She snatched it away. “Leave me. Save yourself. I’ll be safe. No Stretcher would harm a woman.”
She might be right, but he couldn’t just forsake her. “I’ll not leave you, whatever happens.”
“Go,” she insisted.
“If you stay, so do I.”
She rolled her eyes as she resumed her progress up the slope. She climbed faster than before, her previous circumspection forgotten. Her stumbles only added to the determination of her ascent. Grael, staying by her side, offered words of encouragement till she told him to shut up. The summit drew ever nearer, but the men from Cronesglen closed, too.
“Come back!” one of the Cronesmen cried. “There’s no need to fear Cronesglen’s welcome.”
Clever language—not quite the guarantee of hospitality it promised. It reminded Grael of an old proverb: A good Stretcher never lies, but he may not always tell the whole truth. He cast a concerned glance at Harath, expecting her to waver, but she wasn’t fooled. She didn’t relent in her pursuit of the summit. There had to be a furka up there. Why else would the Cronesmen seek to stall them?
Near the top, the slope became so steep and rocky they had to climb with their hands. A large stone fork, painted black and white, stood farther along the ridge. Grael glanced back at their pursuers. So close.
“Run to the furka,” Grael said. “I’ll try to stall them.” He only had a stick, but the men of Cronesglen would be hampered by the steep ground.
“If you stay, so do I.”
They had no time for argument. They ran. A spear flew past Harath’s shoulder and slid along the ground till it stopped at the base of the furka.
“You young fool!” one of their pursuers exclaimed. “You nearly struck the furka!”
“They were getting away,” the spear-thrower pleaded.
“Better that they escape than the furka is injured,” said a third man. “Better for you that you were never born than touch it with a spear.”
Their distraction gave Grael and Harath time to reach the furka. They hugged its sculpted trunk and claimed its sanctuary.
Grael stared back defiantly at the five frowning Cronesmen, while the sixth sought their politician. The Politician of Cronesglen took forever to arrive at the furka. He was an old man, lean, with sunken cheeks and shoulder-length, snow-white hair. A white beard fringed his jaw. Crystalline shards as white as his hair fanned from his thorny crown.
Before Grael finished introducing himself, the politician silenced him with a wave of his hand. “What is the second commandment of our religion?”
Grael’s brows knitted. What possible relevance did that question have? “To love the Forelight above all else.”
“That is the first. What is the second?”
Grael blushed. “To love others.”
“There’s more to it. It is to love others as you love yourself. And the third?”
Grael rummaged his memory. “To reject the False Lights.”
“Very good. Please pray to the Forelight. Both of you.”
Grael and Harath recited the Forelight’s Prayer.
“I am Radal Faral,” the politician said. “Please forgive our wariness in extending our hospitality. Even if you wore halos, we would have been as cautious. In the past, rogues and vagabonds from the lowlands pretended to be Stretchers to enter our company and rob us.”
“Did wariness make one of your men cast a spear at a fleeing woman?” Grael asked.
“What?” Radal Faral was aghast. He turned to the man beside him. “Joloth, is this true?”
The oldest of the pursuers, a plump man with a sandy beard and receding pate, stepped forward. His gaze fell to his feet, and he blushed.
“Here is the evidence,” Grael said, pointing to the spear lying beneath the furka.
“I thought it belonged to you,” Radal said.
“It’s not mine,” Grael said. “It lies where it landed. I wouldn’t touch it, in case I might be infected with its dishonor. It belongs to one of your people, to the red-headed youth yonder.”
“Then it almost struck the furka,” Radal said. His glare shifted from Cronesman to Cronesman. “None of you chose to mention this. Not you, Fermad, who sought me, nor you, Joloth, my brother, who is old enough to have more sense.”
“We thought the sinner best recount his sin,” Joloth said.
“Falmor, what have you to say?”
