Grael tried to hide his stifled yawns behind his hand. His roommate’s restlessness had made for tortured sleep. Donmor had tossed and turned and sighed loudly throughout the night.
After prayers ended, as the crowd began drifting to the refectory, Donmor made a final desperate plea to Sebryn for help. The saint’s refusal was polite but firm. Donmor persisted, so forcibly decrying the old man’s callousness that Sebryn lost his temper.
“Tell the Politician of Pigsknuckle he is beyond the help of an old man,” the saint grumbled. “If divine intervention is what he desires, he should direct his appeals to his god. I am sure now that creation is finished, the Forelight has nothing better to do than sort out Widan Melkath’s messes.”
The saints hovering around Sebryn gasped or tittered, at once amused and aghast at what verged on blasphemy. Sebryn continued: “Warn your father that before he attempts anything as audacious as heartfelt prayer, he must atone for his sins, and that will take a very long time. Good day, goodbye, and may the Forelight bless you.”
The abbot stormed away with all the haste his shuffling gait permitted, stabbing the paved floor with his walking stick at every step. The venom of his words left the brazen youth paralyzed behind him.
Grael rested a sympathetic hand on Donmor’s shoulder. “I guess it is time for us to leave.”
Donmor nodded. “Get our gear, and I’ll visit the refectory and get us a few bread rolls. We’ll meet at the Needle’s Eye. I’m not staying any longer than I must, and I’m certainly not going to sup with the abbot after his discourtesy.”
Outside, the mountain glittered in the sunlight. The music of trickling water was everywhere as the snow sweated in the heat. Rocks peeped hopefully through the icy crust. Grael couldn’t help but be infected with the bright hopefulness of this abrupt spring, but Donmor was blind to everything except his failure.
His anger swept them both down the still icy mountainside at a dangerous pace. Snorting gusts warned of the mountain’s displeasure. By the time Grael and his companion had descended the Crooked Stair, an ominous bank of gray clouds spread across the sky, snuffing out the optimism of the morning.
“We must take care to not itch the Pig,” Grael said after Donmor slid on some scree.
“You are right,” Donmor admitted. “It’s a long way to hop to Pigsknuckle. I will take my time.”
“Pigsknuckle is even farther if I am carrying you on my back.”
Donmor’s hearty laugh echoed around them. “I am happy for my sister that you are marrying her. You are a decent man.”
“Like my father,” Grael said, remembering Widan’s words.
“Don’t misunderstand me,” Donmor said as they continued down the mountain. “That is a recent conclusion. I always regarded you as an annoying prig till you announced you were going to Formicary. I realized then you were a madman. I can’t understand why anyone could leave Pigsknuckle.”
Of course, Donmor could not, because Pigsknuckle was destined to be his some day, provided the Changeling did not thwart his father.
“I hope those dreams of distant lands are forgotten now.”
“Pigsknuckle is enough adventure for me these days,” Grael said.
“Good. Harath wouldn’t be pleased if her husband took her from her home.”
It was best not to disabuse Donmor of this notion.
“She likes you,” Donmor said. “She won’t admit it, which is unusual because she is very quick with her opinion on everything. But I can tell she has a soft spot for you. After your last visit, she was a like a different person. I’ve never seen her so happy.”
Grael flushed and bowed his head.
Donmor laughed. “Hey, there is no need to get so embarrassed. Your cheeks won’t feel the cold with that color.”
Grael was struggling for a suitable rejoinder when something cold tickled his cheek. A single snowflake settled in his open hand and melted.
“Snow,” Donmor said with sudden sobriety. Snow was trouble.
More snowflakes danced by. Grael, concerned by the brooding complexion of the sky and the increasing vehemence of the wind, suggested taking shelter in one of the stone huts scattered along their route. But Donmor was insistent that they continue to Pigsknuckle. A few flakes never hurt anyone.
The flurry burgeoned into a storm with alarming speed. Blinded and deafened, they staggered through the falling snow, trying to pick their way through the formless, unending white.
