiosity got the best of him, I think. He’s a good man, if abrupt.”

Alea paused on the bridge, frowning. Arman leaned his forearms on the cool stone. Chills curled up his arms, but he welcomed the cold after a day in the forge. Bells from behind drowned out most other noise. For a moment, Vielrona drew a breath, preparing for night.

Arman eyed Alea sidelong. Her profile was lit by the sun setting as she raised her face to the fresh wind gusting down the mountains. She leaned over the side of the bridge, peering at the dark water. Thick blocks of dark gray stone reinforced the banks, dotted with small, scraggly shrubs that found hold between older blocks. “This is beautiful.”

She must not see the sewage from the Upper culverts. He smiled. Still, it was nice for someone to call his home beautiful. “You said the desert had no rivers?”

“Except for Sunam's capital. Flood waters from the other side of these mountains meet the sea there. I’ve never been.” Her eyes traced the narrow sandy path along the river and she glanced over. “What lies up there?”

Gooseflesh rippled up Arman's arms at her words. “The ruins of Elanal—the city Vielrona used to guard.”

“The Laen city?”

He nodded. “Few visit it. It feels like a grave.”

She gathered her skirts and headed down the road. “Arman, you know the biggest difference between home and Vielrona?”

He looked back at the mountains, half expecting to see the Laen standing in the churning waters. “The sand?” he hazarded.

She laughed. “Besides that. It's the layers.”

“Layers?” He shoved his hands in the pockets of his cloak.

“In Cehn, everything was layered. We wore layers of fabric; our doors and windows were layers of wooden lattice and drapes. Our hair was done up in curtains of braids and charms under our jahi. Even the sandstone of our buildings had layers of gold and red and brown. In Vielrona you have more colors, perhaps—green and blue—but it’s simple. Straightforward. It is a different kind of beauty.” Her hands animated the descriptions.

Arman wondered if she knew her words described the difference between the Vielronan people and her own. They stepped through the gate to the Cockerel when a sharp voice came from the doorway. “Wardyn!”

Arman tried not to wince and raised his hand in greeting. “Farrow, I've not seen you since last winter. How has the clerk's life treated you?”

“Well, so far.” The man was older than Arman by a few years, his orange-gold hair closely cropped. His cream tunic bore the city's insignia on the right breast. Despite his tidy grooming, scars peppered his hands and a long mark over his left brow designated him a former common lad. “When the Minister had me draw this up, I offered to run yours myself.”

“Glad I could see you.” Arman turned and motioned Alea forward. “This is Lyne'alea ir Suna. Miss, this is Maren Farrow, an old friend.”

Farrow’s pale gaze was reserved as he handed her a folded letter. “This is for you, miss.” He glanced at Arman. “Might I speak with you?” Arman stepped aside to allow Alea past. When the door shut behind her Farrow looked down. “Watch yourself.”

“Excuse me?” Sickening dread unfolded in Arman’s gut. Despite his introduction, Farrow was not a friend, and had not been for years. But neither was he an enemy.

“The world’s not safe and you’re only making it worse.”

“What are you talking about?”

“First the Laen in your inn, now you're keeping her about? Her family sheltered them, Arman. There's already talk.” He rested a hand on Arman's shoulder. “Think of Veredy, if nothing else.”

Arman shook the hand off. Veredy? She was even less concerned about the Mirikin than he. “It’s good to see you,” he lied. He watched Farrow retreat up the street before stepping into the inn. Alea perched on a stool, the letter open before her.

“I'm sorry about that. Just reminiscing.” Arman jerked his head at the parchment. “What is it?”

“A summons to appear before the Guild with the other survivors tomorrow morning.”

Tomorrow? “May I?”

