A Bright Power Rising

by Noel Coughlan

  “This feast was a mistake. Providing a little food and somewhere to rest for the night to pilgrims is one thing. Holding a banquet in their honor is something else entirely. I suppose Widan was a little overawed by our guests. As for the Fair Folk, they’re far too exotic for the village to accept them readily as fellow worshipers of the Forelight. I must confess that doubt still lingers in my own heart that they are Stretchers. Squandering the village’s precious livestock for their benefit is bound to cause resentment. This feast has damaged Widan’s authority more than the Changeling’s sniping ever could.”

  Dad’s assessment of the politician and his feast sounded callous, even derisive. Grael’s sympathy for Widan mingled with concern for his daughter.

  “If you are so politically astute, why do you stay out of politics?” Grael asked.

  “It is because I am wise in such matters that I’m content not to dabble in them.”

  Hot, sodden breath tickled Grael’s cheek. Widan murmured something about trust in his ear. How much of Grael’s conversation with his father had the politician overheard?

  Grael leaned into Widan. “Sorry. Could you repeat that?”

  Dad leaned over also, his eyes mirroring Grael’s concern.

  “I said I don’t trust these wretched Elves,” Widan said. “They are determined to divulge nothing of their true purpose in coming here. Their conversion to our faith seems miraculous. It is as though they went to bed of one religious persuasion and woke the next morning as another.”

  “Perhaps it was miraculous,” Grael suggested. “Remember the miraculous conversion of Saint Apasapal.”

  Widan’s morose chuckle ended in a belch. “Possibly,” he admitted, tipping back his drinking horn. “More drink here, good woman! What you say is possible. Only they know for certain. And the Forelight, of course. From the little they have said, they are exiles. I am certain of it. I don’t know, though, whether their professed belief in the Forelight was the cause of their banishment or the product of it. If the latter was the case, these Elves are cynical and dangerous.”

  “Well, if they are friends of AscendantSun Auctor, I can vouch for their honor,” Grael said.

  “If they are indeed friends of your rescuer. Remember, you, not they, volunteered his name.”

  Widan was right, of course. These Elves might have never known AscendantSun. They could even be his enemies.

  “Wherever the truth lies, our guests have done me untold harm,” Widan whined. “They proved to be the bait in a trap of the Changeling’s making, and I have lumbered straight into it. My heart sinks when I think of what slander the Changeling is peddling behind my back this very moment. It is probably far more vicious than the sly barbs he has rehashed again and again at village gatherings since the summer curdled.”

  He grimaced and shook his head. “The Changeling is clever. He sweetens his sting with honeyed words. He praises my faithfulness to our forbears’ customs, while belittling them in the very same breath. Let the pilgrims starve, he whispers. Keep the food for the village. It’s easy for that rogue to scorn the practices of generations. My father and grandfather, and all his sires back to Alackalas, lived and died by these very same traditions, and I’ll not discard them.”

  While the politician demanded another refill of his drinking horn, Grael took the opportunity to rub away the sticky dew of Widan’s spittle from around his ear. Dad’s frown was a warning to be careful. Grael could hear his father’s words ringing in his ear: Maintain a polite distance from both sides. That was hard to do while sitting beside Widan.

  “It’s the custom to ask your politician’s leave before you depart for the night,” Widan bellowed. The Eraths and several other guests had thrown on their furs and were making for the exit. They were not just sneaking out to relieve themselves. They were leaving for good.

  Evram paused, his contemptuous stare directed at the politician. “I know,” he said, sneering as he sauntered out of the hall.

  Everyone held their breath for the politician’s response. Even the Elves fell silent, though they could not understand the significance of what had happened.

  Donmor leapt up.

  “Sit down,” Widan growled. “We promised to tell our guests of our illustrious forbear. Recite for us the tale of Alackalas and the Fair Princess.”

  Donmor’s recitation was shaky and halted often, but Grael was thankful for it. He hoped it staved off further unwelcome confidences from Widan.