It was hard to hear what Donmor was saying, but in the end, Grael snatched from the tempest’s wheezing howl the one word that mattered: “shelter.” He agreed enthusiastically. Pigsknuckle could wait. In these conditions, locating a hut was challenging enough.
Worried they might become separated, Grael shouted and signaled Donmor to halt.
Donmor nodded and stopped.
With burning fingers, it took Grael forever to find his rope in his backpack and tie it around his waist. He turned to Donmor to offer him the other end, but he had disappeared. Cursing him, Grael tried to follow his vanishing footprints, but the snow smothered them too quickly. Even Grael could barely hear his own cries in the wind’s bitter ululation.
He trudged on, utterly alone, as the storm’s icy shroud wrapped ever tighter around him.
A child’s cry woke him.
The perfume of burning timber filled the darkness. The homey crackling of the fire warmed the silence. Grael’s sticky eyelids peeled open. While the faces of Maerbard and Wanyr shone with joy, those of his father and mother were a mixture of concern and relief. He tried to sit, but gentle hands stilled him.
“Sit back and give him some space,” Mam told the two children. She took little Miona from Wanyr and gently rocked her on her shoulder till her crying ceased.
“What happened to Donmor?” Dad asked softly.
“I lost him in the blizzard,” Grael said. “He slipped away in an instant. He didn’t answer my calls, so I continued down the mountain to find shelter, hoping he would do the same.”
A swooping screech tore at the darkness, then dwindled to heavy sobs.
Grael continued. “I found a furka. I nearly walked straight into it. I’ll never forget the moment its arms reached out to me through the whirling veil of snow. I knew a hut must be nearby, so I fumbled around till I found it, and I waited there for the storm to pass.”
“You did the right thing,” Dad said. “I doubt anyone could have survived up there without shelter.”
“The only help the saints offered us was prayer,” Grael said, making no effort to hide his bitterness. Donmor had thrown away his life for nothing.
“I doubt even Alackalas could have moved them,” Dad said, patting Grael’s shoulder.
“I said it was a fool’s errand,” Mam muttered, casting a sour glance at the far end of the hut.
There knelt the Politician of Pigsknuckle, his head in his hands, his great bulk shivering with sobs. Harath sat beside him, one arm draped over his shoulders, her face as pale as the murderous snow, her eyes burning with reluctant tears.
Grael avoided her stare. He touched the bandages covering his blistered cheeks, thankful they hid his shame. Death on the Pig was preferable to living with the knowledge that he had a part in her distress.
“First my wife, now my son,” Widan wailed.
“You’ll have nothing left, if you don’t pull yourself together,” Dad growled. “This can’t go on. Harassment has driven some of us from our homes. We dare not wander alone through parts of the village for fear of attack. Joraem Scorael was beaten so badly, one of his hands will be permanently crippled. The village faces enough hardship without being torn apart by your rivalry with the Changeling. If the saints will not end this, you must. Either lead or let someone else do so.”
Grael shuddered. The situation must be bad if his father felt the need to speak so bluntly.
Widan lifted his face from his hands. “Lahan, you’re right. The dead must wait if the living aren’t to join them. I’ll send word
to Garscap Torp to meet us in Horgal’s Field tomorrow morning. We’ll settle this matter there, for good or ill.”
“I’ll go,” Harath said. She breezed from the hut before anyone had time to argue. She re-entered moments later. “I didn’t have to look very far for him,” she said. “He is outside and wants to speak to you.”
Dad seized his spear. Grael strained to lift himself up on his elbows, but he couldn’t. He was useless if this visit turned violent.
“He is making the sign of the furka,” Harath said.
“We’ll hear what he has to say,” Widan said. “Tell him to come in.”
As Garscap entered, he nodded to Grael’s father. Dad grudgingly put aside his weapon.
“Come to gloat?” the politician asked.
“I understand the Pig has taken Donmor,” Garscap said. “I have come to offer my help in recovering his body.”
