An eternity passed before Pugnus spoke:“Dead.” The word was like a thunderclap and yet as insubstantial as a dream.
“It cannot be true.”
“I saw him die. He was in his martial aspect—the pillar of golden flame. The Purpures tore through our ranks and flooded around him. They leapt on him, combusted, and dropped to the gound, screeching and wailing as the fire consumed them. But the number pouring on top of him was too great. He collapsed beneath its weight, and his flame sputtered and died. Through the Purpures’ exultant howls, I heard him beg for mercy as they ripped him apart. There was nothing any of us could do then but die, and I failed even in that. Something hit me from behind, and I passed out. I awoke in the midst of this carnage. Aurelian’s remains are gone, no doubt taken as a trophy by his killers.”
“Why did you throw off your armor?” Auctor demanded.
“I could not breathe,” Pugnus answered.
If the Golden Light was lost, then so were his children.
“I have no more tears to weep,” Pugnus said. “I can cry no more.”
“Are there other survivors?”
“I do not know. Of the sentinels, only I live.”
“There must be other survivors. We must find them.”
“Leave me here,” Pugnus begged, as Auctor tried to pull him to his feet. “Let me waste the remainder of my useless existence praying for absolution for my failure.”
“Come now. You still believe the Golden Light lives. Why else would you pray to him?”
“I saw him die.”
“Are you certain? Do you really know what you saw? Who are we to know our Bright Lord’s fate? We serve him, but we do not understand him. We know neither the breadth nor depth of his powers. Who are we to say this is his beginning and this is his end?”
The sullenness on Pugnus’s face melted a little. Auctor’s speech gathered momentum. The words coming out of his mouth surprised him. He was as much their audience as Pugnus.
“Remember what Aurelian said. He foretold the deserts of Gules would test us, and so it has come to pass. But he also promised us our faith would save us. Faith is not our right. It is our greatest duty. We must not despair. We must survive.”
Auctor’s words lifted Pugnus unsteadily to his feet.
“Yes, we must survive,” Pugnus echoed hoarsely.
Auctor helped him strap his armor back on. Pugnus almost buckled beneath the breastplate’s weight, but he refused to relinquish it, and Auctor was forced to support him. As they made their way out of the Twelfth’s camp back into the endless desert, the wind picked up and gently drew a sandy shroud over the desolation.
AscendantSun’s eyes opened. Gasping in the smothering darkness, he bolted upright. Where was he? A hand rested on his shoulder. He turned toward its owner. The face lit by the candlelight was a jumble of misshapen features. The creature drew back, evidently startled by AscendantSun’s demeanor.
“Are you okay?” it asked with genuine concern. “You were weeping in your sleep.”
That voice was familiar. AscendantSun took a breath and then another. The who, the when, and the where returned.
He wiped the wetness from his cheeks and mustered a half-hearted smile to reassure Saint Charlin. “I’m fine. It was just a bad dream.”
The saint’s face was full of curiosity, but he pried no further.
AscendantSun seldom dreamed of those times, and never before so vividly. An omen perhaps, but was it for good or ill? Hopefully, when he reached Tincranny he would learn more.
7
In Martyrsgrave no man may tread,
Forbidden by saintly command,
A place of ruin and bloodshed,
Where heroes fell by Elfin hand.
FROM THE MARTYRDOM OF CONEYRIDDLE.
The wind howled in triumph around Grael as he crunched a path across the snow to the great hall. It was hard to believe that almost three months had passed since his return to Pigsknuckle. It had been the coldest, wettest, most miserable summer that anyone could remember. Now, instead of autumn, winter set in early, and some wondered if spring would come at all.
Once every week, he made this visit to his betrothed. Conversation was a pathetic, wilted thing under the dour gaze of her brother, Donmor. Its topics were limited to health and weather. Grael could not ask the one question most pressing on his thoughts: Why did she appear to regard him with such ill-concealed disdain?
He hammered on the door of the great hall. It creaked open a little, and Donmor Melkath beckoned him to enter. Grael dropped his hood as he squeezed through the narrow gap, but the icy blast that followed him inside made him regret his haste.
