The 9th Day of Valemord, 1251

The City-state of Vielrona

ARMAN WAS PRONE TO imaginative ideas. A large part of him wondered if this was one. He leaned against his mother's doorframe, steeling himself.

“Just come in, Arman. I can hear you.”

He chuckled and stepped inside, shutting the door behind him. Kepra sat at her vanity brushing her hair. A thick wool robe wrapped her thin shoulders, but Arman could see how unkind the years had been. “I didn't mean to bother you.”

“What's on your mind, love?” She finished twisting her hair and sat on her coverlet.

He frowned. “Maybe I just want to say goodnight.”

“And do you want to be tucked into your blankets too? Arman, you haven’t come to say goodnight in a fair few minutes.” She drew her legs up under herself, and Arman was abruptly reminded of Alea. “What is it?”

“I need to ask you something, and I need you to understand I’ve thought about it, even if it seems mad.” He perched himself at the foot of her bed. “Something you said last night made me think. Do you remember a foreign woman you were midwife to? I was about four or five at the time. She came from the north and didn’t stay long.”

Kepra frowned. “I remember all the women I help.” Understanding glinted in her eyes, though she looked away.

“Ma, I need to know where she went.”

“‘South,’ is all she said. Arman, you’re implying something incredibly dangerous. She seems like a normal woman to me.”

The fact that his mother already knew his train of thought said as much about her motherhood as it did the truth to his suspicion. “South could be Cehn. Ma, her birthday was the twentieth.” He rested a hand on his mother's clenched fist. “I just want to know if it’s possible.”

Kepra ran her knuckles down Arman's cheek. “Her coloring, her features, they are familiar. More so now that her tan is fading.”

“But she's not one of them, so what is she?”

Kepra shook her head. “I don't know what she is, Arman. This conversation doesn’t leave this room. Am I understood?”

Feeling like a scolded boy again, he rose. “Yes, Ma.” He stopped. “She's strange and probably dangerous, but for whatever reason, we can't give her up to fate.”

Kepra's face softened finally. “I would have raised you wrong if you could.” She flicked her fingers at him. “Now let me rest. Next time you come knocking late at night you best be asking to give my ring to Veredy.”

The fleeting thought warmed him, but even with the dream of Veredy as his wife, he could not sleep. Strange, violent thoughts filled his head. Instead, he grabbed his cloak from the hook by the door. Flipping his hood up, he strode off toward the tavern lane. Alcohol would help.

A wave of warmth broke over him as he stepped into the Crook and Candle. Kam's boasts already resonated from the corner of the dim alehouse. Arman flopped onto the bench beside Wes, characteristic grin creeping onto his face. “Which story is it: the four trained assassins or the broken-hearted young widow.” Arman's voice was low.

“I think it's seven assassins now, but he's detailing the fight on Box Corner.” Wes ignored the sour look Kam shot at him. “How goes your strange noble woman?” The words were not unkind, but neither were they respectful.

“It's strange to have someone else in the inn. It's been just Ma and me for so long.” He jerked his head at the bar. “I finished that hilt you asked for today—buy me a mug. I need a drink.” While Wes gestured for another round, Arman scanned the crowd. He disliked the tone of Wes's words, but he knew they were well founded. Alea was nothing like the city-folk. Even picturing her at their ale-sticky table was laughable.

Guilt bloomed in his chest at Veredy’s familiar hazel eyes when she slid into the seat beside him. “Master Wardyn, I don’t believe we've met before,” she joked.

He only saw her once since the refugees arrived. Playing on her false dramatics, he placed a hand over his heart. “It wounds, that you cannot remember my face.”

Despite the jesting, Veredy's expression was guarded. “You’ve been busy, I hear. How does the lady fare?”

“Well, I suppose. You should meet her.”

Veredy fingered the jeweled pin holding up her locks. “Perhaps you should bring her out one evening.”

Arman recognized the pin as one he made for her and his guilt intensified. “Do you want to walk?” He offered her his hand.

They ducked out under the cover of Kam's ruckus, and if Wes saw them go, he said nothing. Veredy tucked herself under Arman's arm with practiced familiarity. “I missed you.”

“And I you.” He squeezed her. “How’s business?”

“Good, though I prefer selling in the stalls.” She steered them down a quieter street, walking toward the Rattles. “Do you think she’ll stay?”

Arman asked, even though he knew. “Who?”

“Your strange noble woman.”

“She's not mine,” he retorted. “And I have no idea. Ma enjoys her help, but Alea doesn’t seem in love with Vielrona.” Cold air flooded his lungs as he sighed, enjoying Veredy’s warmth against his side and the muted city sounds drifting from the market. Everything was perfect, peaceful. Perhaps it was the threat of winter, or the muted city sounds drifting on the night breeze, but his chest ached with melancholy. “I’ve missed seeing you lately.”

Veredy nudged him with her elbow, but smiled. “I wasn’t certain how to deal with your new lady guest.”

Arman snorted. “You’ve never been uncertain in your life.” He kissed the top of her head. “Anyways, I don’t think anyone knows how to deal with her.” Or the Laen. Or whatever she is.

“Would you like some tea?”

Arman realized they stood before the door leading up to her room. “Tea would be perfect.”

