“Where is Qui?” The Emperor leaned forward, folding his hands between his knees.
“It’s about halfway to Norin, if you take the old roads.”
“Your parents?” Aldrik asked.
“My father was a miner, and a drunk. My mother was a broken woman who left her home in the East because she thought it was love. They died when I was young, and I worked in the mines.” Despite her small changes to account for her eyes she wondered if the Emperor would see the source of inspiration for her story. She smiled coldly; of course he wouldn’t. Larel had meant nothing to him, she doubted he even remembered the girl his son saved from the silver mines of Qui.
“Why are you here?” The Emperor questioned her confident gaze.
“For a better life, to serve the Emperor,” she said easily.
“Well done, Miss Yarl.” The Emperor sat back in his chair.
She stared at him curiously. “Miss Leral,” she corrected.
The man simply chuckled.
“Your armor is here.” Aldrik stood to the side and allowed her to approach the table that was behind them. Basic plate and silver chainmail was displayed upon it. Vhalla was stunned a moment, one of the women would be wearing the armor Aldrik had made for her. No, she reminded herself, Aldrik had made that armor for Vhalla Yarl, and she was not Vhalla Yarl.
She scooped up the chainmail. This was Serien’s armor, simple and unadorned. It was the kind of armor that would slip into a mass of soldiers and be undistinguishable from the next. Aldrik silently assisted in showing her how to strap on the plate. It was heavier than her scale, and the weight made her favor her uninjured leg as she pulled on the gauntlets.
He turned and presented her with a sword. Thankfully, it strapped over her left leg, her good leg, so she could draw it with her right hand. She shifted, adjusting to its weight on her hip.
“Any questions?”
There was a notable pause and their eyes met. She wondered what he saw in her then, who he saw then.
“Serien?”
The name was strange to hear coming from him, addressed to her. But if anyone could say it and make her believe that it was her new identity, it would be Aldrik. She shook her head no.
“Good, you’ll be reporting under the Golden Guard. You are dismissed.”
She nodded. Her eyes reflected the empty distance she saw in his. Grabbing her canvas bag off the floor, she turned and gave a brief salute. Her knuckles were white from attempting to walk down the stairs wearing armor with her injured leg. She was determined, but mindful not to rip her stitches.
It was almost sunset when Serien left the hotel though a backdoor.
THE RIGHTS OF the fallen were held at sunset so the Mother could usher the souls of the dead to the Father’s eternal realms. Serien attended with the masses in the central square of the Crossroads, though none looked at her twice. She stared at the carefully crafted platform that held five bodies shrouded in red cloth.
One of them was Larel Neiress, the woman whom had spent countless hours putting Vhalla Yarl back together after the world had broken her. But this time, her hands had not been there, and Vhalla Yarl shattered into three pieces.
The crown prince stood before the bodies, stoic as a hooded crone sang the funeral dirge. Serien grit her teeth and walled her heart. She would not cry. She could not cry for a woman she had never met.
But her eyes were attentive and she saw as the crown prince was fixated on the fourth body. She felt the way his flames moved toward it at a base level that could not be explained away. She finally stepped out of the crowd as her stomach began to knot.
She was a drifter, a loner, the specter of the Crossroads with nowhere to be and no one to look for her. Serien perched herself under an archway of one of the many buildings, returning twice after being shoo’ed away. Eventually the owner finally stopped trying.
She watched the crowds move, blissful as life returned to normal. She saw a messy-haired Southerner go to the hotel with three large windows four times, returning to a familiar inn dejected and alone each time. The twinge of sadness crept up the back of her throat, which she quickly squashed—emotions of another woman.
When the army finally amassed in the square, prepared to march, Serien was an exhausted husk of a woman. She had barely slept out of fear, fear of what her treacherous mind may concoct and fear of sleeping in the open. She had no mount to speak of but instinctually fell into place in the center of the column. It was odd being surrounded by so much silver plate, but she quickly worked to accept it as her new normal.