Shaking narrow fingers handed him the letter. The words were neutral and made no mention of any rumors, but it still made Arman's skin crawl with unease. Farrow’s words cast a sinister shadow over Gluan’s careful words. “It’s probably a formal welcome, maybe they’ll help everyone get settled with work.” It was the third time he lied in the last few minutes, and he did not like the ease with which falsehoods slipped from his tongue. “I’m going to go wash off this forge-filth.” If she said goodnight, he did not hear.

Later, with the worst of the grime off his hands and drifting in the bottom of his washbasin, Arman opened the chest at the foot of his bed. His family was not wealthy, but his father had often read to him from one of the few books they owned. It was Arman's favorite as a child, and he suspected they were his father's favorites too. At the bottom of the chest was a slim book wrapped in several layers of cloth and stuffed in a pair of boots he outgrew years ago. Callouses caught on the soft material of the cover as he unwrapped it.

Gold and white detailed the plain green. Inlaid on the cover, was a small portrait, protected by a thin sheet of clear mica. The man in the picture glowered at Arman with eerie yellow-green eyes.

Arman thumbed through the pages as quickly as he could without damaging the delicate parchment. “Page eighteen,” he reminded himself. Finding the place, he sank onto his bed and reread the words. He almost had it memorized, once.

“Laen are powerful, creators of gods, made of sea and storm, ice and lightning. Beside them stands another race, as fierce as the Laen are calm. Guards made of fire and earth, filled with the rage of earthquakes. They are the Rakos. The Laen claimed their souls, and in return, offered their hearts.”

Under the passage was a note by the scribe. It mentioned the Rakos were all but extinct. Wholehearted defense of their Laen came with a cost. Most died in battle. Others disappeared into the wilderness. Some bred with humans, but their children were unremarkable. As the Laen dwindled, so did their protectors.

Arman turned back to the image on the cover. The man passed as human if one did not look closely. Something in the set of his mouth, the depth of his eyes revealed his monstrous nature. Arman understood how many folks thought Vielronan people had a bit of Rakos in their ancestry—gold hair and ruddy skin echoed in the deeper tones of the portrait. Ancestry or not, your blood is all but useless. He shook his head. You can't even inspire faith, and when the Laen need you most, you're gone.

Φ

The 47th Day of Lumord, 1251

The double gates to the largest Guild building hung open and guarded. While the rest of the city bustled, stillness muffled the official complex. Several Sunamen faces were among the gathering crowd, and her nerves relaxed a fraction. She was almost used to her simple routine and the sudden turn of events frustrated her. She did not dare to think on what might happen if they city chose not to shelter the refugees. How could I find another place to live? How could any of us? As much as Vielrona was not home, neither was any Athrolani city. Besides, news—and superstition—of the attack would precede them. Rumors flew faster than a horse could run.

Dark, warm air drifted from the open doors, and Alea slipped down the hall reaching off from both sides of the foyer. Servants milled about, but Alea noted few differences between the classes.

Someone poked his head through a door directly opposite, scanning the gathered newcomers. “Are you here for the hearing?”

A broad man with a dense collection of Sunamen braids stepped forward, one hand laced with his wife’s. “We are.”

Dread landed heavily in Alea's stomach. Hearing? Fourteen others waited in the small room. Alea examined the faces. The familiar, light brown of Cehn people was a warm breeze to her weathered spirit, but none of their faces were those of her family or friends. Nervous smiles matched her own, however. Seeing their own borrowed clothes, Alea was glad Kepra lent her a clean dress. Sarafan and kokoshnik were the style in Athrolan, but Vielronan women favored loose dresses gathered with broad canvas or leather belts. The one Alea wore was cream stitched with gray. She suddenly missed the comforting weight of her cloak.

No sooner had she found a seat than the man returned, this time holding up a different door. Alea's brows rose as they entered. Strength and age filled each aspect of the architecture. The expected riches were forgone for rough simplicity. Instead of a massive hall, they ranged about the rear of a narrow stone room. It was beautiful in the way the mountains were beautiful due to their might and ferocity. Warm gray walls were unadorned, save for a single banner at the rear of the room. Smokey waxen torches burnt against the stone. Beneath it a long table stood along the wall.