“I’m not walking out in that blizzard,” Donmor Melkath muttered as he slammed the door shut. “You two can take your stroll inside. The great hall is big enough. You can walk in a circle around it.”
“And is our chaperon going to follow us around?” Harath asked as she ambled over to them.
“I’m going to sit by the fire. I can see you well enough from there.” Donmor directed a threatening glance at Grael.
Grael’s mouth dried. This was at last a chance to speak frankly, to learn Harath’s true feelings, for good or ill.
Donmor joined the crowd huddled by the main hearth, leaving Grael and Harath in silence. Sly laughter greeted him as he sat down.
“I suppose we should walk,” Harath said.
“Yes,” Grael said.
They strolled for a time in silence. As he mustered the courage to speak, he evaded her gaze lest his nerve melt before it.
“The weather has been terrible,” Harath observed.
“Forgive me,” Grael blurted.
“For what?” Her voice was edged with irritation.
He summoned the nerve to look at her. “For this. For our engagement.”
She paused mid-stride. She regarded him with rounded eyes and parted lips. She raised one hand to her chest, the fingers pressed against her breastbone as though trying to contain her heart. “You wish to end it?”
It was his turn to be shocked. “Only if you desire it. If you want, I’ll set out for Formicary a second time, never to return.”
Her brows knitted, and her lips pressed together into a wan smile. “So you would leave me here to suffer the scandal of your departure?”
“Whatever you want.” Feverish with embarrassment, he could think of nothing else to say.
She crossed her arms and glanced at the crowd huddled around the fire. “At the moment, all I want is for us to continue our stroll before our stillness attracts Donmor’s attention.”
Her comment jolted him into action. They walked on.
She smiled. “Slow down. There’s no need to go so fast.”
He slackened his pace.
“Perfect,” she said. “Now, what do you want?”
He wiped away the perspiration on his face with a trembling hand. “I’m sorry. You’ve seemed so disgruntled with the match, with me.”
She snorted. “You weren’t exactly enthusiastic about the match either. You only agreed to it to humor your parents.”
“I did not!” he insisted.
She shushed him. “Too loud.”
“I did not,” he whispered.
“You said as much yourself. I’ll abide by my parents’ decision. Remember?”
“Did you not see how deliriously happy I was?”
She shrugged. “You had many reasons to be happy that day.”
“Remember when we were by the brook in the forest? The evening of our escape? That moment when we looked into each other’s eyes. Did you feel nothing?”
“I remember,” she said stiffly. “I felt...I don’t know what I felt.” She sighed. “What does it matter? We are engaged to be married.”
“It matters to me,” Grael said. “I love you.”
She blinked. “I think you have listened to Alackalas and the Fair Princess once too often.” Her laugh was giddy.
A month of self-recrimination and hopele
ssness melted away in an instant. Emboldened, he declared, “You are my Fair Princess.”
She flushed. “Oh my Forelight, you’ll be reciting poetry to me next.”
The temptation was irresistible. “You are the year’s beauty distilled—fierce as winter, gentle as spring—”
“Another word, and I’m calling Donmor,” she warned, but the sparkle in her eyes said differently.
“I have stared into the eyes of the Gilt Spider,” he said, still intoxicated by his success. “I fear nobody.”
“You can tell that to my brother. Here he comes.”
Her tinkle of laughter deepened Donmor’s scowl as he stalked over to them. “You two are too happy for my liking. What were you talking about?”
“The weather,” Grael said.
Harath laughed.
Donmor’s eyes narrowed. “I’m glad someone finds this weather funny. Grael, it’s time you went home. My sister has chores to do.”
Grael bid a joyful farewell to Harath and her chaperone and headed for home. As he made his way back to his parents’ home, his high spirits insulated him so much from the cold, he forgot about his hood till the insistent burning of his ears reminded him to raise it.
As Grael entered the cabin, he was struck by its emptiness. Was it a portent of trouble?