  “The Changeling’s cronies try to goad me into a fight,” Widan murmured. “The Changeling wants to start the war, and he wants me to take the blame. Garscap is a subtle one. He would murder me and my family in our sleep if he could escape the saints’ wrath. What am I to do, Grael? A vote would solve nothing. Our support is too finely balanced. It would briefly postpone the inevitable.”

  He sighed. “In my younger days, I would have challenged him to a duel and settled the dispute man to man, but I am past my prime, and the Changeling wouldn’t play fair.”

  The defiance on Widan’s face dissolved into pleading. “My death doesn’t trouble me, but I fear what that scoundrel may do to Donmor and Harath after I am in my grave. You are my friend and an honest man. What do you think I should do?”

  Grael said, “Perhaps you could ask the saints to intervene.”

  “Perhaps. Old Sebryn has an aversion to village politics, but he may be more amenable given the current circumstances. The saints of Pigsback know the Changeling’s mischievous nature. I have always been a friend to the monastery, upholding the rights of the saints, making donations, comforting pilgrims. Saint Sebryn can’t ignore an old friend when he is threatened by an old enemy.

  “Tomorrow, I will send Donmor to Pigsback. He can accompany the Fair Folk as a guide and appeal to Saint Sebryn on my behalf. A few supportive words from Sebryn will silence the Changeling for good, and our village will be spared a bloody conflict.”

  “That’s an excellent plan.” If it succeeded, Grael’s betrothal to Harath would be secure. They would not need to slink away from the village in the night like a pair of criminals. But the elopement must happen tonight or not at all. The Forelight damn it! It wasn’t even certain that Harath was willing to elope in the first place.

  “And will you go?” Widan asked.

  “What?” Grael snapped, irritated at the politician’s intrusion on his quandary.

  “Will you go with Donmor? These Elves make me nervous. I don’t trust them. I worry they might spirit Donmor away. Reaching the monastery safely is but half the journey. The thought of him descending the Pig alone frightens me. If you accompanied Donmor, it would be a mighty comfort to me and to Harath.”

  Grael was at a loss for words. He wanted to help, but it meant remaining in the village, defying his parents, and blatantly siding with Widan.

  “Please. I need you. My family needs you,” Widan begged. “I’m not asking you to take my side against the Changeling, though I know you would do so willingly, but for Lahan.”

  Widan raised his hand before Grael could protest. “Don’t misunderstand me. I respect Lahan. I admire your gentle submission to his will. A son should honor his father. That is the natural order of things. I wouldn’t ask you to do anything that would risk your family’s safety. I would rather suffer exile than cause a rift between you and Lahan. But I fear for my son.”

  Grael glanced over his shoulder. How much of this was his father hearing? Dad stared back suspiciously as his drunken neighbor roared some incomprehensible anecdote into his ear.

  Widan tugged on Grael’s sleeve to attract his attention. “The Changeling won’t consider your escort of the Fair Folk suspicious. Everyone knows about your previous encounter with one of them. Your wish to learn more about his race is reasonable. Donmor will deliver my appeal to Saint Sebryn. All you have to do is ensure he returns safely to Pigsknuckle.”

  Grael abandoned his dreams of elopement with a reluctant nod. Harath would never consent to forsaking her family at this critical
juncture, any more than Grael could desert his.

  He sighed. “I’ll go.”

  “Good man!” Widan bellowed, pounding Grael’s shoulder.

  Dad answered Grael’s plaintive glance with a sour expression. Though he could have overheard only incoherent snatches of Grael’s conversation, he must have heard enough to know its outcome was not to his liking.

  The rest of the evening passed by hazily as Grael prepared for confrontation with his father. It was a surprise when the feast drew to a premature close. Widan’s thanks to his guests as he sent them to their homes rang hollow.

  The snow-blanketed landscape flushed as the bloody smear of Gules seeped through the overcast night sky. As Grael and his father crunched a path toward their home, Grael spoke of his promise to the politician. Half of what of he had intended to say was forgotten in his fluster. The rest tumbled out in an embarrassing muddle.