Cheers erupted for the family Solaris as they left the hotel in full regalia. Six steeds had been lined up before the hotel, three were for the royals, the other three were for the dark-cloaked figures who walked at their side. Three women, almost identical in stature, with black hooded cloaks shrouding their faces walked next to each one of the royals. On the backs of their cloaks was a silver wing. It made for a beautiful target.
With vapid interest she watched one mount a black steed that had a white strip running down its face, like lightning. The woman was situated to the right of the crown prince, and Serien watched as the prince glanced at the woman before trotting toward his place in line.
“They could have at least tried to hide it,” one of the soldiers around her remarked.
“Not very hard to tell which one is the Windwalker,” another agreed.
“As if the Fire Lord would let his dark darling out of his sight.”
Serien didn’t join in their speculations as to the real relationship between the crown prince and the Windwalker Vhalla Yarl, but her ears heard. Most seemed to be in agreement that there was something between the two, but their theories were wide-reaching. Two men and a woman joined the younger prince as he fell into line with the hooded Windwalker.
“That’s enough, shape up!” an Easterner commanded.
Serien stared up at him as his horse found its way near her. The man with the golden bracer glanced down, meeting her stare. His eyes squinted slightly, and he opened his mouth to say something.
“Daniel, what is it?” a Southerner to his left asked.
Serien quickly returned her attention forward. She shouldn’t have picked the center of the column. Serien tried to bring her hands together to fidget but it was difficult in the heavier gauntlets. She bit her lip instead.
“Nothing,” the Easterner replied. “Sorry, it’s nothing.”
Keeping up with the horses was difficult as they marched double-time in full regalia, leaving the Crossroads. Serien’s calf screamed in pain, and sweat poured off her from the exertion of smothering her cries. Even when the call to slow was made, it wasn’t any easier. She was certain she had ripped her stitches.
Serien kept her eyes forward the whole day. The Great Imperial Way was going to stop soon. They would reach the last outpost before the North, and then it would be dangerous territory. Her somber mood didn’t match any of the other soldiers’, and she remained in her trance until the call to stop.
That was the first moment Serien felt lost. All the others knew what to do, where to go. They had their tents and their assignments. There wasn’t any hesitation as they dissolved into normal life for swordsmen.
She moved slowly, trying to overhear a bit of conversation that would confirm if she could just go up to the tent cart and ask for one or not.
“Soldier,” a man called from behind her.
Serien turned and her chest ached at the familiar eyes.
“You’re a new recruit, aren’t you?” Daniel stopped before her, a hand on his hip.
“I am,” Serien mumbled.
“Your name?” The question was clearly forced.
“Serien Leral,” she replied, hoping he’d take note.
“Let me see you use that thing.” He pointed to her sword.
She looked back at the Easterner. What was he thinking? He was going to ruin her cover less than one day in. One or two others glanced at the Golden Guard addressing her, but
it seemed normal enough that they didn’t give it much heed.
Serien drew her sword, determined. It was too heavy, and she was instantly off-balance. She gripped it with two hands, trying to steady herself. Daniel drew his sword and in one fluid motion he sent her weapon flying from her hands and into the sand.
“That wasn’t fair!” she protested.
“Do you think our enemy will be fair?” Daniel took a step closer. “How long have you practiced?”
Serien averted her eyes. She shouldn’t have said anything. “Not long.” It sounded a lot better than “never.”
“The West is really letting their standards drop.” He sheathed his blade, crossing his arms over his chest. Serien regarded him cautiously. “You are from the West, aren’t you?”
“I am.”
“Thought so.” He sighed dramatically with a roll of his eyes. “Fine, I’ll teach you.”
“What?”
“I’m not letting a soldier under my command go into war helpless.” A familiar tone echoed under his words. “Let’s get out of the tents.”