Widan stared hard into Garscap’s eyes. The politician relaxed and conveyed his appreciation with a nod. “What of our dispute?” he asked.
“It can wait.”
“I suppose it can.”
Grael exhaled, but his relief quickly dissipated. The rivals’ truce ensured peace for now, but how long would it last?
The following days were trying for Grael. Confined to his bed, he learned what was happening beyond the hut second-hand from his mother and Maerbard. His father was away on the search for Donmor’s remains. His mother gleaned what she could from the gossips in the village. Maerbard proved to be a better source of information because he hung around the edge of the village and quizzed any searcher returning from the Pig. He complained heartily that he hadn’t been allowed to join the hunt for the corpse, but conditions were too severe on the mountain for a mere boy.
Apparently, Garscap’s dedication to the search had impressed everyone. Rumors circulated that the politician and his rival were going to come to some sort of compromise. Mam seized upon these and became convinced that conflict would be resolved amicably. Her optimism was infectious. Grael came to share it, and for the first time since the Fair Folk arrived, his heart was light. Even the horrors of the mountain ceased to haunt his dreams.
Then, one evening, Dad returned home, looking tired, dejected, and old.
“Did you find Donmor’s body?” Mam asked.
He shook his head wearily. “We gave up looking.”
Something was wrong; something his father was reluctant to share.
Mam sensed it, too. “What’s the matter?”
“We meet the Changeling’s supporters at Horgal’s Field tomorrow at noon.”
Grael hammered the straw with his fists. His family was in danger, and he could do nothing to protect them.
Garscap suppressed a smile as he glanced at the sullen, frightened faces around him. They were all goats pretending to be wolves.
Widan’s lackeys lined the opposite side of Horgal’s Field, weapons in hand. Widan stood before them, talking to Lahan Erol, scratching the ground with his foot like an annoyed rooster. The crops dividing both factions were stunted shoots peeping through the snow, emaciated by the endless winter, and never would bear anything worth harvesting. The leaders had proclaimed this meeting to be merely a show of strength, a means of measuring their relative popularity, but everyone was tense with the expectation blood would be spilled.
“We have a slight edge in numbers, though it is hardly overwhelming,” Evram observed.
“What are you suggesting I should have done?” Garscap asked. “Burn down Lahan Erol’s house while Widan was within, grieving for his son? I suspect some of my supporters might think it an uncharitable act.”
“Of course not. I am suggesting the Pig is a dangerous place.”
The Smirk was so damn eager for his first kill. Would he be as eager after it?
“Too obvious.” Also too late.
“So, what do we do?”
There should have been no plural in that question. Sometimes, the Smirk did not know his place, behaving as though he was a partner rather than a toady. The boy was as ambitious as he was temperamental. Was there resentment behind his hero worship? Did he call Garscap the Changeling behind his back?
“I’m going to chat with Widan. Wait here.” Garscap strolled midway across the field.
Widan approached him. Lahan Erol accompanied the politician, which was surprising. Widan had never needed anyone’s help to talk before.
The Smirk appeared in the corner of Garscap’s vision. “I thought it best to keep the numbers even,” he explained.
Garscap’s annoyance was tinged with admiration for the youth’s tenacity.
“So, Widan, what have you to say to me?” Garscap asked.
“You were the one who came forward first,” Widan observed.
“That’s because I was eager to hear what you had to say.”
“I have a question for you,” Widan said. “Our village has many family names, but it is really one family. Kinsmen stand on both sides of this field. Would you make brother kill brother?”
“Would you?” Evram retorted.
Garscap waved him silent. Though Widan might have approved, shutting up Evram by punching him in the jaw would have set the wrong tone for the negotiation.
“I’ll tell you what I would have,” Garscap said. “I’d rather have a whole village than half of one.”
For an unbearable eternity, nobody spoke.
“There’s been some unpleasantness, but nobody’s been hurt so far. Except the Scorael boy who was beaten up by your friend,” Widan said, pointing to the Smirk.
“I had nothing to do with that,” Garscap said. The Smirk was so naive. It wasn’t possible to bludgeon the village into submission single-handed.
