A Bright Power Rising

by Noel Coughlan

  Grael overheard Thomol Mangal’s mutterings on the breeze. “Summer never comes, the cheeks of the Pig are stained with blood, and now the Fair Folk walk among us. This is a terrible time, this Year of Bleeding Snow.”

  A hooded figure detached from the cordon. Donmor brushed back his hood as he splashed through the slush to his father’s side. His neat, coppery hair accentuated the tense pallor of his visage. He acknowledged Grael’s presence with a nod. “There are four dozen more Elves down by Leaftea Lake,” he whispered.

  Garscap Torp and Evram Erath forced their way into their company.

  “What is happening?” Garscap demanded.

  If Widan’s glance at Garscap was disdainful, the expression he reserved for the young Erath was withering. “You know as much as we do,” he said, turning his back on the interlopers. He climbed atop the slippery earthen mound where the saints sometimes addressed the villagers. From this elevated position, his mountainous bulk loomed above the Fair Folk. “I am Widan Melkath, Politician of Pigsknuckle. What brings you to our village?”

  The middle Elf replied, “I am NeverFear for this lifetime, Cor always, and I speak for our group. We are worshipers of the Forelight, pilgrims who have traveled far from our homeland to visit the sacred monastery of Saint Odran.”

  “It’s the custom for visitors to our village to wait at one of the furkas on the edges of our territory,” Widan said. “You risk your lives by not observing that tradition.”

  “We are our own furkas,” NeverFear said. “We come here weaponless with arms raised in the sign of the furka.”

  “And what of your friends by the lake?” Widan asked.

  “They await our return with proof of your welcome,” NeverFear answered. “We came unarmed to prove our peaceful intent. If it was our purpose to butcher this village, we could have slain most of its population before you realized you were under attack.”

  Villagers gasped in horror. Spears pressed nearer to the Elves in warning. Widan beckoned Grael. He hurried over, expecting the politician to step down to speak to him, but Widan offered him his hand and heaved Grael onto his earthen podium.

  Fearing he might slip on its slick surface, Grael gingerly turned around to look upon the inscrutable countenances of the Elves and the nervous faces of their guards peeping out from under their hoods.

  Garscap followed Grael, uninvited, despite Widan’s mutterings that there was too little room for three.

  “What do you think?” Widan asked.

  Grael remembered the circle of dead Jinglemen. “His words are no idle boast.”

  “Remember Martyrsgrave,” Garscap urged.

  “You would think of that,” Widan muttered.

  Garscap ignored the jibe. “What are you going to do?”

  “Worry not. Whatever I do, I am certain you will find fault with it.”

  “What are you going to do?” Garscap repeated.

  “Pilgrims are pilgrims, no matter their race.” Widan addressed the Elves. “Lower your arms. It has been our custom since the time of Saint Odran to welcome pilgrims to Pigsknuckle. We offer you what hospitality we can, though this wasted year has left us with little to share. Your people can camp tonight at Leaftea Lake. Tomorrow, I will arrange a guide to escort you to the monastery.” He added, “Lads, lower your spears. These good people are our guests.”

  There was a noticeable delay before the Pigsknucklers obeyed.

  “We thank the people of Pigsknuckle,” NeverFear said. “Their generosity exemplifies the principles of our shared religion. We hope to return their kindness in the future.”

  “We will hold a feast in my hall tonight to celebrate this unprecedented meeting of our peoples,” Widan said. “Circumstances limit our invitation to you and your two companions. Worry not for your comrades at the lake. They shall not find the hospitality of Pigsknuckle wanting.”

  The Elves conferred in hushed tones. Their faces retained their enigmatic placidity, but the debate was heated. “We will accept your gracious offer,” NeverFear announced.

  “Very good.” Widan sounded pleased. The politician leapt down from the mound with a thud and said softly to Donmor, “Escort our guests back to Leaftea Lake. Spread the word that nobody is to go near Leaftea without my permission. I don’t want some young fool becoming besotted with an Elfin maiden. And tell everyone to keep their children at home.”

