The Dimming Sun Page 21

  An ugly symbol, Arithel thought. He had gained a little muscle in his upper arms and shoulders. He wasn’t as thin as he looked while clothed and his ribs were no longer twisted and flared. His body wasn’t necessarily attractive, but it was pleasantly normal, save for the ghastly pallor of his skin.

  Arithel crept closer. He submerged his face in the water and laid his palms flat across the still surface of the pond. He stayed in this position for nearly a minute, occasionally humming. Alarmed when he fell forward into the water, she rushed towards him.

  As she ran, Fallon’s head popped up out of the pond. He craned his neck to look at her and with some difficulty stood up. His hair was soaked, and droplets of water rolled down his pale cheeks. Green and brown bits of debris stuck to his chest. With a bit of an eye roll, he peeled off a lily pad.

  “What the hell were you doing?”

  Fallon answered quickly, “It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it.”

  He put on his shirt, blew out the torches and kicked away parts of his wreath, breaking the circle.

  “Didn’t look like nothing to me, unless you were trying to drown yourself,” Arithel said as he walked past her. Fallon laughed a little.

  “I certainly wasn’t attempting that,” he said.

  She filled up the pot with water. Her friend was acting more strangely with each passing day. She suddenly felt very far from home.

  ***

  Sometime in the middle of the night, Arithel awoke. Fallon’s odd behavior was on her mind. He had secluded himself during dinner, only speaking a word of thanks when Mira ladled him some of the surprisingly decent squirrel soup. He hadn’t even smoked nor talked of Morden as he usually did.

  Arithel sat up, gazing over the bodies of the others. She had to figure out what Fallon had been doing, why he plunged his head in the water. It had looked as if he had been praying in the manner of the heathens. She was not surprised; he was enamored with the Padenites. Even if he had not become a pagan, he was surely a part of one of the mystery cults that had sprung up since the dimming sun. She decided to venture back to the springs, to see if there was anything unusual about the place, to try to get a sense of what Fallon had felt there. Her stomach growled. She grabbed a piece of jerky from her pack and noticed that as the number of days they spent trekking added up, she never felt full anymore. She had lost weight—her stockings were becoming baggy and she had to take in her belt another notch.

  Arithel tiptoed over Darren’s sprawled-out body. She tripped over the edge of his pallet but didn’t wake him.

  The night air always smelled fairest when she was alone, she thought. She was still chewing the tough piece of jerky by the time she reached the pond. She swallowed it quickly and regretted it; it took a lot of throat-clearing to get it down.

  She looked about, getting her bearings as she recalled Fallon’s warning that the springs would attract others. She ran her fingers across the surface of the pond, reveling in the heat it provided. The water was as still and glassy as a mirror; she longed to see the stars and moon reflected on it. On impulse Arithel stuck her head down in the water, just as Fallon had. She opened her eyes and gazed about. The temperature stung but she saw nothing other than blackness. Her chin grazed the muddy bottom of the pond. Arithel sighed when she resurfaced, and wiped mud from her face.

  She shivered. Her wet head was very cold.

  “Why the hell not,” she whispered to herself. She unlaced her boots, and removed her belt, dress, and overcoat. Arithel took off her stockings and linens, tossing them carelessly aside. She was eventually wearing only her necklace, only the stone. She quickly waded into the pond. Warmth enveloped her body, and caressed sore muscles and swollen, blistered feet. She swam around, floating lazily on her back. She had not been swimming in nearly a year. It felt wonderful and liberating.

  A twig snapped on the bank. Her first impulse was to disappear underwater and swim to the far edge of the pond, closest to the rocky cliff face that plunged into its depths. She tentatively lifted her head above the surface, gazing silently at her surroundings, trying not to breathe too loudly or cause too many ripples to form on the pond. After a few minutes of continued silence, she figured the noise must have just been an animal. Nonetheless, she decided it was probably best to leave.

