The Daylight War (84 page)

Love
you, Renna Tanner.
Arlen shook his head. ‘Gonna be a bloody honeymoon.’

Renna leaned her head on his shoulder. ‘Glad we got to dance first.’

‘Ay,’ Arlen agreed, giving one last squeeze before letting go to raise his hands and pat the air. The crowd quieted, though it didn’t really matter. Arlen sketched a couple of sound wards in the air and his voice carried far and clear.

‘Want to thank everyone for this amazing night,’ Arlen called. ‘Me and Renna din’t tell anyone our plans, yet the Hollow threw us the best party any couple could hope for.’ There was a roar with that, people cheering and stamping their feet.

The sky was lightening now, stinging and burning Arlen’s skin. He was no stranger to pain at dawn, but now he knew how to pull the power away from the surface of his skin, shielding it from the light and preserving as much as he could hold.

Still, the sun burned the excess that clung to his wards, making them feel etched in flame. There had been a time – not so long ago – when he took the pain to mean he was being rejected by the sun. But now he understood the truth, and gloried in it.

Beside him, Renna gasped.

Pain
teaches, Par’chin
,
Jardir had once told him,
and
so
we
give
it
freely. Pleasure teaches nothing, and so must be earned.

Arlen took her hand. ‘Pain’s the price of walking in the sun, Ren. Earn it.’ She nodded, breathing deeply. The warriors felt the sun’s effect as well, but with no wards on their flesh or ichor in their blood, the magic burned off them quickly. They paced a bit, scratching at their exposed flesh as if they had a rash. Sparks flew here and there as spots of demon ichor on their thick leathers ignited with flashes and pops. One Cutter who had been well doused in the stuff had his leathers actually catch fire. Arlen was about to go to him when the man picked up a half-empty cask of ale and dumped it over himself. Around him, folk jeered.

‘Next time, save the ale and we’ll just piss on you!’ one Cutter cried. Laughter.

‘Hollow’s been good to us,’ Arlen went on, ‘but now it’s time I was alone with my wife.’ Renna squeezed his hand at the word, and a thrill ran through him. ‘And time we were all back to our business. A night’s dancing did us a world of good, but new moon’s ten dawns away, and there’s work to be done. Demons are gonna be out in force, and Hollow County needs to be prepared to stomp them right back down to the Core where they belong.’

He pointed to the great mound of demon horns just as the sunlight struck it. The pile burst into a bonfire so bright it hurt to look at, and the Cutters roared, lifting their axes. Even the
Sharum
gave a shout, thrusting fists in the air.

With that sound, Arlen knew the demon princes were right to be afraid. But he had seen, too, what the Core could bring to bear. When he thought on it too much, it was he that feared.

Renna touched him. ‘You okay?’

Arlen placed his hand over hers. ‘Fine, Ren. I’m fine.’

‘Everything has been delivered,’ Shamavah said as she escorted them back to their rooms at Smitt’s tavern. She opened the door to show their marriage gifts placed neatly around their room. The roses had been cut properly and arranged in the ancient painted pot, the fresh food laid out in buffet. Other treasures were placed atop dressers and nightstands.

Arlen had lived in the Hollow more than a year now, getting to know the Cutters well as he trained them to defend themselves against demons. He knew how prized the possessions arrayed around the room were. But he had seen, too, the fierce pride in the auras of the givers. The sincere gratitude and love. The … faith.

It was the last that struck him the most. These people would do anything he asked of them, not out of worship, but out of trust. He had proven himself to them, fighting by their sides, and they honestly believed he would never let them down.

And
I
won’t
,
he silently promised.
Demons
take
the
Hollow
at
new
moon,
it’ll be because I died trying to stop them.

Shamavah went to the roses, holding up a string around the pot with a slip of paper attached. ‘Each is tagged with the name of the giver. I will consult with Ernal Paper and have the appropriate letters of appreciation drawn up for your signatures.’

Renna stiffened, and her scent changed. It was primitive compared with reading auras, but even in daylight, Arlen’s enhanced senses gave him a never-ending stream of information about everything around him. He could smell her fear like dung on a boot.

He felt a pang of sympathy, not needing to see an image to know the cause. Like most folk from Tibbet’s Brook, Renna couldn’t read or write.

Arlen turned from Shamavah, speaking so softly only Renna, her hearing as enhanced as his own, could hear. ‘Don’t worry, Ren. Teach you to write your name before then, and have you reading soon enough.’

Renna’s eyes flicked to him and she smiled, her scent giving off gratitude and love. ‘Oughta do somethin’ nice for Gared, too. For standing for us.’

‘Ay,’ Arlen said.

‘I would be honoured to select a gift for the baron,’ Shamavah said.

Arlen shook his head. ‘Got this one myself, thanks.’

Shamavah bowed. ‘The necklace the count gave you is very beautiful,’ she told Renna. ‘Are you certain you wish to part with it?’

Here
it
comes
,
Arlen thought.

Renna went to the mirror, admiring the necklace as she stroked the jewels with the tips of her fingers. Arlen could smell the pleasure it gave her, hear her quiet sigh.

It was a last caress. Renna nodded and removed the necklace. ‘Ent right to flaunt something like this when so many are wanting.’

‘Do not underestimate the inspiration people may draw from a leader bedecked in finery,’ Shamavah said. ‘But if that is truly your most generous wish, I would be happy to purchase it. I can pay you in coin or, if you prefer, food and livestock delivered directly to those in need.’

Renna looked up at her, and Arlen was shocked when her scent told him she actually believed the woman was being kind. ‘You’d do that for us?’

