Smoke and Rain (7 page)

Φ

Alea's steps on the inn's stairs were light. She stopped, horrified, however, when she opened the door to her room. The bed was stripped and all the effects she had come to consider her own, even if they were borrowed, were gone.

Kepra emerged from a room by the base of the third-floor's stairs. “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 isn't much, perhaps, compared to what you are used to, but this can be home for as long as you need.”

Alea could not trust her voice, but crossed the hall with hurried strides to embrace the older woman. It occurred to her, as Kepra held her gently, that she had not touched another person in weeks. She pulled away before her composure truly broke, and gave Kepra a smile.

“You could never 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 you're happy. There's a purse on your nightstand with your wages for your work. 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?”

“I did, luckily, or else you would have 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 far more was said, however, than the words we spoke.”

Arman sighed and slumped onto a stool. “You must understand we have survived this long by being direct, shrewd, and firm. He was not 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 stared at her, as if at a loss for words. “You are what, seventeen?”

She drew herself up. “I turned nineteen on the 20th of Lumord.” A frown flickered across her features. “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. I heard my ihal
speaking enough to know there was active war beyond our borders and I knew the Laen were hunted and that was part of it. I did not know how bad it had become.”

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

“Dhoah?” Alea's heart pounded.
Is that what Gluan meant when he asked if there was something more that ihal
hid?

“She is the one that can bind the world again. I am not sure what the title means, exactly.”

“I was raised to pray to the gods, but we were not a devout family. I made offerings as frequently as any – mostly to Ikate, a goddess of the desert. I could never think of the gods as evil, hunting down 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.

Between Gluan's pointed questions and Arman nearly laughing at her naiveté, she was drained and irritable. Speaking of her faith, when Arman's and most of the Vielronan's clearly differed, made it worse. At home, when the heat soured her mood, she would lie on the cool stone slabs by the baths with Merahn. Here she was always cold, had more time than ever, and yet still felt anxious. 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

As the next days passed, the surrounding forest turned from gold to orange and crimson. 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. 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 afternoon she found a passage towards the back.

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

The gods were inquisitive and wanted more than what they had been given. They captured Lynel, the Laen's leader. They convinced her that 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 could not fight the onslaught.

Alea stopped there. She had heard the tale a dozen times. It varied with each telling, as all legends did, but she had 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 towards 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. She will be called the Dhoah' Laen for her dualistic nature. She will restore the world. Her power will cause wonder and sorrow, her touch will give relief and pain. Her love will bring life, but also death.

The words chilled Alea's bones. She had known the Laen to be austere, but even in a gods-supporting city, she had not been taught the ferocity detailed on the pages before her. The image was haunting.
That is what the Miriken were hunting when they attacked Cehn. They wanted her.
She shook the idea from her head and shut the book with a snap. She was already late to help in the kitchen, and her thoughts were too dark for her taste.

Φ

Arman enjoyed working in the kitchen occasionally. The heat and clatter reminded him of the forge and he could sneak tastes of everything without his mother's reprimands. Tonight was different. When Alea arrived that evening he was toiling at the stove alone.

“Do you need help? Where is your mother?” She tied on an apron as she move to check the bread baking on the hearth.

“Please, if you're not busy. She went to help Mistress Connolin deliver her second child. You remember her – she had the brown cow that ate from your hand.” Arman glanced over. “Pass me the pot over there?”

Alea handed it to him. “Your mother is 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 that soup will you?”

Arman edged his way through the tables, balancing two 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 the empty mugs from their table and turned back to the bar. Most of the patrons chose the same tables, only a rare few sitting at the bar itself. It was usually home to the traders passing through. With winter so close the Cockerel rarely had such visitors.

That was not what made Arman stare at the strange man seated at the end of the counter. His fur-lined cloak was tugged up, despite the warmth of the room and he wore a silk wrap around his head. Arman wound through the tables and delivered the empty glasses to the wash barrel, eyes never leaving the man. Noting he had only a glass of water before him, Arman edged over. “Could I interest you in some food, if you're not drinking tonight?”
People who do not drink at inns are trouble.

The man glanced up. His eyes were solid black, like those of an animal, and they glittered in the dim light. “I'm looking for someone. But food would make waiting easier I suppose.”

Arman could only stare. The man's milk-pale skin was decorated with a winding tattoo.
I'd bet my best work that his headscarf hides a set of horns.
“Certainly, sir.” He took the man's request and returned to his duties, but he could barely concentrate. Each time he left the kitchen he checked to make sure the stranger was still there.
If he leaves before I can speak to him I will never find him!
Finally a lull came as the first wave of patrons tottered off to bed.

Arman removed his apron and slid into the seat beside the pale man. “I know who you are looking for.”

The man's closed expression darkened violently. “I am certain you do not.”

Arman rolled his eyes. “You want the survivors from Cehn. Not just any survivors, but six women with dark hair.”

The man's eyes widened. “Only six?”

Arman's eyes narrowed. “I told you. What do you need to know?”

“I need to know what happened in Cehn, and I need to know where they are now.”

Arman jerked his head towards the upper floor of the house. “Perhaps you would like to speak somewhere else? There is a porch on our third floor. I will 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.
“Milady?”

Alea glanced up. Her eyes were tired, but she smiled.

“I need to speak with you. Upstairs. Now.” He tried to keep the words gentle, but his own nerves lent them a hard edge. He was grateful she did not protest as he led her through the common room. The Laen's guard had already disappeared. At the door to the third-floor stairway, Arman stopped. “I need you to do something for me.”

Alea's gaze went from curious to wary. “Surely this can wait.”

“I'm certain it can't.” He pointed to the floor above them. “There is 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 has come a very long way and it's incredibly important.”

Alea pursed her lips, but he could see the dread in her eyes. “If you ask me to do this, you need to tell me why. More than 'incredibly important.'”

He closed his eyes tightly.
I will not tell a soul.
“Why don't you come upstairs and I will tell you both.”

Finally she nodded. The man paced the short length of the porch, his head down and his fingers 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 stopped in the doorway at his words. “I did not 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 was the one that sheltered your charges.”

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

“The beginning.” The pale man's words would have been comical if his expression was kind. “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. They arrived two nights before the attack. They stayed in the children's wing – it was the safest part of the building. My foster-sister Merahn attended them. They arrived at night and there were seven of them. One was young, younger than me. They did not leave their wing, but ihal
visited them. I tried to listen in, but I learned little. We all knew what they were, but none of us dared speak it. They were following up on a visit many years before, I guess. The attack came at sundown. I was putting the children to bed. I heard screaming, so I locked the doors to the wing 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. Instead they surrounded themselves in power. I was several paces away when someone grabbed me. I remember nothing more.”

Arman could see her shoulders shaking, and he wondered if it was from the bitter cold or the emotions. “Thank you, milady. I know that was not easy.”

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

“Gray. Silver maybe. The girl did not use her power. They protected her.”