A Bright Power Rising

by Noel Coughlan

  Garscap needed a major issue to drive a wedge between Widan and his supporters, and he’d thought he had found it in Grael’s quest to go to Formicary. Trick Widan into granting Grael permission to leave Pigsknuckle and watch the parent of every boy in the village turn against the politician for fear he might grant the same to their son. The scheme had such seductive elegance, but it had been fatally flawed from the start. It had relied too much on the imagination of these goatherds. Sometimes, Garscap was just too clever for his own good.

  And Widan was damn lucky. The crops half-dead from frost, portents of catastrophe written across the skies, and suddenly a fortune arrived to secure his thorny crown.

  “I found your spear,” the Smirk said.

  “That’s nice,” Garscap said, frowning at the interruption of his contemplation.

  He had to be patient. Someday, a real opportunity to topple Widan would present itself, not a half-chance or quarter-chance like Grael’s leaving. It was destined to come. Garscap’s fate wasn’t to become a worthless old man living in fear of being planted in his home by infirmity like Thomol Mangal. Garscap was marked for something better. Long after he was gone, the mountains would still echo with his name.

  In the meantime, he could stir up a little trouble.

  6

  Unlike other races, Ors are impervious to myth. For us, memory and history are indivisible.

  FROM ON BEFORE HISTORY BY WORSHIPSUN FULGUR.

  Every morning since Grael’s arrival, Charlin left his little stone house in the village and waded through the snow to Pigshead to check if the Gilt Spider had returned to his lair. Nobody thought to ask where he was going. Nobody dared. The villagers he encountered avoided his gaze even as they murmured hello. A few more timid souls jumped, when they realized that their paths might cross his, and guiltily changed direction. When he was first assigned to Pigsknuckle, such antics had been mildly comical but now they grated on his nerves. At least, they had some benefit in matters such as this. Thank the Forelight, his own family understood that beneath his saintly garb, he was still a man. Otherwise, he would be as cut off from life in the village as in the monastery.

  Beneath a heavy pall of snow lay a murdered summer. Perhaps all those ominous portents, the quakes and bloodstained precipitation, the feverish, celestial colors, were testimony to the summer’s violent death. There was no fire in the sky now—only an impenetrable blanket of ashen cloud.

  Who or what had killed the summer? Everyone in the village looked to Charlin for answers. Was it the work of a devil or some punishment from the Forelight? Was it a spell of witches or Elves? He answered their pleading stares with encouragement to pray harder. The Forelight would protect them. All they needed was faith. It was the only real answer he had.

  The little stream beneath Pigshead was frozen. He carefully crossed it, squeezed through the cave’s narrow entrance, and plunged into pitch blackness. His journey was wasted. AscendantSun had not arrived yet. Perhaps he might never return. He might have died of his wounds on the way.

  A cough disturbed the perfect silence.

  “AscendantSun, are you there?”

  “Saint Charlin, wait one minute.”

  Sounds of rummaging and scraping echoed through the cavern. A little shower of sparks briefly pricked the sepulchral darkness. Another shower of sparks followed, and then another. Golden fire dispelled the night. AscendantSun, sitting on his mat of straw, laid a lamp on the ground and lay down.

  Charlin ran to his side and knelt down. “Thank the Forelight you are alive.”

  AscendantSun’s face twinged with pain. A bloody smear showed through the bandage around his shoulder. “I nearly didn’t make it. I was out of practice.”

  “Is there anything I can do?” Charlin asked. “I could take a look at your wounds.”

  “There’s no need. They have already healed beyond the point of being life threatening.”

  Charlin smiled. “Thank you for saving my brother. And the girl. I have perhaps been charitable to you in the past…”

  “A Stretcher should not deny forgiveness to one who asks it.”

  “Very true. Thank you. I was wrong to look upon you as a monster.”

  “I have been a monster. Not in the ways you imagine. Worse ways. Far worse. Before I began to wander the Stretches.”

  Charlin’s smile wavered. “But that belongs to the distant past, and I am sure you have done penance for those crimes. The Forelight has forgiven you.”