  “You fear the Gilt Spider is among our guests?” Donmor hazarded.

  “I fear accusations of his presence, if any youngster is late for supper. According to Grael, the village couldn’t hope to win a battle against them.”

  “Was it wise to invite their leaders to a feast?” Donmor asked, glancing up at Garscap.

  “Everyone knows the Fair Folk worship the Golden Light,” Widan said. “Yet, these claim to be Stretchers. Their coming is unprecedented and sudden. I would understand the cause better. I have difficulty accepting it is due simply to a spontaneous bout of piety. The one who rescued Grael from the Jinglemen also claimed to worship the Forelight. I conversed with the saints in Pigsback on the matter, and they were perplexed.”

  “So they told you,” Garscap said as he stepped off the mound.

  Grael, feeling conspicuous, followed his example.

  “What do you mean?” Widan demanded.

  Garscap smiled and shrugged. “You know as much as I.” He walked away before Widan could interrogate him further.

  Donmor and a small escort led the Elves away while the rest of the Pigsknucklers dispersed to their homes.

  “Many pilgrims have journeyed to the Pig this year to pray for the sickness in the weather to be healed. Perhaps our guests have come for the same purpose,” Grael suggested.

  “Perhaps,” Widan said. “We will question the Elves tonight, though I suspect their going may prove as mysterious as their coming. Even the name of their leader is a mystery. What did he mean when he said that he was Cor forever but NeverFear for this lifetime?”

  Grael shrugged. “My rescuer introduced himself by similar convoluted phrasing.”

  “You shall sit beside me tonight at the feast for our guests,” Widan said. “No need to look so worried. All the senior men will also be invited, including the Changeling. Especially the Changeling. Never give such a man anything he can turn to his advantage, particularly a snub. As the old saying goes, keep your friends close and your enemies closer.” Widan’s voice softened to a whisper as Grael’s dad approached them.

  “I would speak with my son alone,” Dad said. “If I may.”

  Widan acquiesced with a gracious nod. Dad threw his arm around Grael and wrenched him from the politician’s side. Glancing back to ensure Widan could not overhear him, Dad whispered in Grael’s ear, “You must tell Widan tonight you’re going to Pigsback and the engagement is over. Any delay may prove fatal.”

  “I will do what must be done.” Grael’s assurance was as resolute as it was misleading. By the next morning, he and Harath would on their way to Cronesglen, and the petty intrigues of Pigsknuckle would be far behind them.

  Talking of elopement and exile with Harath was inconceivable under Donmor’s mistrustful gaze. Grael had to seize a chance to converse with Harath alone while she was about her daily chores. He kept a vigil near the furka, his attention fixed on the great hall in hopes she might emerge.

  “Hello there.”

  Grael ignored Dawan Mangal’s salutation and hoped his cousin took the hint, but Dawan was too eager to chat to notice his friend’s desire to be alone.

  “This is all like something out of a saga,” he burbled. “I never thought I would see one Elf, much less such a host of them. Everyone is wondering if any of their womenfolk are with them. I think Widan has their camp under guard more to shield them from our curiosity than to protect us from them.”

  Dawan’s face brimmed with youthful enthusiasm. His cousin had always seemed a little older and wiser, but now Dawan, spared of the sort of adult concerns that plagued his friend, was the more boyish,
naive, and excitable. Grael could not share his scheme with him. Dawan wouldn’t understand.

  “There are furkas hanging over every door in the village and charms, too. The kind Saint Charlin would frown on if he saw them, relics of old, old magic,” Dawan continued. “And there is fearful weeping and loud praying billowing on the breeze. Fair Folk are alarming enough, but Fair Folk who know their catechism—that is something dreadful. How can furkas protect against them?”

  While Dawan prattled on, Harath stepped out of the hall, her hood drawn down, a bundle of clothes balanced on her head. It was hard to resist the urge to shove Dawan out of his way and run to her.

  “I must go,” Grael snapped.

  “All right,” Dawan said, taken aback.