The fiery-haired youth, his face burning crimson with anger and shame, directed scornful glances at his comrades. “I cast at the girl, not the furka, and I didn’t know she was a girl when I threw it. In those filthy rags, from behind, at a distance, no man could tell. For all we knew, their intention was to smash the furka. I was defending it.”
“Smash it with what? This stick? Her empty hands?” Grael muttered.
“Then, Falmor, your sin is at least not deliberate, but it’s a sin nonetheless,” Radal said.
Falmor tried to protest, but the Politician of Cronesglen shushed him. “Recklessness is a sin. Sacrilege, even through thoughtlessness, is a sin. To risk injuring a furka isn’t merely an insult to the Forelight and a breach of the first commandment, it is to endanger our very home.”
He picked up the spear, laid one end on a boulder, and stamped on the shaft. Falmor flinched as it split in two.
“Remember, the Witch People lived here before us, till the saints drove them away,” Radal said. “The ghosts of their matriarchs still haunt Cronesglen. The furkas keep their evil at bay. If the furkas were destroyed, our valley would have to be abandoned till new ones could be erected.”
Radal laid a hand on the young man’s shoulder. “So, Falmor, this is what you’ll do. You’ll go to the monastery of Highsanctum and ask the saints to provide an escort back to Pigsknuckle for our unfortunate guests. Then you’ll tell them your sin and take whatever penance they choose. It’s hard for a layman to be just in such matters.”
The features of the politician and the man whom he scolded shared a familial theme. Radal might have looked much like his son before the years whitened his hair and weathered his face. Father and son had the same blazing blue eyes, though in the case of the older man, their luster was tempered with wisdom.
“If it’s your wish, Father, then I will obey it,” Falmor said.
“Not my wish. My duty,” Radal said. “Go now. I’ll pray the saints are merciful, and that when you return, you’ll be a little closer to being the man you could be.”
Falmor nodded. “Then let that journey begin here. May I beg for the forgiveness of the lady for my sin against her?”
Harath nudged Grael in the ribs. “He is asking you. You’re my protector. Apparently.”
Grael’s eyebrows rose at this astounding assault on his person, but his voice did not betray his surprise. “You may.”
Falmor knelt and bowed his head.
“I forgive you,” Harath said.
“Thank you.” Falmor stood. His eyes glistened as he stretched his arms and pressed his head against his shoulder. The sign of the furka made, he headed down the ridge.
“We shouldn’t let him go alone,” Joloth said. “We’re equally culpable. We should accompany him to Highsanctum and share his penance.”
“One hand throws a spear,” Radal said. “And it only takes two legs to walk up a mountain. Let him be.”
Radal Faral was a better kind of politician than Widan Melkath, Grael decided. The former was more akin to the politicians of legend, dispensing wisdom with pious humility, while the latter, consumed by the perpetuation of his dynasty, wriggled like a fat grub through an interminable putrefaction of compromise and convenience. For a dangerous moment, if Radal had invited Grael to join his community, he might have accepted. Then again, many decent people lived in Pigsknuckle, including Grael’s family. It was a shame they did not have a better leader.
“So, this is Widan Melkath’s daughter,” Radal said after Grael had introduced Harath. The politician’s pitying smile suggested he shared Grael’s opinio
n of her father. “How did you two end up here? It must be quite a tale.”
For much of his story, Grael was as faithful to the actual events, only changing the details of Harath’s initial seizure and avoiding mention of the liberties that Tarum had threatened to take. However, when it came to recounting the Gilt Spider’s hand in their escape, the weight of legend proved too much. It was easier to portray the Elf’s rescue simply as a failed bid to snatch them from the Jinglemen. Anything else might have offended Radal’s sensibilities.
But at the last moment, stirring guilt made Grael blurt, “The Elf professed to be a Stretcher and claimed his goal was our rescue.”
Radal smiled. “Never believe the promises of Fair Folk. Tomorrow, you and I will see if we can find the site of this battle and learn the fate of your captors. If any trace of them remains.”