“Joraem will have to be compensated,” Widan said.
Why was Widan speaking of compensation? What was he up to?
“Our dispute claimed another casualty,” Garscap said. “Donmor lies somewhere on the Pig.”
“His death was due to his father’s foolishness and nobody else’s,” Widan said flatly. “You did your best to recover his body, and for that I am grateful.”
“Joraem will be compensated,” Garscap promised. The Smirk would pay it. The incident had more to do with Evram ridding himself of a rival for the lovely Ashin Carnath than Garscap’s claim to the thorny crown.
“This is yours,” Widan said. “But at a price.”
“And what would that be?” Garscap asked.
Widan took a deep breath. “My son is dead. You never had a father.”
That wasn’t true. Garscap’s father was one of the heroes of Martyrsgrave. He’d died defending his village’s furka against Elfin invaders.
“Your mother...well, we all know what happened to your mother.”
Get to the point, you lump of lard.
“If you permit me to adopt you as my heir, I’ll give you the thorny crown this very day.”
“Shouldn’t that, by right, be your son-in-law?”
Widan cleared his throat as he flicked a glance at Lahan. “That is right. You must marry my daughter, Harath.”
Garscap’s chuckle expanded into a guffaw. He glanced at the others. Evram was red-faced. Lahan hid his discomfort by staring at the ground. So that was why Widan had dragged Lahan along—to show there were no hard feelings. Widan’s audacity was admirable.
Garscap squeezed a smile from his lips and nodded his assent.
Negotiations followed. The dowry had to be agreed upon, Joraem’s compensation settled. Even Grael Erol had to get a little something for his loss. Garscap was generous throughout. It was a small price to pay for his victory.
Slowly, awkwardly, Widan disentangled the thorny crown from his unnaturally red hair. He gently lifted it off his head. Without it, he looked naked, diminished. He held the headdress with both hands, staring at it for the longest time. Garscap resisted the urge to snatch it from him. Widan opened his hands and offered it to Garscap.
Garscap seized it and waved it at both sides of
the field. Whether friends or enemies, they must all recognize him as their ruler. This was his moment of triumph. The outcast had subjugated his oppressors.
Prayers whispered away the oppressive silence. Mam, beside Grael’s straw bed, held his hand—more for her comfort than his, he guessed—while she pressed her infant daughter, Miona, to her bosom. Grael’s other sister, Wanyr, knelt by the fire, her arms raised in earnest supplication.
Mam shushed her. “Did you hear something?”
Softened by distance, it sounded like an animal crying. No, it was someone yelling.
Mam passed Miona to Wanyr. “Wait here till I return.” She unsheathed her knife as she stepped through the door.
Grael tried to follow, but he could not rise from his bed.
A babble of excited voices outside exploded into laughter. Grael couldn’t make out what was being said, but the tone of the conversation was clear. Grael sighed with relief. War had been averted.
One voice silenced the rest. Dad entered the hut. He had an unsettling, somber expression.
“Wanyr, your mother wants you. Take Miona with you.” He sat down by Grael, his gaze fixed on the fire. “The good news is you won’t have to go to Pigsback. Garscap wears the thorny crown. Widan Melkath gave it to him. Things will settle down now. Hopefully.”
“I can’t believe Widan surrendered it.”
“At a price. It is better you find out now from me rather than from someone else later. Widan has given Harath to Garscap. Your engagement is over.”
Grael faced the shadows on the wall to conceal his anguish. As his father tried to soothe him with talk of his own past disappointments that time either healed or proved to be blessings, Grael heaped silent curses on Widan Melkath. The enemy he’d made on Widan’s behalf held his beloved in one hand and the future of his family in the other.
Hackit’s whip was gentler than Widan’s treachery.
PART II
ASCENDANTSUN
9
Matter is part of light, but light transcends matter. The Seven Lights constitute the true fabric of the cosmos, and matter is but the product of their interaction.
A Bright Power Rising Page 13