The dozen people awaiting them were the strangest mix Alea had yet seen. Half were the tanned-and-blonde combination typical of old Vielronan families. The others seemed to hail from several other nations. Alea picked out the dark brown skin and shaved head of a Banis woman, and the white skin and brown hair of an Athrolani man. One woman was even Sunamen.

“Order.” Gluan sat at the center of the table. Now he wore a small medallion around his neck but was otherwise unremarkable. He fixed the refugees with a pointed stare. “I am Minister Gluan Herdingman of Vielrona.” His tawny eyes were those of a hawk. “I formally offer you asylum in our city, but I would like to hear what each of you will gift us with in return. What skills do you bring to Vielrona?”

A man she recognized as a gardener stepped forward. “I tended the ihal's plants in his personal garden. The plants here are different, but I would gladly work in the fields or in the Guild's personal garden. I studied with Burhen the Green, a great botanist of Sunam, and could bring much to your farms and fields.”

Many of the headmen scratched notes as he spoke, but Glaun's gaze did not waver from the speaker. When the man was done, the Minister gestured to the city folk who were gathered to watch. “And do any Vielronan speak for this man?”

After a moment an older woman stepped forward. “Minister, sir, my husband was crippled two months ago during planting, and with only two boys to help us, harvest has been difficult. We would provide room and board to this man if he helped us in our fields. It is not work as glorious as gardening, but it would be a start and we sorely need the help.”

As one of the last to fully recover, Alea was toward the rear of the line and watched each person find a place. The proceedings impressed her. Some survivors had little to offer, or none to speak for them, but the Minister found a place for each, even if it was only as a messenger or laborer.

“And you, miss?” Alea stepped forward, clasping her hands before her to hide their trembling. “Minister Herdingman, sir, I am Lyne'alea ir Suna. Firstly, I wish to thank you for your kindness toward us. I am literate, and worked as a governess to the children in the ihal's household since I was fourteen.”

Her next words were halted by the Minister's hand. “Miss, I will hear your skills, but I need other information first. Am I right you were in the ihal's manor during the attack?”

“Yes, sir. I’m foster daughter to ihal Ahme'reahn ira Suna.”

“How did you survive when the city fell?”

Cold crept through Alea’s body. Whispers rose from the watching crowd. “I remember very little. I fled toward the outskirts of the gardens. Perhaps the Mirikin already swept through there. There were certainly enough bodies.”

“There are concerning rumors—I assume you heard them—about the reasons behind the attack. Was the ihal sheltering more than the Laen?”

“Forgive me, I don't understand your meaning. He hosted six Laen. That’s all. He said they came to him before, but I was too young to remember their first visit.” What would I say if there were more to tell? Perhaps she would have lied.

Gluan finally sat back. “Very well. Thank you for your candid answers. Do tell us of your skills.”

“I can do maid's work, and know a bit about cooking, though perhaps only enough for scullery work.” She was confidant Gluan would find a place for her, though she did not look forward to meeting another family.

“Do any speak for this woman?”

“I do.”

Alea turned, heart thundering. When she had not seen Arman that morning, she assumed he was already working. Instead, he stood in the hall, dressed in his finest shirt and newly polished boots.

“My mother owns the Ruby Cockerel.” Arman did not look over, but his hand fluttered a greeting behind his back. “She does what she can, but would welcome help. Miss ir Suna recovered with us and helped much in the past two weeks. I ask that she stays on to help my mother. We would offer her room and board in exchange for her work.”

The cold walls surrounding her fragile mind warmed a fraction. She remembered ihal’s patient kindness and Ahren’s gentle support. Perhaps such things did not die with them.

“You are willing to take responsibility for her in Vielrona until she finds her own way?”

Arman did look at her then, flashing a smile before addressing the Minister, “Vielrona is her home, and I gladly welcome her.”