Ent
her
fault
,
he told himself.
Same
as
readin’.
If
folk
in
the
Brook
could
haggle, Hog wouldn’t own over half the town.

Shamavah smiled, whisking a hand as if it was nothing. ‘It is no trouble. The necklace is a pretty trinket, one I should have little trouble selling to some wealthy
Damaji
as a gift for one of his wives.’

Arlen looked away as he rolled his eyes. ‘No trouble,’ he murmured for Renna’s ears alone, ‘and an opportunity for the Krasians to establish trading contacts throughout Hollow County on an errand using our good name.’

He could smell Renna’s disbelief as she regarded Shamavah, followed quickly by disappointment. She pretended to examine the necklace once more as she murmured back, keeping the exchange for their ears alone. ‘Should I not sell it?’

‘Sell, but demand coin,’ Arlen whispered. ‘Payment on delivery.’

Renna turned, smiling widely for Shamavah. ‘Appreciate the help. Coin on delivery will be fine.’

Shamavah nodded as if she had expected no other answer. ‘May I hold the piece?’ Renna handed it to her and she examined it closely, putting a lens in her eye as she held the gems to the light.

‘Now she’ll find flaws and try to haggle you down,’ Arlen murmured. ‘Whatever she says, tell her she’s crazy and threaten to sell to Smitt. She’ll double her offer. Ask for five times that.’

‘Honest word?’ Renna breathed through her smile. ‘Don’t want to insult her.’

‘You won’t,’ Arlen murmured. ‘Krasians don’t respect a person who can’t haggle. Settle for half as much.’

Renna grunted and waited for Shamavah to finish her inspection.

‘More pretty than anything.’ Abban’s wife put just the right hint of disappointment in her tone. ‘The diamonds are clouded and there is a flaw along the edge of the emerald. The gold isn’t as pure as we have in Krasia. But perhaps the novelty of having once been the possession of a greenland count will help fetch a buyer. I’ll give you a hundred draki for it.’

Renna barked a laugh, though the sum was likely meaningless to her. ‘Think you need your lens fixed. Ent a thing wrong with those gems, and that gold is pure as snow. You don’t want to pay what it’s worth, I’m sure Smitt …’

Shamavah laughed, and she bowed. ‘I underestimated the
Jiwah
Ka
of the Par’chin. You have a sharp eye. Two hundred draki.’

Renna shook her head. ‘Thousand.’

Shamavah gasped in perfect indignation. ‘I could buy three such necklaces for that. Three hundred, and not a klat more.’

‘Five, or I sell to Smitt,’ Renna said, her voice cool.

Shamavah regarded her, and Arlen didn’t need extra senses to know she was considering a last press. At last she bowed. ‘I can deny the new
Jiwah
Ka
nothing on her wedding day. Five hundred.’

‘’Preciate it,’ Renna said. ‘That’ll put livestock in a lot of yards and clothes on a lot of backs.’

‘You haggle well,’ Shamavah said. She turned to Arlen, and the corners of her eyes crinkled, her scent amused. ‘Soon, you will no longer need the Par’chin to advise you.’

‘All right, Wonda, I’ve waited long enough,’ Leesha said. ‘Come on out.’

‘Don’t wanna,’ Wonda said.

‘Wonda Cutter,’ Leesha warned, ‘if you’re not out here in—’ She gasped as Wonda stepped into the room in the clothes from Duchess Araine.

‘Oh, my,’ she said.

‘Look stupid, don’t I?’ Wonda said bitterly. ‘Knew it.’

‘Not at all,’ Leesha said. ‘You look magnificent. Once you’re seen about town and folk hear this comes from the Duchess Mum’s own dressmaker, every woman in the Hollow is going to want a set.’

And it was true. Much as Leesha hated to admit it, the royal dressmaker had outdone herself, crafting an outfit as modest and practical as any a male soldier might wear, yet with a distinctly feminine style.

The blouse was dark green silk with embroidered ivy and wards in thread-of-gold to add texture to her flat front. The sleeves were loose from shoulder to elbow, but laced tight along her forearms to keep from catching on a bowstring and to slip easily into her wooden bracers. Over the blouse was a thick vest of brown leather, padded on the inside and buttoned snug. It was meant to serve as a buffer between blouse and breastplate, but the vest’s fine and stylish cut made it equally suitable when she was unarmoured.

From her waist to her knees, the pantaloons of fine brown wool brought to mind the divided skirts many of the fighting women of the Hollow favoured – loose enough to appear a dress if the woman was standing still. In battle, Wonda would wear an over-skirt of flexible goldwood slats, designed to retain freedom of movement and speed while offering the protection of powerful wards.

The pantaloon legs tapered quickly from the knee, coming to a lace buttoned cuff that slid easily into the soft doeskin knee boots that cushioned her wooden greaves and shoes. With those shoes, Wonda could withstand the full force of a wood demon’s bite on one foot while kicking its skull in with the other.

Under her arm Wonda carried her open-faced helm of polished wood, carved with more ivy scrollwork wards. If her boots didn’t bash in the demon’s skull, Wonda could just as easily do it with her head. It would be simple for Leesha to add a mind ward and wards of sight around the eyes.

‘What about the doublet?’ Leesha asked.

‘Gave those away, like the count said,’ Wonda said.

‘You didn’t keep one for yourself?’ Leesha asked.

Wonda shook her head. ‘Don’t work for the Duchess Mum, so I don’t feel right wearing her crest. You give me a doublet with a mortar and pestle, I’ll wear it. If not, this is enough.’ She took her warded cloak off its peg by the door, throwing it over her shoulders.