The ground hit Arman like a second blow. He gasped, gutter water rushing in instead of air. Cold slime from the butcher's lard tub mixed with manure from the gardens. Burning ripped through his body, save for his left arm and shoulder. Those were numb. Dim awareness told him the water downstream from him was awfully dark. He stabbed me. That's my blood. Bile rose. Muscles convulsed, but he did not know if it was from fear or shock.
“Alea.” Her name came as a gurgle. He expected to see her dead, to see an empty street. Alea pressed against the wall. “Stop,” she whispered. Then her features smoothed, and she forced herself up. When her eyes swiveled to the tall man, they hardened. Delicate hands raised before her. “Stop!”
One man rushed forward, blade raised. Arman's world exploded into darkness. It was not unconsciousness enveloping him, however, but roiling black fog. Fighting broke out and he heard a shout, pounding feet, then silence. They've taken her.
A gentle hand brushed dirt from his face. Cold hands rolled him over and cleaned the scummer from his nose and mouth. “I won't let you die in a gutter, Arman.” Lead and energy laced Alea's voice, and he blinked his vision clear.
Calm erased any concern on her face. Her gray eyes darkened to silver-black, glowing in the dark, like an animal's. Black veins marbled her skin. Bodies lay in the street, black fog drifting from their open mouths where it had choked them.
Alea turned his face to her again. “You're safe.” Her palm pressed against his wound, achingly cold. He groaned stomach rolling at the pain. It felt as if ice crystals spread in his chest. Then it was over. Alea sat back on her heels. Blackness streamed into her, twisting under her skin before disappearing. Her eyes lightened to gray and rolled back. She gasped once, then fell.
He reached out but stopped short of touching her. Quick breaths misted the air over her mouth. The Laen have the wrong woman. It was his last thought before shock drove his mind from consciousness.
Φ
The 37th day of Valemord, 1251
Blood and muck dripped across the floor of the Ruby Cockerel. Arman scarcely noticed. Kam caught him as he sagged against the banister, still refusing to meet his friend’s eyes. Wes banged in after them, Alea cradled in his arms. Arman glanced over. “Hush or you'll wake my mother.”
Wes looked thoroughly chastised. “Where is her room?”
“Last on the right. Below mine.” He glanced at Veredy, who stood by the door. “Can you go with him, get her cleaned up?”
She wordlessly followed the smith upstairs, leaving Kam and Arman in the common room.
“Arman.” Kam's voice was low.
Arman went to hang his cloak, only to realize it was ruined. He bundled it into the hearth. His movements were emotionless, his face blank.
“Arman.” The word was closer to a bark. Kam pushed the taller man down into a chair by the sputtering fire. “Sit.”
Arman slumped, watching the damp, brown wool burn. “There's ale if you want.”
Kam's words were strangled. “We find you both unconscious, covered in blood, and you offer me a drink? Like it’s midwinter and I'm selling chestnuts?” He made a disgusted noise and stomped off into the kitchen. He returned with two thumb-glasses and a bottle of tar-whiskey. He drained his glass twice before finally sitting back. “Tell me what happened.”
“I can't.”
“You can’t, or you won't?”
“I won't because I can't. I don't know what happened, Kam. I don't understand it.” Arman frowned. “How did you know to come?”
“Veredy. She said you were talking, then you went a bit mad. You ran off. We knew where you might have gone.” Kam handed him a glass.
Arman stared at it, but did not drink. His body should be shaking, he should be frozen halfway to death. Instead, itching crawled over his flesh and fire burned in his chest. Nausea clenched the walls of his stomach. Do I really not understand it, or am I simply refusing to admit what I saw?
“Whose blood is that?”
“Mine.”
Kam stared at him. “What?”
“I said ‘mine.’ Kam, I appreciate the concern, but I can't handle your questions.” Arman sank his head into his hands. Exhaustion crept in. Perhaps if he slept everything would be clearer.
“What about mine?” Veredy stood at the bottom of the stairs, Wes just behind her.
Arman looked away from the hurt in her eyes. “Ver, I'm sorry, but no.” He levered himself out of the chair. Leaving his drink untouched on the table, he made his way to the stairs. He ran a finger down Veredy's cheek. “Thank you for coming.” He waited while they filed out, then stumbled up the stairs to his bedroom. He stripped off his ruined clothes and cleaned the blood from his body. The wash water was cold, but soothed his fevered skin. At his shoulder, he paused. The mirror by his door was small, but he angled it down. There was no wound, only smooth, red scar tissue. His breath hitched.
It was a handprint.
Φ
The 39th Day of Valemord, 1251
The City-state of Vielrona
ALEA IGNORED THE KNOCKING. Each time Kepra brought food up over the past few days she refused to answer. Instead, she sat on her bed and stared at her hands. Now the pounding persisted.
“Milady, it's Arman. Open the door please.” When no response came, his voice grew firm. “I can break in. Open it or I'll pick the lock.”
His honorific for her irked more than usual. She dragged herself off the bed and cracked the door.
“May I come in?”
She wrapped her robe tighter and returned to perch on the bed. Arman's brows rose at the sight of her room. Clothes from the attack lay crumpled on the floor. His concern did not wane when he took in her appearance.
“I only just left my room today, too.” Soft words slipped between them. Confidence, confession.
Alea stared at him. He cleared his throat then picked up her clothes, examining them. “I doubt the blood will wash from these.” He dropped them in the tin barrel used for waste. He dipped a facecloth into the stale water of her basin and held it out to her. “Veredy did her best, but you still have blood on you.”