She followed him into the desert on the outside of the host. They didn’t go far, just far enough that there was room to move in a wide circle and not fear for swinging their blades.
“You don’t hold it like that. Look at how I hold mine.” He demonstrated on his own blade and ended up moving her hand placement anyways. “There, like that.”
“It’s heavy,” she whispered.
“It’s forged steel.” Daniel chuckled. “Now, to swing.”
If Serien had been exhausted, in pain, and sweat drenched from the march, it was nothing compared to working with Daniel until sunset. Every limb ached, her shoulders screamed in protest, and she could barely grip the blade to sheathe it.
“That’s enough for today.” Daniel made note of her condition.
Serien nodded in thanks. “Daniel,” she said softly as they started back for camp.
“Yes?” His tone had changed to something she knew.
“Can I just get any tent?”
“You didn’t already get one?” He seemed startled.
“No, I didn’t. They didn’t tell me anything.” She bit her lip.
“There aren’t going to be any left.” Daniel ran a gauntleted hand through his hair. “Would you like to stay with me?” His question was so soft he clearly doubted it.
“I can’t.”
“Why?” Daniel asked sincerely. “Why can’t you?”
“Because I ...”
“I won’t let you sleep in the sand, alone.” It hardly sounded appealing to her either. “Are you travelling with someone, Serien?”
Daniel stole her eyes, and Serien struggled with finding an answer. “I’m sorry, I can’t.”
Serien pushed ahead of him and didn’t look back.
It was just as he had said. She slept out in the open with her pack as her pillow. Even though the South would be in the throes of winter, it was hot in the Waste and that heat lingered through the evening. It wasn’t until the moon was half in the sky that she began to shiver.
When Serien woke, a blanket covered her shoulders. There was no name stitched upon it, but it was finer than standard issue. Serien looked around, as if she could find the phantom who had placed it upon her in the night. But no one came forward.
She used it the next night, and the night after that. Once, Serien thought briefly about the other woman’s powers, about reaching out her mind from her body in the cover of darkness to a certain prince. But the idea was quickly squelched. That prince did not belong to her, he and Serien were nothing. She drifted to sleep that night debating with herself. If Serien and Prince Aldrik were nothing, then why was she sleeping alone in the cold?
By the third night the other soldiers had begun to notice that she was aloof and different.
“You practice with Lord Taffl a lot,” remarked one of the soldiers who marched next to her.
“It is an honor,” Serien said dryly.
“You someone special to the lord?” they asked.
She didn’t say anything.
“Hey, I asked you a question.” The soldier waved his hand in front of her face.
She continued to look forward.
“What’s wrong with you?” the man huffed.
“Leave the lady alone,” Daniel ordered from atop his horse.
“Definitely someone special,” the soldier mumbled to his friend.
The words stayed with Serien the whole day, and she confronted Daniel about them later. Serien threw her sword into the sand. Her leg was throbbing, likely from not taking off her greaves for nearly a week straight. Her calf was a mess she couldn’t bring herself to look at.
“They think there’s something between us.”
“And?” Daniel sheathed his sword, picking up hers.
“We can’t keep doing this or they’ll think—”
“What?” He handed the sword back to her. “What will they think?”
“That there’s something between us.” Serien didn’t take the weapon.
“So what?”
“They can’t,” she insisted.
“Why not?” Daniel shrugged but his eyes betrayed hurt.
“Because we’re ...” Her voice faded as he took a step closer to her.
“What? What are we?” he asked softly.
She finally took the sword sheathing it in frustration.
“I don’t have words for it either, yet.” Daniel laid himself emotionally bare before her. “But I want to help you, I want to look out for you. I know I’m not even supposed to know who you are, but I do and I’m thankful for it.”
Serien shook her head, trying to unhear his words.
“Look at me,” he said softly. She shook her head again. “Vhalla, look at me.”