  “You young fool!” Dad snapped. “Are you so gullible to believe Garscap will not see through this trip to Pigsback? The moment he learns of it, he’ll guess its purpose. If he had any doubt about your support for his rival, this escapade will cure him of it.”

  “I’m a man,” Grael said. “I alone am responsible for my actions. What I do and what side I choose should not affect you.”

  “You live under my roof.”

  “I’ll live elsewhere then. I’m sure Widan would take me in if I asked him.”

  “He’s already taken you in, but not in the sense you mean,” Dad muttered. “I’m astonished you can turn your back on your own flesh and blood so lightly.”

  Grael shook his head in disbelief. Did his father understand him so little? “I don’t want you and the rest of the family suffering for my actions. I want you to be safe.”

  “You’re my son, and I won’t abandon you. Tomorrow I’ll declare my support for Widan.”

  Grael’s gut twisted. This was not what he wanted at all. His father’s about-face had to be some kind of cruel joke. But Dad’s face was mirthless.

  “No. Please, no,” Grael begged.

  “You’ve no more influence over my decision than I apparently have over yours. My mind is made up. I must confess no great love for the Changeling. We’d be better off with one of your Elves as our politician than that scoundrel. Don’t look so dismayed. There’s yet hope the saints will intervene and bloodshed can be avoided.” Dad sighed. “My hope of staying out of this mess was probably foolish anyway. Often, in trying to cheat our fate, we cheat ourselves.”

  “Very true,” Grael said. It was hard not to share Dad’s sentiment about Grael’s now ruined plans.

  8

  Snow and stone that was flesh and bone,

  A pig fashioned into a peak,

  And on its back, Saint Odran’s home –

  That is the sacred house I seek.

  FROM ALACKALAS AND THE FAIR PRINCESS.

  Icy wind mauled the Fair Folk and their two shivering guides as they trudged through the narrow entry passage to Saint Odran’s monastery.

  “They call this the Needle’s Eye,” Grael said to NeverFear.

  “It is not the most spectacular of entrances,” the Elf observed. “This monastery is built more like a fortress than a place of worship.”

  “My brother, Saint Charlin, says the monastery’s only enemy is the mountain. At times, it tries to freeze or starve the saints to death.”

  The outer doors slammed shut, and the inner doors creaked open. Heat and light poured into the dark corridor. An arthritic voice bid them enter. The monastery’s familiar musty odor assaulted Grael as he stepped into the reception hall. A great fire dominated it, its light gilding the faded religious tapestries that adorned the walls.

  Resting on a walking stick, the hunched abbot, Saint Sebryn, stood with his back to the fire. Saint Charlin stood to his right. Grael, Donmor, and the Elves saluted the saints with the sign of the furka.

  “Lower your arms please,” Sebryn said, hobbling away from the fire. “Time enough for introductions when you are warm. We have a saying here: All but the cold are welcome. What little we have, we offer to you. Charlin, arrange some hot drinks and food for our guests.”

  While Grael and his companions peeled off their coats and huddled around the fire, saints laden with trays of cups and bowls, pitchers, and platters of food, streamed into the hall. Bread, cured meat, soup and mulled beer were distributed to the visitors.

  A tug on Grael’s sleeve distracted him from the feast. “Grael, what are you doing here?” Charlin asked.

  “Welcome back, Grael,” Sebryn said. He squinted. “And this young man is Widan’s son, if I am not mistaken. What is your name again?”

  Grael’s companion frowned. “Donmor Melkath.”

  “Do you know who I am?” Sebryn asked.

  Donmor nodded. “I remember when you used to visit the village.”

  “It has been a long time since I was last in Pigsknuckle,” Sebryn said. “The journey is too arduous at my age. I will never leave the Pig again, nor do I want to. When the Forelight calls me, I will be all the nearer to Heaven atop this mountain.”

  “Saint Sebryn, what about our other guests?” Charlin asked nervously.

  It was strange that Saint Sebryn focused his attention on the Pigsknucklers, as if the Fair Folk’s visit was in no way extraordinary.