She could not move. Too many layers of her fears, confusion, separated her from his words. He hesitated, then dabbed the blood away, wiping the dirt from her cheeks and brow. When her face was clean, he took the metal comb on her bed-stand and freed her hair of snarls and blood. Her hair tidied, he shifted awkwardly. “I don’t know how to braid.”
She was silent. The dissociation she felt now, was different from the apathy that followed her grief. Truth is what scares me now.
He knelt to peer into her eyes. “Are you in there, somewhere?”
Tenderness brushed her mind. She slid from her bed and wrapped her arms around his neck. Her words came out in a tumble close to nonsense. “I thought I was nothing. I thought I was a foster-child saved by my ihal's kindness. I was the reason the Laen came the first time. I was the reason the Mirikin attacked, even if none of us knew it!”
Arman gingerly patted her shoulders. “I know.” He pulled back and took her by the shoulders. “I've suspected for weeks. My mother helped a woman deliver a baby—a baby she took south to abandon. But she was not a human woman. She was Laen, and you are her image.” He caught her startled gaze and smiled. “This will take a long time to accept, and you could do with some food. I'm headed to the library, but perhaps afterward we might talk?”
Forcing a nod, she pulled away, embarrassed at her condition. When he had gone, Alea risked a glance in her mirror. She looked the same. What did I expect? She quickly finished washing and changed into a clean dress. The ordeal in the alley seemed unreal, but the blood on her clothes was real. Kepra bustled downstairs, but Alea could not bring herself to leave the room. Here I’m safe. She lay back on her bed, eyes closed. Between these walls, I’m only Alea.
Φ
Arman sighed in relief when we saw the deserted room. Of all my research attempts, I want an audience for this the least. Leaving his cloak at the door, he found the older historic tomes and scrolls. Several were recently thumbed through, he noticed, all regarding the Laen. Someone else is curious. He shook the sensation of being watched away. They’ve a right to know what stayed—stays—in their city. He did not flip to the lengthy pages about the war or the gods, nor did he seek the histories of men. He looked for the Rakos. His old book of tales rested heavily in his pocket, and he wondered how much of it was true.
With a few promising options, he retreated to one of the plush chairs. He flipped through the pages of the first. Toward the middle was a rough copy of the painting adorning the cover of his book. A Rakos guard of Vielrona, as illustrated by Druca of Berr. Arman's brows rose. It was an old image—the last of the Laen guards disappeared centuries ago. He turned to the page opposite the portrait.
The Laen did not oversee their world single-handed. Of their creation, they picked the most beautiful and powerful—the titanic fiery monsters known as the Rakos—and gave them the ability to take a form like the Laen, to the gods, to mankind. The Rakos were all male to the Laen's female and were everything they were not: chaotic and progressive and passionate. Each bonded to a Laen, guarding her and upholding her wishes.
Arman sat back. Bonded? A seed of certainty put down roots within him. After the Division, the Rakos offered their piece of the world to shelter mankind. In the absence of the Laen, some took lovers and their powers were bred out. Most simply disappeared.
A small map in another book showed Rakos garrisons, each guarding a Laen city. His finger brushed the grayed dot illustrating Vielrona and her sister, the Laen city of Elanal. We were once so great. All he read bogged down his mind and darkened his mood. Returning the books, he shrugged on his cloak. He was not ready to go home, or for the conversation with Alea. It would change everything. She needed his strength, but beyond that, he was lost. I thought the Dhoah' Laen left weeks ago. I sent the guard after them. When she’s been in my home, learned from me, danced with Wes. He shook his head, hoping his thoughts settled into some sort of order. His feet followed the familiar path to his and Wes's forge. He could do with some work.
Sharp scents of hot metal and charcoal filled the air as Wes hammered a blade. The smell was like home. He shouldered the door open. Heat from forge fires rippled in the cold air. Wes stopped when Arman entered, gaze flicking to the empty doorway behind his friend, as if checking for Alea. “Good to see you.”
Arman nodded. Tension hummed in the air as much as smoke. “How's work been?”
“Slow. I need an extra set of hands. I'm thinking of asking Farrow's brother. He's been eying our stall.”
Arman frowned. “What do you mean? I'll be back tomorrow.”
“For how long?”
“If you have something you need to say, say it. Don't dance about. That's my territory.” The joke fell short and Arman's words just sounded childish.
Wes shoved the blade back into the coals before it cooled too much. “We need to talk.” He wiped his hands clean and leaned back against his anvil. “Do you have a few minutes?”
Arman shut the door and hung his cloak up before drawing up a chair. “What is it?”
“Be straight with me. What happened that night?”
“It was a blur. We were attacked by those men. I don't remember much else.”
“Arman, I dealt with the bodies. I cut them to make it look like they fought each other. You owe me the whole story, not just lies and tidbits. You're no hero and I don't think she's your lover.”
Arman looked down. “I can't say, Wes. I told Kam the same. I can't tell you, either of you.”
Wes slammed his heavy fists onto his workbench. “Dammit Wardyn! This is no longer just about you! This is not about the women you helped flee the city, this is not about Alea! This is about the city, this is about your damned friends. For fuck's sake this is about your home!”
Arman sat back, speechless. Wes never yelled. The man’s anger usually surfaced as quiet disappointment. It was never a rage. Arman met his friend's eyes and his chest tightened. He's afraid. He's terrified. Arman sighed. “I'm sorry. You're right. I've gotten blind in all of this, and you deserve the truth. All of you do.” He stood. “But I still can't tell you. Not until I know the truth myself.” He grabbed his cloak and strode back outside. He expected Wes to barrel after him, expected the door to slam. The following silence hurt far worse.
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