Her attention snapped to him at the mention of her real name. It crumbled her mask and tore down the walls she’d tried so hard to build. It made the pain worse and the truth harder to bear.
“Don’t call me that,” she begged. “Please, Daniel, don’t call me that.”
“It is your name.” He quickly pulled off his gauntlet. She stilled when his skin made contact with hers, his hand along her jaw. “Why did they take it from you?”
“To keep me safe,” she hiccupped softly, losing the fight with tears.
He sighed, unable to argue. “Then let me keep you safe as well. Don’t sleep outside on the ground again tonight. It has carved a hole into my chest that gets deeper each moment I think of you there.”
“You know why I can’t.” She wasn’t sure if it was Vhalla or Serien who looked at him then, but Daniel was unable to meet her stare.
“He would want you safe,” Daniel mumbled. His hand fell from her face with the weight of resignation. “I won’t touch you, I swear it.”
The sun was setting over the dunes, turning his Eastern skin golden. Vhalla swallowed, trying to find Serien in her once more. Her heart hurt, her mind was heavy, but she didn’t want to sleep in the cold another night and she was so tired.
Serien nodded.
Daniel stared at her in disbelief for a long moment. He was quick to lead her back to camp. Serien’s heart raced as he led her toward a modestly-sized tent near the center. Two similar ones were placed near it, Baldair’s not far away.
Her eyes lingered on the younger prince’s tent. He would know. He would find out about her and Daniel, if he hadn’t already. What if he told Aldrik?
She searched the soldiers in paranoia. But none paid her any mind. She was invisible, a no one. Daniel may be a lord and a major, but he was a freshly minted one and clearly not considered to be much above the common soldier. No one cared who went into his tent or why he took them there.
Inside it was larger than the average soldier’s, comfortable for three people. Serien sat dumbly, her eyes adjusting to the fading light. Daniel wasn’t a Firebearer, he couldn’t summon flames for them to see by, so they were left to the remaining light of the sun and growing light o
f the moon.
“Do you know how to take this off ?” He was already halfway out of his plate.
“Not really.” She’d forgotten what Aldrik had shown her. It was more complex than the simple hooks he’d fashioned for her scale mail.
“Let me show you.” Daniel moved slowly, as though the slightest motion could send her running. The moment he lifted the plate off her shoulders, she breathed a sigh of relief. She’d forgotten how heavy the blasted armor was. Serien was quick to shed her chainmail.
“What—” Daniel lifted her pant leg before she had time to object. Serien saw what had commanded his attention. Her calf was caked in blood, the bandages hanging limp and useless, her flesh was shredded from the stiches she’d ripped. “By the Mother, how are you even walking?”
“I’ve gotten used to it.” There was a horrific fascination with seeing her own body mutilated. Serien wondered if she felt so calm because even her body didn’t feel like hers. Nothing belonged to her anymore, not even her name.
“No, this is bad.” Daniel rummaged through his pack. “I need to go to a cleric.”
“No!” She gripped his wrist. “They’ll ask questions.”
“No, they won’t.” Daniel assured her. “Serien, you’re no one. I’m mostly no one. Soldiers get hurt all the time. Stop worrying.” He rested a palm on her head and quickly departed.
Serien struggled with the emotions silently warring in her that followed his absence: guilt, shame, pain, exhaustion, and relief. She was happy not to be alone.
Daniel re-bandaged her leg and refused to train with her for a week after that. She spent most of the time making up lost hours of sleep. As soon as his tent was erected, she disappeared and hid from the world. In the darkness she didn’t have to be Serien or Vhalla. She could be no one, and that was the only thing that brought her peace enough to close her eyes.
Patrols and sentries were increased around the host, but there weren’t any further attacks. The march toward the North seemed so peaceful that it was unnerving. The soldiers were beginning to bore, and with their boredom came gossip.
“I hear he finally started taking her to his tent again.” The chatty one next to Serien had been very excited for this particular piece of gossip.