“Where are the others?” he asked as he stamped his feet to knock the snow from his boots. He took off his overcoat and hung it by the door.
“We sent your brother and sisters to the Mangals,” his mam explained. She looked more haggard than usual. Her face held a sickly pallor. Even her hair was grayer.
Grael nodded, and sat down across the fire from his parents. Its crackle and spit could not lift the oppressive silence as he waited for them to speak.
His dad’s face was hidden beneath his age-tonsured crown. He kept eating stew, spoonful following spoonful with unwavering constancy, his eyes never straying from the contents of his bowl. He raised his head as he wiped a dribble from his ashen beard. His gray eyes looked at his son and then back at the bowl.
Grael had had enough. “What’s wrong?”
Mam’s lips pressed into a frown.
Dad cleared his throat and stared at Grael. “You must break off your engagement to Harath Melkath.”
Mam nodded.
“Why are you both suddenly against me marrying her?” Grael asked. “You agreed to the match in the first place.”
Mam directed a cutting glance at Dad. “Your father agreed.”
“Well, I won’t end the engagement,” Grael declared. Not now. Not when Harath was finally warming to him.
“You’re a man and can do what you want, but remember this,” Mam snapped. “Widan is more interested in your wealth marrying him than you marrying his daughter.”
Grael scowled. “That may be, but it doesn’t mean he will get it. Do you think I’m a full fool? You trusted me to face the dangers of Formicary. You can trust me—”
“You cheeky…we did not!” Dad cried. “We tried to stop you.”
Grael talked over his father’s interruption. “You can trust me to deal with Widan.”
“Nearly two thirds of your fortune is gone already in a few months,” Mam said. “At this rate, it’ll not survive the winter.”
“One cartload was donated to Pigsback,” Grael retorted. “Another went to feed this village. Are you suggesting I let our neighbors starve?”
“Of course not,” Dad grumbled. “But your generosity is keeping the thorny crown on Widan’s head. There’ll not be many more Jinglemen through here before spring, if it ever comes. If food runs low, Widan and his cronies will get the blame. And like it or not, you are seen as one of his cronies.”
“When you left Pigsknuckle for Formicary, you left us no choice but to accept it,” Mam said. “My one consolation, though I did not realize it at the time, was I did not appreciate fully the hazards you faced. Now, danger comes looking for you again, and we can see it, and you seem blind to it. Tell me this: When did this love for Harath Melkath begin? You never showed any interest in her till her father proposed your marriage.”
Grael blushed. “I never thought…” Embarrassment choked the words. I never thought I was worthy of her.
“Listen to me, son,” Mam said. “Understand, we are not impugning the girl. We know she is a good girl, and she would make a fine wife. The problem is her father. He cannot be trusted. He arranged this marriage not for your benefit or hers, but for his own. Whatever he might hint, be under no illusion that he intends you to succeed him as our politician. The thorny crown is reserved for Donmor.”
“I do not want to be the politician,” Grael said.
“It doesn’t matter,” Dad said. “Widan’s position is under threat. These are hard times, and many in the village are asking if he is still up to the task. Garscap Torp’s support is growing.”
“Not so long ago, some suggested I might make a good politician,” Grael observed.
“But you do not want to be politician,” Mam muttered.
“It shows their fickleness and the foolishness of relying on them,” Dad said. “Sooner or later, the Changeling will challenge Widan, and things will get ugly.”
It was a shock to hear Dad refer to Garscap by that cursed name. Though Garscap’s enemies in the village habitually used it, Dad had always disapproved. He had maintained that it wasn’t proper to cast such an accusation on even a man like Garscap Torp.
“Perhaps the old buck will defeat the pretender,” Dad said. “Maybe, the young buck will win. Either way, it is best you stay clear of their butting horns.”
“I’m not afraid of either of them,” Grael said.
“You have no fear for yourself, but what about your family?” Mam asked. “Don’t you care about your flesh and blood? What you do outside the village is your own business, but in Pigsknuckle, we all are bound to your actions. If you marry into the Melkaths, you tie our future to theirs.”