  Grael moved to leave, but his pursuit ended mid-step when one of Harath’s male cousins trailed after her, his spear resting against his shoulder.

  “See,” Dawan said. “Widan welcomes the Fair Folk to the village, but even his daughter cannot wander outside his hall without an armed escort.”

  Steadying her bundle with her arms, Harath directed a barely perceptible nod of recognition to Grael. He responded in kind. Harath’s cousin waved at him, assuming that Grael’s salute was meant for him.

  “You must be looking forward to the wedding,” Dawan murmured saucily to Grael.

  Grael shrugged. Tonight’s feast was his last chance to speak to Harath. If fate cheated him again, he would lose her forever.

  Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.

  Grael recalled Widan’s words when he learned the seating arrangement in the great hall. He was to sit between the Politician of Pigsknuckle and his hated rival. It was not the inconspicuous neutrality that Grael’s father craved, but Dad restrained his irritation behind pressed lips. Grael’s discomfort was aggravated by Garscap’s tardiness, which left Widan on one side of him and nobody on the other.

  Donmor led the three Elves into the hall. NeverFear Cor introduced his companions as DayFlambeau Formosus and TrueFriend Peritus. Grael was struck again by how closely the Elves resembled each other. Even they would have found it difficult to distinguish each other without the tattoos on their foreheads.

  The Elves were invited to sit on the right side of Widan, while Donmor took his place to their right. The other guests were arranged in a crude ring around the hall. The bearded men of the village constituted most of the front row, while clean-shaven sons sat in their fathers’ shadows. The prominent gaps in the circle were uncomfortable. They reminded Grael of Hackit’s diseased grin.

  “Grael Erol met one of your kinsmen before,” Widan said. “The Gilt Spider.”

  “What is that?” NeverFear asked.

  “Nothing more than an old story, it seems,” Widan said, taken aback.

  “He saved me from slavery in Formicary,” Grael said.

  NeverFear’s smile was wan. “Did this Or have a name?”

  “Or?” Grael Erol repeated. The word meant nothing to him.

  “The Elf—what was his name?”

  “AscendantSun Auctor.”

  The Fair Folk exchanged glances.

  “You know this Elf?” Widan asked.

  “He is an old friend,” NeverFear said.

  “I owe him my life,” Grael said.

  “Ah, yes,” NeverFear said. “AscendantSun told me that tale. He is not with us, though he may join us in Saint Odran’s later. Business detains him.”

  “What business would that be?” Widan asked.

  “I wish I knew,” NeverFear replied.

  The Elves insisted Grael recount his capture by the Jinglemen and his subsequent liberation. They interrogated him in detail, till Widan saved him with a query of his own.

  “Why was your friend hunting Jinglemen?”

  “I understand he stumbled across them by accident,” NeverFear replied. “He recognized their prisoners as fellow Stretchers. Stretchers must help each other. Is that not so?”

  “Do many Elves worship the Forelight?” the politician asked.

  “Very few,” DayFlambeau admitted. “Most still venerate the Golden Light. We call ourselves Orstretcherists.”

  “And what made you adopt our faith?”

  “It was AscendantSun who first converted.”

  DayFlambeau was about to elaborate when NeverFear interrupted him. “AscendantSun gave us our religious instruction. This pilgrimage will be our first opportunity to converse with saints directly.”

  “So you have no saint of your own?” the politician asked.

  “AscendantSun is almost a saint. He devoted many years to studying the tenets of our faith.”

  “From Grael’s account, he fights well for an almost saint,” Widan commented darkly. “And how did he become a Stretcher in the first place?”

  “I never thought to ask him,” NeverFear replied.

  “You aren’t a very inquisitive people,” Widan muttered.

  Grael spotted Harath among the women moving about the hall with beer and trays of food. He could not approach her now. He had to wait for the banquet to descend into a sodden stupor, so that their conversation might go unnoticed.