Grael shivered as whispers broke the brittle silence of his companions. In the daunting gloom of the forest, the Cronesmen huddled in a ring around Radal. He had brought more than twenty of his best warriors and a saint from Highsanctum to ward against Elfin magic. Even with numeric superiority and the Forelight on their side, every sweaty face was tense with apprehension.
“We will search the clearing after Saint Marden blesses it,” Radal whispered. “I doubt we will find anything unholy. Not to belittle what our friend from Pigsknuckle saw, or thought he saw, but a lifetime’s wisdom tells me a handful of mortals could not defeat the Gilt Spider. I expect to find no trace of either the Gilt Spider or those who fought him.”
“Why did you bring so many of us then?” Joloth asked, his voice twitchy. “If you don’t mind my asking, brother.”
Radal shrugged. He leaned close to his brother, his eyes rounding and a smile stretching his lips. “Because I could be wrong.”
If only Grael could have stayed in Cronesglen with Harath. The Gilt Spider was not the all-powerful fiend that the Cronesmen feared, but it would be better to never meet him again.
Saint Marden stood aloof from the gathering. His black garb blended into the shadows so well that he appeared like a disembodied head miraculously floating behind them. No beard hid the chinstrap holding his black halo on his balding pate. The old man’s demeanor had an unearthly calmness as he mouthed silent prayers, the furka hanging from his halo dancing against his forehead to his unspoken words. He stepped into the glade. Raising his arms and pressing his head against one shoulder to make the sign of the furka, he prayed to the Forelight to cleanse the clearing of whatever evil haunted it. Finishing, he nodded to Radal.
Grael followed the Cronesmen out of forest. The Jinglemen’s corpses lay strewn in a rough circle, already partly ravaged by beak, fang, and claw. Hackit’s face leered at him. The old man’s head was severed from his body. Not even scavengers dared to touch it.
“Should we bury or burn them?” Radal asked. “What would be appropriate for these foreigners?”
“They should have pouches around their necks,” Grael said. “Tinder for fire. Earth for burial.”
“What about a wooden fish? What could it mean?” Radal had retrieved it from Tarum Sire’s corpse.
Grael shrugged. “I have no idea. Perhaps, he should be thrown into a river perhaps.”
Radal sniffed. “We will bury him. Our rivers should not be polluted with scum such as this. Joloth, how do you read the signs?”
“The Gilt Spider was wounded. It left a trail of blood yonder. You are not going to suggest I follow it, are you?”
“Of course not. The Fair Folk are mischievous. Their signs cannot be trusted. Find this young man’s caravan instead. It should be nearby.”
“It’s not my caravan,” Grael said. He had assumed Radal Faral would claim it for Cronesglen.
“It’s yours by right of your suffering.”
“Then it should be equally Harath’s.”
“No woman other than a widow may own property, according to saintly law. The Jinglemen’s possessions are yours.”
Grael did not know what to say. It was too much. He had done nothing to deserve such a bounty. But it was pointless to protest saintly law. “And will you not take some of the contents in recompense for your hospitality?”
Radal shook his head. “If you wish to donate some of the goods to the monastery of Highsanctum, I will ensure they safely reach there, but Cronesglen will take nothing of the caravan. Consider it our penance for attacking you.”
They found the three carts, the oxen that hauled them, and the Jinglemen’s horses patiently awaiting their dead masters.
“You are fortunate,” Radal said to Grael as he surveyed the vehicles and their piles of goods. “Most men who go to Formicary, if they live long enough to return home, never amass such wealth as you have in a couple of days. I hope you’ll have the good sense to quit while you are ahead and put dreams of Formicary aside for good.”
Grael massaged the bruise on the back of his wrist. “All I want to do is go home.”
As he walked alone back to the clearing, the smell of burning flesh and wood assaulted his nostrils. Joloth and a half-dozen other Cronesmen stood around the Jinglemen’s pyre, watching the fire peep through its thatch of branches.