  She swam towards the bank slowly, disappointed that her contentment had to end. As she waded towards shore, the frigid night air assaulted her body. She trembled and pressed her arms to her chest. A figure moved through the shadows. For a split second, she was frightened and was poised to run as fast and far away as she could. Until she caught a glimpse of golden hair, shining even in the dark.

  It was Darren. She fell backwards, letting her body slide back beneath the water.

  “I can you see you, you know.”

  Darren stumbled forth. He stepped on three or four pine branches. Arithel was surprised his clumsiness hadn’t awakened the others.

  “I didn’t expect to see you out here.” His gaze wandered to the pile of clothes.

  “I didn’t expect to see you either. Funny how that works,” she said. “Strange coincidence.”

  “Uhhhhh, yeah, I was looking for wild onions, for dinner tomorrow. I couldn’t sleep, figured I might as well put myself to use,” Darren said, shrugging.

  Pious folk are awful liars, Arithel thought.

  “Is that so?”

  “Aye, of course. I mean, I didn’t even know you were up.”

  “Quit the charade. I know you were watching me. How long?”

  “Five minutes at most. I… uh… followed you out here when I saw you leave camp. Just wondered what you were doing. I didn’t know you’d strip naked and go swimming, honest to Agron,” he said.

  Arithel kept smirking in spite of her effort to keep a straight face. She didn’t mind. She was a little flattered.

  “Curiosity is natural,” she said. “Perhaps I’d have done the same to you.”

  Darren laughed a little, his embarrassed expression gradually fading.

  “You can join me, if you’d like. It feels nice in here.” There was nothing remotely sensual about the situation—to her mind, at least.

  “Er, I probably shouldn’t. It’s bad enough that I sat here and saw you without your clothes on,” he murmured.

  “Oh come on. It isn’t going to hurt. There’s nothing improper about two friends enjoying a rare natural wonder… Is there? Just keep your distance once you’re in the water.”

  “All right.” Darren removed his shirt, revealing a tanned and sinewy chest. He was better developed than most sixteen-year-old youths—pity it was dark, she thought. He took off his boots but left his breeches on.

  “You’ll freeze later tonight if you let your pants get soaked. I’ll turn around while you undress, if you want,” Arithel said. “Though, it’s only fair that I should see you, since you saw me.”

  “Er… I’d prefer you turn around, if you don’t mind.”

  She respected his wishes and soon heard him collapse into the water and splash about.

  “Don’t make too much noise. This will probably look odd to the others,” Arithel advised.

  “Of course,” Darren said. “You were right, Arithel. The springs feel amazing. By damn—” he cursed and thrust his head back into the water.

  The two of them enjoyed the springs for another half hour, until their skin became wrinkled and flushed. Arithel thought it was a heavenly good time—night swimming and the company of a decent friend—what more could she have asked for in these strange days? Time passed so slowly that she forgot about Anoria, and she forgot she was indebted to Fallon to travel to the frozen Northlands.

  When they tired of their swim, Arithel let Darren dress and venture back to the camp first. Though she had once again promised not to look upon his naked form, she stole a few glances. His shoulders were wide, his waist narrow, and his arse firm. He was a finer specimen than even Ronan; his body was as attractive as the statues carved into the fountains and walls of
the wealthy folk in Northglade.

  ***

  Arithel stopped short of their camp. Fallon was gone as well as Mira. There was only Darren, apparently having fainted, laying before one of the ghoulish Southron followers of Marduk. The same blue cloak that dragged on the ground, the same craggy face, the same sickly, yellow-tinged eyes.

  Arithel’s heart pounded. She looked about for the other one but didn’t see him.

  She knew now that Darren had not been lying or exaggerating. The things were more than men, something between devils and wraiths, almost like the changeling woman.

  And these creatures—they were without a doubt attracted to Darren. Ever since they had left Aelfelm, misfortune had followed him. Had there been rustlings in the woods all this time? Perhaps his mother’s enchantments had protected him in Aelfelm, but now that he was far from home, the monsters had resumed their hunt.