Like many, her rooms sat above the store she worked. Though larger, it was almost as much home as his own room. He peered out the window, taking a deep sip of the liquor-laced tea she poured. “You’ve lived here a long time, now.”

“Several years.” She leaned against the tabletop. “When will you find your own place?”

“When I have a woman to share it with.” He smiled at her and sat at the table. Strange urgency hardened the playful words. “Do you think you’ll take over the shop?”

Veredy made a face. “I hope I can have my own. Mistress Hughen drives me mad. I can only imagine what it would take to buy the place from her.”

Arman took her hand, rubbing his rough thumb over her work-worn fingers thoughtfully. “A lot’s changed since we were young, you know.”

She snorted and wrapped her long tan hands around her own mug. “We’re still young by most counts. And you still dance around subjects like a prairie hen.” She leaned over and kissed him.

He smiled against her mouth. “You are not mad I’ve been too busy to see you?”

She moved to sit on the edge of her bed. “You're here, now aren't you?”

Their tension lasted only until he toed off his boots and dropped his belt with a metallic thump. Smiling, he tugged off his shirt and crawled under the coverlet with her. He scraped the bristles of his cheek on hers. Laughter filled the space between them, but Arman swore sadness shadowed her eyes.

Φ

The 10th of Valemord, 1251

Quiet filled with kitchen in the absence of Arman's usual morning boisterous monologue. Alea peered into the kitchen curiously. “Where's Arman?”

Kepra shrugged as she measured out cornmeal. “He went out late and did not come home.”

Alea tied on her apron, alarmed. “Is he well?”

Kepra laughed. “Neither Wes nor Kam blazed in here in the small hours of the morning. They always do when Arman finds trouble. I trust he's safe.” She gestured at a package sitting on the bar top. “He sent that over this morning for you.”

Alea brushed her hands off and unfolded the bundle of cloth. Thick wool cascaded over her hands. New linen lined the cloak, matching the dark green wool. Folded parchment was tucked under the wrought silver clasp.

I know you are used to the desert and it is getting colder. My friend cut down my best one for you, and I made the clasp myself. I’m sorry for keeping you out in the cold the other night.

I have something to ask you over lunch today.

-A

His abrupt writing echoed his frank speech. She pressed the cloak to her chest. Woodsmoke and stone were not the same scents as home, but they still comforted her. After hanging the cloak carefully by the door, she set about the morning's tasks.

Arman stumbled in at noon as Alea pulled rolls from the oven. She tossed him one from the previous batch with a smile. “Careful, they’re still hot. Thank you for the cloak.”

Circles hung from his eyes, but he grinned. “I'm glad you like it.” He dug around in the pantry. “Ma? Where do you keep your tea? The stuff from Ban.”

Kepra breezed into the kitchen with a frown. “It’s ginger, Arman. You ought to bring some with you if you're going to continue to drink to excess.” She handed him the packet of herbs.

“I'm not hung-over, I just got very little sleep.” He poured himself a mug and slid onto one of the bar stools. “How has your morning been, miss?”

“Good. I think I’m settling in more.” Curiosity sparked in her chest, and she perched on the stool beside him. “You wanted to ask something?”

“I did?” Arman frowned, and he took a long sip of his tea. His expression brightened. “Ah, yes. You’re safe here, but you’ve seen violence, and I thought I could help you feel safer.”

“What do you mean?”

“Have you thought about learning to protect yourself? Archery, hand-blocks and the like?”

Alea stared. It’s wrong to bear weapons. Her heart balked at the thought. “If I carried a weapon it’d be a challenge and I’d be attacked. My ihal taught us that. None of his family ever learned combat.”

“What?” Arman looked incredulous. He drew a breath. “Milady, with all respect, they didn’t carry weapons and Cehn was still attacked. Perhaps if they had they’d be here now.”

Stubbornness set Alea's chin. She picked at a splinter on the bar top. “It is childish, but I think part of me thought a hero would rush in and save us. If I can’t hold onto that hope, what’s left?” She did not realize disappointment crouched in her chest until the words left her mouth.

“You're thinking of the wrong part of the story. In the beginning, innocents aren’t saved, the hero’s not the hero. He’s a child, ignorant of the world. He loses something dear to him and that sets grief into his heart. Depending on the story, that grief turns to vengeance or justice or hardened resolve.”

“What do you mean?” His words echoed in her, cracking open something she kept closed for as long as she could remember. Vengeance or resolve?

“This story just shattered you. Gather the pieces and kindle the flames. Then you’ll be reforged.”

Reforged into what? Curiosity warred with culture and made her heart race.

Arman rested a hand beside hers on the bar, like he had when she told her story to the Laen’s guard. “There are training halls in the Outer Edge where many of us practice defense and weapons when we may. You could meet me at our stall tomorrow afternoon.”

“I just think it is better to use our minds and our words to fight, not our hands,” she argued. Deep in her mind, however, darkness unfurled, something hounding to act.

“You’re right, but it takes a long time to train our minds to fight that way. Protect yourself with your hands until you can fight with only words.”

“I’ll let you teach me,” her words were little more than a whisper, “but I don’t think any weapon could have saved them.”