Alea's steps on the inn's stairs were light. Horror sunk in her chest, however, when she opened the door to her room. The bed was stripped and all the borrowed effects she came to consider her own were gone.

Kepra emerged from a room at the base of the stairs down the hall. “Miss, I've moved your things. If you're to be living and working here, you deserve your own space.” Her expression softened at the concern in Alea's eyes. “Arman spoke to me last night after you went to sleep. He wanted it to be a surprise. I know it’s not much compared to what you’re used to, but this can be home for as long as you need.”

Alea could not trust her voice. Instead, she ran to embrace the older woman. With Kepra’s soft, strong arms around her, she realized she had not touched another person in weeks. Not since the attack. Before her composure could truly break, she pulled away and offered Kepra a smile.

“You don’t know how much this means.” The usual simmer of bitterness dimmed with momentary excitement. She was grateful, surely, but behind her icy walls, there was only exhausted relief.

Kepra's eyes crinkled with a smile very much like Arman's “I'm glad. There's a purse on your nightstand with your wages for your work and a pair of boots by the door. I'll pay you each week.” She made a shooing motion. “Go explore your room, but be in the kitchen before third bell—I'll need your help tonight.”

Alea was rolling dough for dumplings again when Arman peered through the kitchen door. “Did you see your room?”

“Luckily I did, elsewise you would’ve spoiled the surprise.” She met his eyes. “Thank you. For the room and for today at the hearing.” She turned back to the dough with a frown. “I feel as if more was said in there than I realized.”

Arman slumped onto a stool. “You must understand we have survived this long by being direct, shrewd, and firm. I don’t think he was antagonizing you, simply wanting the truth.”

Alea pursed her lips. “I don't understand why he is fixated on rumors. Surely a few Laen cannot make a large difference.”

Arman gaped at her. “You’re what, seventeen?”

She drew herself up. His words smacked of condescension. “I turned nineteen on the twentieth of Lumord.” She faltered at that. “I was unconscious at the time, I suppose.”

Arman bowed his head, just kindly enough that it did not seem mocking. Nevertheless, a grin tugged at his mouth. “Forgive me, milady.” He sobered quickly. “What do you know of the war?”

Alea looked down. “I learned a little about the Laen. Mostly it was history. My ihal spoke enough of war beyond our borders and I knew the Laen were—are—hunted. I didn’t realize how bad it was, though.”

“The Mirikin have all but destroyed the Laen.” Arman's voice was very soft, as if he hoped speaking quietly made his words less true. “Those that still live are old and hiding. The youngest pose a threat simply because they could birth the Dhoah' Laen.”

Alea's heart pounded. Is that what Gluan meant when he asked if there was something more that ihal hid? “She’s the one that would bind the world, yes?”

“Yes.”

Alea shook her head. “I prayed to the gods, like most Sunamen, but ihal taught his children to respect the Laen as well. I made offerings as frequently as any—mostly to Ikate, a goddess of the desert. I never thought the gods were evil enough to murder their creators.”

Arman shook his head. “Many histories discuss the Division of the world. I am sure you could find a few in our library. It might do you well to understand how we see things here.” He stood abruptly and left without another word.

Gluan's pointed questions drained her enough. And now Arman’s nearly laughing at my perceived naiveté. Speaking of her faith, when Arman's and most of the Vielronan clearly differed, made it worse. At home, when the heat soured her mood, she lay on the cool stone slabs by the baths with Merahn.

Here she was always cold. Her hand clenched around the dough as waves of homesickness crashed through her.

Φ

The 8th Day of Valemord, 1251

The City-state of Vielrona

Leaves turned from gold to orange and crimson over the next few days. Their flames dotted the hills with brilliance and lent warmth to the cold air. Alea found much in the historical accounts in the Guild's library, and after Arman's pointed remark, made herself familiar with them, despite her irritation. There was nothing of current tensions, in the books, however. An older tome told of the Laen's nature and the history of the Division. This one she returned to each day. Finally, one morning she found a passage toward the back.