  “I cannot forgive myself. I’ve tried, but I can’t. It is too much.”

  “Remember the second commandment of our religion. You must love others as you love yourself. You must forgive yourself.”

  “I know. In time, perhaps. Will you hear my confession for my more recent sins? The Jinglemen’s deaths weigh little on my conscience, but I still must atone for them.”

  “Of course. If you wish, you can retake your oath of pacifism.”

  AscendantSun shook his head. “Not yet. As soon as I am strong enough, I must go back to my own people for a while first.”

  “Why?” Charlin’s question was louder than he intended.

  “For two reasons. Here, these wounds will not fully heal. I’ll be left a cripple. But if I return home, I can be cured fully. Also, I need to visit my friends in Tincranny—the other Elves who worship the Forelight, the Orstretcherists. The Forelight knows what madness these meteorological anomalies have unleashed among my people. These phenomena are unprecedented.”

  “I have never seen the like before,” Charlin admitted.

  “My memory stretches back to before this world began, and I have never seen the like either,” AscendantSun said. “If I still clung to my old beliefs, I would be strapping on my armor in expectation of a second Light War.”

  Charlin’s jaw quivered. His throat tightened. “I hope you are wrong.”

  “You don’t mind if I close my eyes?” AscendantSun asked. “I’m so tired.”

  “Of course,” Charlin said. He stood beside the Elf and, stretching his arms, silently prayed to the Forelight that AscendantSun’s dreams would be peaceful.

  A millennium dissolved in an instant, and AscendantSun returned to when he had neither name nor religion; to that first moment he awoke in a universe of amber light.

  Curiosity reached out into the void above him. He crawled about the tubular envelope and slid his fingers across a surface so smooth it felt soft. He pressed against it, but it did not yield. Shaping one hand into a fist, he struck it. Pain. He clutched his pulsing hand and rocked till the ache subsided and curiosity returned.

  He explored himself. He wriggled the digits on his hands and feet. He reached up to the fluttering portals through which he saw the world and discovered a whole range of strange shapes and textures with which to play.

  Self-examination was forgotten when he spotted a shallow deformity protruding from the surface of the tube, about twice the expanse of his open hand. It had not been there earlier. He was certain. He crept over to it. What could it be? He extended one finger toward it. Touched it. Nothing happened. He moved a hand over its creases and crevices. The shapes and textures of the distortion were reminiscent of his face. Apart from that intuition, he had little comprehension of what it was. Its function was unimportant. It served to feed the naive curiosity of his senses.

  It lit up. Its eyes popped open, and out of its mouth roared fear. He bounded clear of it to the far end of his universe. The face grew a head, a neck, and then a trunk. Two gracile arms extended from the torso, their terminal protuberances flowering into hands. On its pate danced golden flame.

  He screamed his terror back at the luminescent figure, but it neither advanced nor withdrew, remaining rooted where it had sprouted. It continued to speak. The shock of its voice waned, and he began to recognize an attractive softness in its tone. The Other was smiling and waving to him as it repeated the same sound over and over: “Come.”

  He approached the Other with caution, his eyes fixed on it, hi
s every muscle anticipating flight from indefinite menace.

  “Good,” the Other said as he neared. It stretched out one arm before it, an open palm facing the floor. A spherical depression formed on the surface beneath it. Yellow liquid poured from the Other’s hand into the basin. When the bowl was full, the Other clenched its hand and pointed to the bowl of liquid. “Milk,” it said, and it scooped some up in one hand, sipped, and smiled.

  He warily mimicked the Other. The milk tasted good.

  The Other pointed at itself. “Aurelian.”

  Then it pointed at him. “Auctor.”

  As Auctor stood before his god, he discovered happiness.

  Aurelian was his constant companion, teaching him, playing games with him. Aurelian even haunted his slumber, his divine radiance permeating so deeply into the Or’s dreams that Auctor sometimes did not know if he was asleep or awake.