Grael glanced downward. A dark slash of congealed blood clung to the foliage, no doubt part of the trail discovered by Joloth. Grael’s eyes followed its direction to the edge of the forest. As his legs moved toward it, he faltered mid-step. What was drawing him there? Something more sinister than simple curiosity about the fate of his rescuer? He’d had his fill of adventure, and yet, something urged him to find the trail. Some part of him wouldn’t let the riddle of the Gilt Spider rest.
4
As the Consensus of Lineages could not cure him, it severed him from his lineage and his name, and condemned him to the island of Evercloud, so that no matter how loud he yelled, the seas would swallow his heresy.
FROM THE BOOK OF JUDGMENTS.
He heard the hush. The only sound was the breathing of the sea, its soft churn against the shore. The seabirds sharing his island prison were silent. He threw on his sandals, left his little stone cell, and glanced about the decaying village. No birds swooped overhead. None were lighted upon the broken walls of the nursery, or the hall, or the storehouses, or the little vegetable garden. No birds rested on the little stone cells that had defied neglect and weather for a century or more. Even their favorite haunt was abandoned—the gaunt stone pillar that had been the village’s gnomon, robbed long ago of its golden hand and precious gilding when the island was abandoned.
The Harbinger of the Dawn trod along the rough path that slashed back and forth down the hillside to where the cliffs could be surveyed. He peered over the low, ramshackle parapet guarding the unwary from the black precipices beyond. The air was empty. No winged sickles harvested the ocean. No ribbons of white festooned the cliffs. In the midst of their mating season, the colonies of guffawns, guillets, and waeries had disappeared. Not a single bird remained, as if some divine hand had wiped them from existence.
He slipped off his sandals, climbed over the wall, and down the cliff face. Abandoned nests lay along the ledge below. In some he found eggs. He wrapped his fingers around one. The shell was dead cold.
“Where are you?” he cried as he flung the egg into the sea.
The echo of his question taunted him. He was so utterly alone. Even the creatures of the air spurned him. Dedication to the Golden Light, Aurelian, had always prevented despair in the past. Suddenly, it was failing. Long ago, his people had banished him to this miserable rock. His race had denounced him as a heretic. The Consensus of Lineages, that self-aggrandizing parliament of bureaucrats and windbags, had insisted he was wrong, his beliefs fallacious and unnatural, his prophecies either fraudulent or the product of insanity. His own flesh had disowned him. Yet his faith in his calling had endured. So many years had passed waiting for the fulfillment of his prophecies, and the return of the Golden Light to his people. So many years longing for some crumb of divine favor to prove him right. Th
is day, this very moment, that faith was dead. The lifeless wind had snuffed it out.
Only Aurelian could reignite it.
The Harbinger turned to the blinding sun, the embodiment of the Golden Light in the sky, and prayed. The light stung his eyes, but physical blindness was preferable to a spiritual one. He pressed his hands together, and keeping his four thumbs entwined, he revealed his palms to form the symbol of the open flower. The common prayers sanctioned by the Consensus were formulated by committee, not inspired by the divine, but they were as good as any in this crisis. He settled on the Five Name Orison.
“Aurelian, Bright Lord,
Let not the Darkness blind your servants.
Aurelian, Summer Plow,
Sustain your servants that they may thrive.
Aurelian, Night Breaker,
Free your servants from its tyranny.
Aurelian, Burning One,
Set your servants’ hearts afire.
Aurelian, Unconquered Sun,
Give your servants their reward.”
Five names and five prophecies. It was a marvelous coincidence. The five warring Lights, the five races of myrmidons that served them, the five names of Aurelian, the five prophecies revealed to his humble messenger—it fitted together perfectly. Why had he not noticed it before?
“A great darkness shall precede Aurelian’s coming, as the night precedes the dawn.
Aurelian shall divide from the sun, and the sky shall be his nursery.
A Bright Power Rising Page 5