The Arkanist

Ollor

Chapter 10

Ollor

"You don’t have to do this,” said Olahna.

         I want to….No… “I must.” Aera stared at herself in the stained oval mirror, the frame cracked and the paint peeling away like old skin.

         A crude pair of iron sheers shone off the candlelight in her hand, flashing against the mirror like gold. Her long, crimson hair was raggedly cut short, so that it fell in filthy tangles to her ears, frayed and wild. Her pale, thin face, spotted with freckles was dirtied with grime and filth so that it looked as though she wore a beard of scruff along her jaw and chin. Her brown eyes stayed their hazel shade, the only part of her that remained. She shivered as she looked at herself, running an oily finger against her shadowy cheek, inspecting herself like she never had before, almost as though she had never seen herself before. Her eyes glinted in the dim, ruddy light of the mirror the same way they do when you meet somebody for the first time, and they look like someone you knew a long time ago.

She spent the night in a different room, leaving Aeron’s dead body alone with her grandmother, who had urged her to stay. Aera couldn’t, not then, not after she had just lost her brother. He was the one thing that remained from her old life, the only thing that hadn’t went up in flames. She was supposed to protect him, her little brother, but now he was dead, like the rest of her family. She had failed. Aera’s mind hurt with a steady drone, as she lay on her sore back, the moaning mattress hard as stone. The sheets were nothing more than ragged burlap cloth.

The room was smaller, and darker. The lonely candle in the corner shivered in the bare chill as the seething winds snuck in through the gaps in the old window frame like assassins. The ceiling was low, with a pale white pall draped like a loose dress from the rafters, covering something. Aera did not look to see what it was. Her bow and quiver, as well as her woolen sack slept in the corner, cloaked in shadow. As she rested her head on the stony pillow of the bed, she was startled. There were no clumps of red hair that knotted or tumbled down her shoulders and fell over her chest. There was nothing to fill the space. Her short cut barely covered her ears, which made her feel oddly exposed.

That night passed slowly, and Aera lay awake the whole time, humming to herself the tunes and hymns she used to sing to Aeron. She had to fight back the tears welling her eyes, but at the same time, she welcomed them. It had felt good, to release the built up emotions, feeling her pain drain off her cheeks like rain does down a roof. The white pillow was damp with her tears before the night was over, making the sheet stick to her cheeks.

She tossed and turned on the rock mattress like an eel away on the rocky shores. Her thin sheets trapped her in a cocoon of cloth, the fibers eating her until, with a gasp of air, released her tension and drifted into a dreamless sleep, filled with darkness and shadow. The morning came, sky grey as stone, the veil of red mist hidden behind the silky bands of grey and black, lacing like thread. In the pale light, her room was dun as an old man’s skin, the wood drained of color and warmth. Aera shivered beneath the great cloth hands of the sheets. She wished that night had lasted forever.

The common was crowded as she descended the creaking wood stairs. She had passed by Aeron’s room, feeling a slight tug at her heart that urged her to enter. But she didn’t. Instead, Aera went to break her fast with the three khentons left over from the day before. Her stomach grumbled like a dog as she juggled the coins in her hands, realizing how little it actually was. When she was a princess, money had seemed to be dispensable. Now, it was not.

Steaming grey oatmeal, freckled with sugar and cinnamon, sat before her face, the warm vapors curling like mist about her lips. Her coin pouch was considerably lighter as it dangled from her hip, a mere four copper saandis singing when she shifted in her seat, and she did often. It wasn’t just that the wooden chair was uncomfortable, which it was, but a nervous anxiety tore at her flesh as she thought. She thought often too.