  In this crumbling world, far removed from the order and peace of her youth, who was to say Darren wasn’t right about the prophecy, about being a lost king? He was at least someone important. Somewhere, someone wanted him.

  The devourer took out one of his leather bags and sprinkled gold dust across Darren’s face. Darren sneezed but didn’t open his eyes. He looked to be asleep.

  The ghoul lifted Darren into his arms. He strained a little under the lad’s weight and his yellow eyes darted about the glen. He let out some bellowing noise from the bottom of his throat and stalked away, having apparently claimed Darren for Inara knew what purpose.

  Mira sprung out from their tent, screaming and wielding a skillet in her hand.

  The creature dropped Darren in surprise. Mira charged.

  She swung the heavy iron pan at the ghoul’s head, but he batted her away. She flew into a slab of rock, her back cracking so loudly that Arithel cringed and looked away. Mira rolled on the ground and groaned but didn’t get up.

  The fiend crouched over her and stroked her hair with his putrid hand. Mira feebly held her hands in front of her face. The thing took out a black flask and poured a milky substance over her brow. She immediately closed her eyes and relaxed. She appeared to be asleep, just like Darren. Her hand unfurled from the handle of the skillet; it slid across the earth, away from her.

  “What the…” Arithel whispered.

  The monster returned to Darren, picked him up, and walked away.

  Arithel was flustered as to what to do. She didn’t have her weapon, and she didn’t want to be doused with a potion like Mira—the hellish draught might even prove fatal. Arithel bit her nails, thinking of the senseless decision to go swimming. Darren had probably been distracted walking back to camp, too giddy to notice the ghoul’s approach. She had to be more careful—while she could generally weather her own recklessness, it was clear that others were not so lucky.

  Her thoughts were interrupted by a firm hand clamping over her mouth and an arm roughly grasping her round the waist. She was startled at first, and thrashed, thinking the other ghoul had caught her. Upon leaning back, she relaxed after seeing Fallon had grabbed her.

  He whispered for her to be quiet and pulled her backwards through the woods, away from the treeline and deeper into the underbrush.

  Why was he dramatically wrapping his arms around her? If he had simply announced his presence, she would have stayed calm and quiet. Since his hand had brushed against the curve of her breast several times, she figured he saw an opportunity to touch her within the bounds of his precious propriety.

  When Fallon released her, he ordered, “Get on the ground, don’t move, and don’t speak.”

  Arithel snorted. “I already know what’s out there. I’ve seen him before.”

  He sighed and pointed at the ground. “Just do as I say, Ari.”

  “As you wish, my friend,” she muttered as he disappeared back into the gloom of the forest.

  If he wanted to deal with those creatures himself, he was welcome to do so. She had dealt with a monster before and no good had come of it.

  Though Arithel respected Fallon’s request to stay put, she did not lay down. What good would that do? She climbed onto the lowest branch of a nearby tree to better assess what was going on. When she squinted, she could make out Fallon in the distance, extending his sword over the flames of their campfire. Somehow, the whole blade ignited, all the way to the hilt. One of the ointments from Frey, she assumed.

  She lost sight of Fallon shortly afterwards when he set out on the narrow path towards the hot springs. At some point he may have thrown his sword; a bright light briefly flickered above the tree tops. Whatever happened had been quiet.

  Fallon returned about ten minutes later, his sword again in its normal state, sheathed unassumingly at his hip. He asked for help moving Darren back to camp.

  Darren was still unconscious. He looked comfortable; he was snoring, with his cheek pressed under his hands and his knees drawn towards his waist.

  The ghoul’s robes lay in a pile beside him. Arithel reached for the folds of fabric and noted the emblem of the Old Empire—the flaming eye of Agron, set against a pyramid—sewn into the hood. It was not the simple insignia of the sun that all Tiresias’s men wore. It was the symbol of the Ankarians, the family Darren believed himself to be a part of. This new development made discounting his claims even harder. She wasn’t sure what the ghoul’s motives were, but there was some connection.