Before the world was divided, the gods walked the earth as men do now. Their rulers were the Laen and the Rakos. Fiery Rakos governed change and the gods lived under the teaching of whatever element each represented. The Laen kept the balance of life and death, peace and war, chaos and order.

The gods were inquisitive and wanted more than what they were given. They captured Lynel, the Laen's leader and convinced her even the Laen's rule had to pass, forcing her to split the world. With the world divided they did not have to live under the rule of either the Laen or the Rakos. Weakened by the rebellion's effect on the world's balance, the Laen were unable to fight the onslaught.

Alea stopped. She heard the tale a dozen times. It varied with each telling, as all legends did, but she never heard a telling so sympathetic to the Laen. What side is even right? She stared out the window. The balance of nature is important, but could we have lived this long if it was damaged that badly? She flipped forward a few pages, ignoring the violence of the war that followed the Division. The war that has begun anew. Finally, she found a passage, written toward the end.

Now, when the Division is centuries past, tales tell of another Laen. She will be more powerful than all before her, for she will be the embodiment of Creation and Destruction. Called the Dhoah' Laen for her dualistic nature, she will mend the world. Her power will cause wonder and sorrow, her touch relief and pain. Her love will bring life, but also death.

Chills filled Alea’s bones. She knew the Laen were austere, but even in a gods-supporting city, she was not taught the ferocity detailed on the pages before her. The image was haunting. That is what the Mirikin were hunting when they attacked Cehn. They wanted her. She shut the book with a snap. She was already late to help in the kitchen, and her thoughts were too dark.

Φ

Heat and the clatter of dishes reminded Arman of the forge. Working in the kitchen was usually a welcome relief, and he enjoyed sneaking tastes without his mother's reprimands. Tonight was different. When Alea arrived that evening, he toiled at the stove alone.

“Do you need help? Where’s your mother?” She tied on an apron and checked the bread baking on the hearth.

“Please. She went to help Mistress Connolin deliver her second child. You remember her—she has the brown cow that ate from your hand.” Arman glanced over. “Pass me that pot over there?”

Alea handed it to him. “Your mother’s a midwife as well as a healer?”

“It was her profession before my father died. Healing was just part of it.” He piled plates onto a tray. “I'm going to bring these out, check the soup, will you?”

Arman edged through the tables, balancing trays of stew and ale. “Here, Guntar, but this is your last. I'm not carrying you home again.” He scowled at the heavyset farmer. “Your sick ruined my better breeches last time.” He gathered empty mugs from their table and turned back to the bar. Most patrons chose the same tables, with the bar occupied by traders passing through. With winter and war closing in, such visitors were fewer.

That was not what made Arman stare at the strange man seated at the end of the counter. A fur-lined cloak was tugged about his ears, despite the warmth of the room and he wore a silk wrap around his head.

Arman navigated back through the tables and delivered dirty dishes to the wash barrel. Noting the man had only a glass of water before him, Arman sidled over. “Could I interest you in food, if you're not drinking tonight?” People who don’t drink at inns are trouble. It meant they were there to do business, and evening business in taverns was rarely legal.

Narrowed eyes met Arman’s, solid black, like those of an animal. “Stew, if you’ve got it.”

Arman could only stare. Winding tattoos decorated the milk-pale skin. I'd bet my best blade his headscarf hides a set of horns. “Leek soup alright, sir?” He took the man's request, but could barely concentrate. Each time he left the kitchen he checked to make sure the stranger was still there. I can’t let him leave without speaking to him. A lull came as the first wave of patrons tottered off to bed.

Arman removed his apron and slid onto the stool beside the pale man. “I know who you’re looking for.”

The man's closed expression darkened violently. “I am certain you don’t.”

Arman rolled his eyes and pitched his voice to a murmur. “Six survivors from Cehn. Ones who wield smoke and lightning.”

The man's eyes widened. “Only six?”

Arman looked down. “I was told to look for you. What do you need to know?”