  Jealousy strummed the chords of his heart when her eyes drifted toward the golden strangers. It was hard not to be envious of the Fair Folk. Their beauty was intimidating. He could not compete for Harath’s affection against any Elf who chose to reciprocate her glances. At least, she was more discreet than Ashin Carnath. She stood staring at the Elves until one of the older women wrenched her from her daze with a pinch and a few scolding whispers.

  “The women of your land are renowned for their beauty,” Donmor blurted.

  The Elves’ amusement was disconcerting. “What do you know of our women?” TrueFriend asked.

  “They are hidden from the sight of men and guarded by hundred-limbed monsters, for their beauty drives those who behold it mad with desire.” Donmor’s voice trembled.

  TrueFriend chuckled. “There is some truth in what you say,” he admitted, ignoring DayFlambeau’s disapproving glance.

  “Where did you learn such things?” NeverFear asked.

  “From the tale of Alackalas and the Fair Princess,” Donmor replied.

  “He is our people’s greatest hero,” Widan explained. “He is my family’s ancestor.”

  “And was this Fair Princess your ancestor also?” TrueFriend asked.

  Widan frowned at the Elf’s subtle smile. “No. We are descended from Alackalas’s first wife, Heldegran.”

  “Surely your people know of Alackalas?” Donmor demanded.

  “Perhaps you can tell us this tale?” NeverFear asked. “We may know your hero by another name.”

  “We will tell it later,” Widan said. “It is a long tale and better told on a full stomach.” He threw an irritable glance at the empty place beside Grael, a reminder that a sizable number of the guests had not arrived.

  Widan drew Donmor to him with a wag of his finger, and father and son exchanged whispers. Donmor left the hall.

  “My great grandfather built this hall,” the politician said. “He built it after the old one burned down. His name was Widan also.”

  “Is the climb to Saint Odran’s monastery difficult?” NeverFear asked.

  “We have a saying: Don’t itch the Pig. It’s a treacherous climb, and all the more so in inclement weather. Stick to the track, but don’t depend on it too much. Snow can swallow the path, and clouds conceal the furkas scattered along it. Too many pilgrims have lost their way and frozen to death on the mountain. My advice is to start out early tomorrow if the weather isn’t too foul and try to reach the monastery as early in the day as possible. Beware of the Crooked Stair. Snow or heavy rain can make that section of the climb especially precarious.”

  Widan regaled his guests with tragic misadventures of various pilgrims till Donmor returned. He and Widan shared more whispers.

  Widan sighed. “Lahan, come sit by your son. Garscap will not be attending. If we delay this feast any longer, the fl
esh roasting on the spits will drop into the fire.”

  As Saint Charlin was in Pigsback, it fell to Widan to commence the meal with a prayer to the Forelight. On previous occasions, in consideration of his guests’ empty stomachs, the politician had raced through it, but this time, he lingered over every word. Perhaps he did this in deference to his guests, though Widan sounded more plaintive than thankful.

  With a nod, Widan signaled to Donmor to begin carving up the spitted pigs. Flat loaves of bread were broken and passed around. Some women doled out small quantities of meat and beer. Others played tunes on flutes and sang.

  “I did not realize your people were so musical,” NeverFear observed.

  “Menfolk may sing a tune now and then, but music is largely the preserve of women and saints,” Widan said. “I’m afraid that the fare is meager in comparison to previous banquets. These are hard times, and food is scarce.”

  “I would not have thought so from this banquet,” NeverFear assured the politician as he softened his bread in the beer.

  The other Elves agreed. The politician smiled and nodded in thanks as a courtesy, but it was plain that the compliments troubled him.

  “The absence of so many guests has plumped the portions for the rest of us,” Dad whispered to Grael. “I reckon a third of the village isn’t here. It’s an ill omen for Widan.”

  “That leaves two thirds of the village who support him.”

  “Does it?” Dad snorted. “Evram Erath is filling his belly over there. The Smirk is no supporter of Widan. He probably came to spy on proceedings for his friend Garscap and to gloat at the poor attendance. You can be sure that many others were drawn here by habit or curiosity, or by the lure of a free meal rather than love of the Melkaths.