“The last challenge to the Melkaths was when I was a youngster,” Dad said. “The man was a Kuny.”
“I’ve never heard of that family,” Grael admitted.
“That is because the Kunys lost. Feuds over the thorny crown are brutal affairs.”
“Please,” Mam implored. The gray fear on her face made plain that she would not be swayed by appeals for Grael’s future happiness. Grael needed more practical arguments.
“I won’t be too popular with Widan for breaking the engagement,” he observed. “Widan may decide that those who aren’t with him are against him.”
“We’ve considered that. You can tell him you must go to Pigsback to answer the call to sainthood.”
“One saint in this family is enough!” Grael protested. “I have no interest in being another!”
“Hear me out,” Dad said. “You stay there for a while. Perhaps a year. A year passes swiftly. Then you can come home as a layman if you wish. Widan’s feud with the Changeling will be settled and forgotten, and you can live your life how you want.”
“I will think on it,” Grael said. His family’s safety came first. But his parents’ plan would cost him Harath. Unacceptable.
Which left only one option: elopement. Harath might be amenable to leaving Pigsknuckle. They could take enough of his treasure to live elsewhere comfortably. Obviously, he could not bring Harath to a den of thieves like Formicary. Radal Faral was a friend and an honorable man. He might let them settle in Cronesglen.
A stick tapped on the lintel of the door.
“Anyone home?” Widan’s baritone voice was unmistakable.
Mam sighed.
Dad cursed under his breath as he stomped over to the door and opened it.
The entry filled with a massive black silhouette as the politician stepped inside. “I am afraid this is not a social visit,” Widan said. “The village has been invaded.”
“What? The village under attack?” Dad exclaimed. “Wolves of the four-legged or two-legged kind?”
“There are Fair Fo
lk in the village.”
“The children. I must find the children.” Mam, as pale as death, leapt to her feet and rushed out the door, leaving it ajar in her haste. An icy breeze swirled through the cabin and tossed the fire.
“Fair Folk? What are they doing here?” Dad asked in utter disbelief.
“They are standing in the middle of the village, their arms raised over their heads with the piety of saints,” Widan said. “I came here to seek your son’s advice, since he knows more about the Fair Folk than any other villager.”
“I met one, and then only briefly,” Grael said, embarrassed.
“The little you know is more than the rest of us,” Widan observed. “We know them only from old tales. You have seen one, spoken to him. I want you by my side when I parlay with them.”
Grael directed a pleading glance at his dad.
“I had better help your mother,” Dad said. “With your permission, Politician.”
“Of course. Family must come first,” Widan said, his voice soaring with extravagant indulgence.
“I will follow as soon as we are sure the children are safe,” Dad said. He retrieved his overcoat from its peg by the door, and swinging it over his shoulders, slipped it on. He shook his head and murmured, “In her rush, Myryr’s forgot her fur.” He tucked her coat under his arm, snatched his spear, and dashed outside.
“I have always considered your father be one of the most decent men in the village,” the politician commented. “Keeps to himself. Lives for his family. If more of us followed his example, Pigsknuckle would be a far happier place.”
It was hard not to feel a little sympathy for Widan. He was so unaware that his admiration of Dad was far from reciprocated.
Widan continued: “We should go. Grab your coat and weapons, and follow me. Perhaps the one who rescued you is among our guests.”
The village was a giant, muddy footprint in the interminable whiteness. At its heart stood the mightiest of Pigsknuckle’s furkas, built by Saint Odran himself, according to legend. Beneath it, encircled by spears and taut faces, stood three poetic figures resplendent in shining bronze and yellow. They bore neither helmets nor weapons. Their arms were raised in the air, and their heads were tucked against their shoulders in a prayerful manner. But the pale yellow luster of their complexions and the crystalline sheen of their ocher eyes left no doubt as to their race. Their countenances were unmarked by the depredations of age and weather. Their golden hair was cropped short, revealing peaked ears reminiscent of spear points. Except for the black tattoos on their foreheads, the Elves were indistinguishable from each other.
A Bright Power Rising Page 10