  Aurelian’s patience was near infinite. There were occasions when some mischief angered him. He inflicted terrible pain then, and Auctor’s world provided no hiding place from the Golden Light’s wrath. However, this seldom happened. If Auctor was fatigued and uninterested in learning, Aurelian rarely coerced him. Auctor’s absorption of each lesson was an inevitability. It filled his universe and persisted till he was forced to confront it. He had to eat whatever Aurelian served him because it was the only food available. He learned to walk upright because conditions made it impossible for him to continue otherwise. He learned to talk because the Golden Light increasingly ignored his grunts and gestures. Success was lavished with praise, and Aurelian’s praise was what Auctor craved most.

  This conspiracy of circumstance was the natural order of his cosmos. There was no room for faith or doubt. Only two beings existed: Auctor and Aurelian. Auctor had not summoned forth the cosmos. He had no mastery over it. The Golden Light was fused into its fabric and manipulated it at will. Aurelian must have created it.

  As for Auctor, the Golden Light sustained him physically and spiritually. No food touched the Or’s lips, no concept entered his mind, unless it came from Aurelian. The Golden Light’s divinity was as axiomatic as Auctor’s own existence.

  The foundations of this blissful certitude were shaken when Aurelian told him that beyond his snug macrocosm existed a larger universe inhabited by other Ors. The divine pronouncement itself did not cause a shiver of doubt. To question the veracity of his god was unthinkable. It was the implication for his own imagined status that was perturbing. He was not as special as he had supposed.

  Jealousy tortured him. He redoubled his efforts to please his deity. Auctor sought approval in Aurelian’s slightest gesture but found only more reason for doubt. As his mastery of the nuances of the spoken word matured, he detected subtle reticence in his god’s discourse. His competitors for the Golden Light’s affection had to be responsible for this taciturnity. He wanted to ignore them, expel them from his thoughts, but in his weakest moments, he damned them with unarticulated curses.

  Then came the wind.

  Its unfamiliar chill woke him. He looked for Aurelian, but his god was gone. So, too, was one end of his universe. The chamber extended forever in one direction. Its relentless stretch was dizzying. His eyes pressed shut, he clung to the floor to stop himself from plummeting down the horizontal well of yellow light.

  “Aurelian!” His cry echoed down the passageway.

  He fought his paralyzing terror, because he had to travel down the tunnel. He had to find Aurelian. He forced his eyes open, though he dared not raise their gaze from the floor. He began to crawl, each hand reaching beyond the other, knees shuffling behind.

  It took great effort to glance back at what had been his universe. The far wall of the chamber was its only recognizable vestige. As he crawled farther, it got smaller and smaller till it disappeared, and Auctor saw an endless corridor forward and back.

  Loneliness weighed on him, but he forced himself on.

  Ahead, a yellow-orange speck pricked the oppressive monotony of the tunnel. Could it be Aurelian? The possibility lifted him to his feet. Fear cast aside, he raced toward the saffron smudge.

  As Auctor neared the figure, it became clear that he was not the Golden Light. The stranger’s cropped, golden hair contrasted with Auctor’s frizzy coiffure. His smiling face was similar to Auctor’s, but there were differences. The eyes were larger, their irises a darker orange. The round, flat nose was slightly smaller. The faint chin was a little more pronounced. The oval, flaxen face was perhaps a little fleshier. This was one of the other Ors of whom Aurelian had spoken. His face was less symmetrical than Auctor’s.

  “May the Golden Light shine on you,” the other Or said. “I am Lumen. Aurelian bade me meet you as you left your maturation tube, and bring you to him.” He rested a saffron cloak around the shoulders of Auctor. “You will find it cooler in the city.”

  He helped Auctor slip on a pair of sandals. “Your path will be less smooth beyond the tube,” he said as he took Auctor by the hand and led him through the mouth of the tunnel.

  Before Auctor, a cavernous world gaped. Golden stars in the arched ceiling shone down on manicured gardens. Beyond towered a mountainous ziggurat, its burnished surfaces setting the horizon aglow.

  Casual clapping attracted his attention to the scattered knots of Ors around him.

  “They are welcoming you,” Lumen explained. “It is a time of great joy for our race when a new Or joins us.”

  These Ors were not the phantom strangers he had hated. They were his brothers, at one with him, at one with the Golden Light.