  Below the cloak was a pile of fine ash. Arithel ran her hands through it in disbelief. She sniffed at the grains that stuck to her fingers.

  Fallon cleared his throat and gave her a warning glance.

  “Is this all that’s left of the creature?” she asked.

  Fallon nodded. “I put my sword through him. He simply dissipated into dust. I can’t explain it.”

  “Sorcery,” Arithel suggested.

  “Perhaps.”

  She was surprised he did not have more of an explanation. After all, he had known plenty about Elspeth. She noticed her friend seemed disheveled—he was sweating, his eyes were bloodshot, and his arms and legs were trembling.

  “We need to get out of the wild,” Arithel said. “It’s Darren—” she glanced at him, how his hair was still wet from their swim. “Things are drawn to him. Magic is drawn to him…”

  “Look,” Fallon said softly. “I told you that the dark, the shadows… they are revealing themselves again. They have always been with us, but now we can see them. There is no sun to keep them at bay. The barriers between our world and the otherworld—they are broken in spots.”

  Arithel wanted to ask if some of these barriers could have been open before the sun was blotted out.

  “Darren must be someone important,” Arithel observed.

  Fallon laughed a little too soon.

  “He’s young, he’s strong, he’s pure of heart and near sinless. Of course, dark and awful things would strive for a piece of his soul,” he said, a little too loudly.

  He was lying. She would let it go, for now.

  Arithel and Fallon dragged Darren back to the camp. He didn’t stir as they moved him, despite his body getting banged up against roots and stones. Her elbows and wrists strained as she heaved the lad. She was doing most of the work; Fallon was tired and weak.

  When they lay Darren to rest back at his pallet, Fallon said, “Darren and Mira won’t remember anything when they wake. Keep it that way.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Wulfdane held a great feast, as promised, when he returned from the hunt. All his warriors entered the Great Hall at the same time, singing and beating their shields, furs of all beasts piled high across their shoulders. Wulfdane headed the procession, looking happier and healthier than he had in years.

  The king caroused freely among his men and was dressed no differently than they. Glorun would not have done the same if they talked about her the way they spoke of him.

  Queen Malina and Morden formally welcomed Wulfdane. Morden placed the crown back on his head, and Malina gave him a cup of warm mead to drink. The
hunters cheered as they took their seats.

  Morden had overseen Staska since Wulfdane’s absence. Glorun had hated every minute of it—the courtiers flattered him nonstop, he made a mockery of the offerings to Eben, and Malina was everywhere, meddling in affairs that were not hers and giving orders to the servants with an obnoxious, throaty laugh.

  “Your people have missed you,” Morden told the king.

  “I needed the trip to clear my head,” he whispered as he embraced the doctor.

  Morden smiled and stepped back so the king could reclaim his throne.

  Wulfdane made an announcement to court, “There is much to be changed here in Staska. I have realized in my journeys that I have not spent enough time among my people, whom I love.”

  His soldiers cheered, but the nobles exchanged puzzled glances.

  “I have decided we need to focus our attention away from the excavations and towards recruitment for the army. We need to send more grain to our northernmost villages, so they may partake in as bountiful a harvest as we do.” Wulfdane finished his mead and tossed his cup on the ground.

  The nobles defiantly whispered amongst themselves. A few even hissed.

  “Don’t trouble yourself with governing right now,” Morden advised, pouring the king a cup of ale. “You and your guards need to eat, drink, and rest.”

  Morden offered Wulfdane the ale. Wulfdane looked hurt that Morden had not praised his proclamation.

  “I am tired of being a bad king,” Wulfdane blurted, ignoring the drink.

  “Oh, husband, none of that.” Malina took his hand in hers and kissed his ring while looking up at him. “I long to hear of your travels.”

  Wulfdane was open-mouthed.

  “Come.” She pulled him towards the crowd. “You can tell the bard, too, so that he may begin making songs of your deeds.”