“What happened in Cehn, and where they are now.”

Arman jerked his head toward the upper floor of the house. “Let’s speak somewhere else. There is a porch on our third floor. I’ll meet you there in a few minutes.”

Arman ducked into the kitchen. Alea was adding onions and carrots to the soup. He knew she remembered very little, and what she did recall she wished she could not. One woman's peace of mind is not worth the world. “Miss?”

Fatigue shadowed Alea’s eyes when she glanced up.

“I need to speak with you. Upstairs. Now.” Nerves sharpened the words no matter how gentle he strove to sound. He was grateful she followed him through the common room without protest. The guard had already disappeared. At the door to the third-floor stairway, Arman stopped. “I need you to do something for me.”

Wariness tempered the curiosity in Alea's gaze. “Surely, this can wait.”

“I'm certain it can't.” He pointed to the floor above them. “There’s a man upstairs who needs to hear about what happened in Cehn. I know this is hard, I know you don't want to think about it, let alone speak about it, but he came a very long way and it's incredibly important.”

Alea pursed her lips, but he saw dread in her eyes. “If you ask me to do this, you need to tell me why. More than ‘incredibly important.’”

He squeezed his eyes shut. I will not tell a soul. “Why don't you come upstairs, and I’ll tell you both.”

After a moment, she nodded.

Upstairs, the door hung open and the man paced the short length of the porch, fiddling with something at his belt. Seeing them approach, he stopped, his glower falling on Alea. “I'd rather not tell the town gossip about this, boy, if it's all the same to you.”

Alea froze in the doorway. “I didn’t come up here to be mocked.” Her sharp gray eyes fixed on An'thor. “If it's all the same to you.”

Arman ignored the tossed barbs. “Milady ir Suna is a survivor from Cehn, sir. Her family sheltered your charges.”

Alea glanced between the two of them. “He's here about the Laen?” When both men tried to shush her, she sank into the chair. “Where do you want me to start?”

“The beginning.” Had the pale man’s words not been growled through stained teeth, they would have sounded comical. “When did they arrive? How many were there? What did you speak to them about?”

Alea held up her hand. “I did not speak to them. Seven of them arrived a few nights before the attack and stayed in the children's wing—it was the safest part of the building. My foster-sister Merahn attended them. As I was preparing for my wedding, I did not. One was young, younger than me. Ihal visited them but they didn’t leave the wing. We all knew what they were, but none dared speak it. They were following up on a visit many years before, I guess.” She rubbed the strong bridge of her nose and cleared her throat.

“The attack came at sundown. I was putting the children to bed. I heard screaming, so I locked the doors and went to see what happened. By the time I was downstairs the entire southern wing—including the nursery—was in flames. The Laen were in the garden and I tried to reach them, tried to beg them to help fight, to protect us. Someone grabbed me, the air filled with power and I remember nothing more.” Her shoulders shook, and Arman wondered if it was from the cold or emotions.

He placed a hand on the back of the chair. “Thank you. I know that wasn’t easy.”

“Their power—what color was it? What color was the girl's power?”

“Gray. Silver maybe. The girl didn’t use hers, though. They protected her.”

The strange man nodded, a satisfied look on his face. “Thank you, miss. I apologize for my brisk nature.” He turned to Arman. “And they came here?”

Arman nodded. “They tended some of the survivors, brought them here. They stayed for only a few hours. Their leader—Liane—gave me an image of you and the others and I told them the best way out of the city. North, via the western gate. It is a bad road, but few travel it.” He picked at the skin around his nails. The ice, the fire at the memory of the Laen still coursed through him. “What color power does she have?”

The pale man looked out to the north. “I’ve never seen it, but it should be black.”

“She it, isn't she? She's the Dhoah' Laen.”

The man met Arman's gaze for a moment, but did not answer. “Thank you for your time, and your dedication. I won’t forget it.” He paused in the doorway. He did not look at Alea, but his hand rested on her shoulder for a second. “I am very sorry for your losses. Know they didn’t die in vain.”