  “In good time,” Sebryn said. “Saint Charlin, show these two young men to their quarters when they have sated their appetites. I’m sure your brother has news about your family and friends.”

  “We must talk to you later about a matter of great importance,” Donmor said.

  “And that is?” Sebryn asked.

  “My father begs you to adjudicate between him and his rival Garscap Torp, who seeks to depose him.”

  Grael could hear Widan in Donmor’s words but not in his voice. The son’s leaden, over-practiced delivery lacked the father’s oratorical finesse. The speech purported to be a plea for the saints to mediate between the rival factions before they tore Pigsknuckle apart, but it was obvious Widan expected any such intervention to be in his favor. Sebryn was invited repeatedly to compare Widan’s deference to the saints with Garscap Torp’s disdain for the monastery. Widan sought to uphold the traditions of his ancestors while Garscap was intent upon upsetting the natural order for his own benefit. Widan was honest, and Garscap was a rogue. Donmor rambled and repeated himself. Saint Sebryn listened without comment till the youth came to an uncertain halt.

  Sebryn nodded solemnly. “Tell your father we will pray for a quick resolution of this matter. However, we cannot intervene.” His voice was gentle, sympathetic, but adamant.

  “But...” Words failed Donmor. He looked dazed, as though he had been punched in the face.

  Grael’s desperate glance begged his brother for support. Charlin’s fevered visage shone with a desire to challenge Sebryn’s ruling, but he remained silent.

  “We cannot intervene,” Sebryn said firmly.

  Donmor looked helplessly to Grael. “We should return to Pigsknuckle.”

  “Wait till tomorrow. The night approaches. This is not the time to journey on the mountain,” Saint Sebryn advised. “Risking your lives will help no one.”

  Grael admitted the sense in the abbot’s advice, though his instincts urged otherwise. After he and Donmor had eaten their fill, Charlin escorted them to their quarters, a pokey, narrow little room crammed with two single beds. Except for a modest wooden furka, the walls were bare stone. The damp cold made Grael shiver.

  “You will have to share it,” Charlin said. “With so many guests, space will be at a premium.” He pointed disdainfully at a lidded, earthenware vessel almost hidden in the narrow space between the beds. “The pot is for any, er, excretions,” the saint said, reddening.

  “Is there anything you can do to convince the abbot to help us?” Grael asked.

  “I will do what I can,” Charlin said, but he shook his head. “May the Forelight bless you this night.”

  With that, C
harlin departed.

  Donmor stared at the door, then suddenly kicked it in frustration. “Worthless cowards,” he hissed. “But for their caution, we could be home this very night. Whatever weather tomorrow brings, I will descend the mountain. The saints may have offered no help to my father against the Changeling, but he will have mine.”

  “You think it wise to ignore this dispute?” Charlin said to Sebryn when he rejoined him in the reception hall.

  “Which one?” Sebryn asked, awaking from some private reverie.

  “The one in Pigsknuckle.”

  “Oh, that nonsense,” Sebryn said, grimacing. “Not our concern. You may think me too cynical, but a lifetime of dealing with politicians has taught me that no saint is cynical enough for them.”

  “My family is mixed up in this mess,” Charlin said.

  “Our duty to the Forelight must come before personal considerations.”

  Charlin murmured his agreement. So much for the feared power of the saints. What purpose had power, when you lived in terror of its use?

  “Let me introduce you to the leader of our guests, until AscendantSun arrives,” Sebryn said. “This is NeverFear Cor.”

  The morning smiled. For the first time since the weather soured, the sky cast aside its ashen pallor and shone crystal blue. At last, here was a sign that the worst of the meteorological fever had passed, that the normal procession of seasons was being reasserted.

  The saints and their guests packed in the little chapel to thank the Forelight for this miracle. The chapel could not contain such a large number, so some of the Fair Folk were forced to stand in the hall and listen through the doorway. Some saints whispered that the clement weather was in some way connected with their arrival. Even Sebryn joked during his sermon that the Elves had brought the sun with them. The Fair Folk smiled politely, but did not join in the saints’ laughter.