  Lumen pointed to the ziggurat. “Our destination—the Citadel of Eternal Noon. It is where the Golden Light and we, his servants, reside.” He opened one fist and spread wide his fingers and thumbs. “The Citadel is shaped as a hand. What you see before you is but the tip of one thumb.”

  They crunched along the gravel paths meandering through the park. Everything was so new and fascinating: the hedges, shrubs and trees; the intoxicating bouquet of the gold and black flowers; the zestful bees; the burbling streams and diaphanous fountains. Only Lumen’s gentle coaxing prevented Auctor from becoming lost in this new world.

  “How long have you dwelt here?” Auctor asked.

  “I came here long ago. Before these gardens were planted, when this land was waste. I was the first to emerge from the tubes. I was the Golden Light’s sole servant till Consilium and others followed. As the Minister of Initiates, it is my honor to present newly emerged Ors like you to our Bright Lord and to supervise their orientation.”

  Auctor recognized only some of Lumen’s words, but he comprehended their gist, and he did not like it. The servants of the Golden Light had a hierarchy, and Auctor was consigned to the bottom.

  “Did you notice the square block of stone we passed?” Lumen asked.

  “Yes,” Auctor replied, his voice quivering with suppressed anger.

  “You will find similar plinths elsewhere in the gardens and the citadel. Do you know what they are for?”

  “No,” Auctor said. They were too tall to be seats.

  “The Golden Light had them installed when we built the gardens. They are for the future heroes of our people, the doers of great deeds as yet undreamed. They are to record our history as yet unwritten. The adventures of the Or whose likeness will adorn this plinth shall inspire songs and tales for eternity. It could be you on top of this pedestal, or me, or perhaps an Or still in the maturation tubes. Whoever it will be, his rank will not matter. Courage knows no station.”

  It was hard to fully grasp Lumen’s speech, but the tone was exciting. It would be so wonderful to stand beside Aurelian atop the plinth, staring down on crowds of admiring Ors. Whatever great feats had to be performed to deserve such an honor, he must do them.

  As the Citadel of Eternal Noon neared, it became apparent that the imposing edifice was bustling with activity. On every tier, Ors hurried purposefully, slipping in and out of winking doors.

  Moving stairways straddled the leve
ls. Lumen took Auctor’s arm and helped him onto one. “Let the escalator do the work,” he said with a smile as he patted Auctor’s hand.

  Auctor’s little leap off the disappearing stairway at the summit brought another smile. Before them stretched large, palatial buildings, demarcated into blocks by broad, bustling thoroughfares.

  “What are those places?” Auctor asked.

  “Ministries, legion headquarters, sub-departmental offices,” Lumen said.

  He continued to hold Auctor’s arm as he steered him through the crowds. The majority were armored. Over mail shirts, they wore a saffron tunic and pants and bronze cuirasses. Greaves protected their shins. Small oval shields covered their arms. A few helmets had crests. Lumen explained that these were officers, and the orientation of their crests denoted their seniority.

  Some passersby recognized the Minister of Initiates and stepped aside. A few halted and honored Auctor with restrained applause. Most were too intent on their own business to notice. The throngs were thickest where Ors streamed into and out of ornate kiosks that punctuated the avenues at regular intervals.

  “They provide access to the lower levels of the Citadel,” Lumen explained. “Our destination, the Palm Yard, is located on this level, so we will not need to use them.”

  The Palm Yard was vast. It reverberated to beating drums and stamping feet. Across its expanse, saffron regiments of Ors paraded to and fro in practiced synchrony, shepherded by their barking officers. At the far end of the square stood a great burning hand, its fingers and thumbs splayed like the limbs of a tree.

  “The Second Legion is on parade,” Lumen said in hushed tones as though his words might disrupt the drill. “We had best skirt around the edges of the square. Our Bright Lord is at the flaming hand yonder. I must warn you that Aurelian will differ from his incarnation in your maturation tube. His face is more expressive. The flames on his scalp are livelier. His voice is more resonant. It is hard to explain. You have to see him to understand.”