A Bright Power Rising

by Noel Coughlan

  “What does Lormak want with me?” Grael asked.

  Dawan shrugged. “Something too important to tell me, apparently.” He cupped his yawn with one hand. “Where is that saint gone? I’m starving. Forelight!”

  Three Elves flitted by them and out through the Needle’s Eye. The open doors slapped against walls with thunderous bangs, as the howling wind swept into the reception hall, ruffling the fire and tearing at the tapestries.

  The Elves re-entered, slamming the doors shut behind them. They carried batonaxes.

  A fourth Elf entered the hall, waving his arms. Grael recognized the symbol on his forehead. It was NeverFear Cor. “Don’t do this,” he begged. “If it’s AscendantSun—”

  “And if it’s not? What then?” the leader of the armed Elves said. “Ask him nicely to surrender?” It was TrueFriend Peritus.

  “He is AscendantSun,” Grael said.

  The two Elves stared at him.

  The corners of TrueFriend’s mouth hinted at a smile. “You don’t understand...Elfin magic.”

  He and the other Elves dashed down one of the corridors leading from the reception hall. Grael made to follow, but NeverFear waved him back. “Leave this to us. We’ll take care of it.”

  Saint Finshin led AscendantSun through narrow, dank corridors to the chapel. Saint Sebryn stood before the great furka on the altar, his back hunched by the weight of his age, his shriveled hands clinging to the supports that helped him to maintain a prayerful pose for extended periods.

  AscendantSun and his guide waited patiently for the abbot to finish his prayers. After some time, Saint Finshin coughed. As if jolted from a beautiful dream, Sebryn dropped his arms and turned a vexed countenance toward the source of the unwelcome intrusion. His ire melted when his gaze rested on AscendantSun. The old man pottered over to him and shook both of his hands.

  AscendantSun found it hard sometimes to accept this wizened little man as the vigorous youth whom he had met a lifetime ago. It was as if Saint Sebryn and Sebryn Costan were separate people, one forever young in AscendantSun’s memory and the other growing more frail with each meeting.

  Sebryn dismissed Saint Finshin and invited AscendantSun to sit with him in one of the pews.

  “You have been missed,” the abbot said. “What have you been doing?”

  Before AscendantSun could answer, three curly-haired Ors burst into the chapel, batonaxes at the ready: TrueFriend Peritus, PureFaith Nitor, and StrongArm Servitor. Unarmed, NeverFear Cor followed behind them, his face taut with apprehension.

  AscendantSun stood and stretched as batonaxes encircled him.

  “My friends, please,” Sebryn exclaimed, rising stiffly to his feet. “There’s no need for hostility.”

  “Forgive us, but this stranger might not be whom he claims,” TrueFriend said.

  PureFaith studied AscendantSun’s forehead. “What are those faint smudges on his name tattoo?” he asked nervously.

  AscendantSun had forgotten about the temporary alterations made to his tattoo in Tincranny. It was surprising that traces of the paint were still visible.

  “The password we agreed was Broadwall,” he said.

  NeverFear exhaled and confirmed with a nod that the password was correct.

  “You could have said that in the first place,” TrueFriend quipped as he lowered his weapons.

  Laughter dispelled the tension as NeverFear and his companions greeted AscendantSun.

  “We were beginning to think you would never come,” NeverFear said. “Whatever have you been doing?”

  “I will explain later,” AscendantSun promised, hoping to stave off detailed interrogation for the moment. It was great to be surrounded by his friends again, to be in the company of Ors.

  Sebryn did not succumb to the general camaraderie. “Where did these weapons come from?”

  “I am sorry, my friend, but we must be careful,” NeverFear said. “The Consensus might have sent an impostor to infiltrate us, or worse.”

  The old man’s face reddened. “You have not answered me. You bear weapons in this sacred place. This is sacrilege.”

  “The Harbinger’s servants would not respect the monastery’s sanctity,” TrueFriend observed. “Which is the greater sacrilege? That the faithful carry batonaxes or that innocent blood is spilled?”

  “And did you agree to this?” Sebryn asked NeverFear.

  “I carry no weapon.”

  “You let others bear them for you.”

  “You are being hard on NeverFear,” TrueFriend said. “He tried to dissuade us.”

  “Their impulses were generous,” NeverFear said. “They acted out of concern for your safety.”

  “Their impulses may have been generous, but they were wrong. Not since Saint Odran laid the foundation stone of this monastery have weapons violated its sanctity. If you must vet new arrivals, do it outside. There’s a whole world for war beyond these walls, but this is a holy place. To disturb it with even the threat of hostility is an affront to the Forelight. Get out of my sight. I wish to converse with AscendantSun in private.”

  AscendantSun stifled a laugh as beings who remembered the birth of the cosmos were hustled from the chapel by a frail sexagenarian over a millennium their junior.

  NeverFear tried to resist, but in the end Sebryn drove him out with the others.

  “Interesting crowd you sent me,” Sebryn commented as he plopped down on a pew. “They’re different from what I imagined.”

  AscendantSun sat beside him. “Why? What did you expect?”

  “More like you. They are a bit of a mishmash. Even the best of them, like NeverFear, lack your refined sensibilities. They worship the Forelight with a whole heart but not with a whole head, or vice versa. Others, like TrueFriend, are chronically confused about the tenets of the faith they espouse. I am at a loss why some came here. Their motivations are opaque, even to themselves.”

  “My friend, none of them chose exile on a whim. They are all committed believers in the Forelight. Remember what I was like when we first met. Those refined sensibilities that you admire took many years to mature. And it is not as though you and I have all the answers.”

  “Indeed. So much about your people remains perplexing,” Sebryn admitted. “Over the years, we have had many debates about their place in creation. They have been entertaining, sometimes infuriating, occasionally revealing, but never conclusive. The answer to each riddle is another riddle. I fear one day we will come full circle and find ourselves back where we began, none the wiser.”

  “I doubt that. As I seem to remember, you were hanging upside down at our first meeting.”

  “Sometimes, I feel that I am still inverted, metaphorically. I’m beginning to wonder if we hold enough shards of the truth to piece it together. My peoples’ tales sometimes speak of your kind, but most of what they tell is either untrue or too shallow to enlighten. The fragments of our holy book, the blessed Godward handed down by Saint Odran and his predecessors, do not mention your kind at all. They speak of angels and devils, but your resemblance to either immortal species is superficial. Our third source, your memory, is the best, and at the same time, the worst.”

  “For my race, history and memory are indivisible.”

  “But even your recall of the distant past may be imperfect. I’m but a fraction of your age, and my memory sometimes deludes me.”

  Unlike poor Sebryn, Ors were immune to the depredation of age, and the passage of time did not tarnish their recollection. AscendantSun declined to share these self-evident truths with his friend so as not to remind the saint of his increasing decrepitude.

  “Then there is your Golden Light,” Sebryn continued. “He informed your perception of your primordial experience, and he is an unreliable authority. Much of what he told you must be fabrication or at least a distortion of the truth.” He paused. “You are uncomfortable.”

  “You speak as if Aurelian was a voice whispering lies in my ear,” AscendantSun said. “He was a physical presence, flesh a
nd flame. When I close my eyes and think of him, his image still blazes in the darkness as if singed onto my eyelids. My skin burns as if I once more stood before him. An audience with Aurelian in his martial aspect was akin to stepping into a furnace. We referred to it as the Divine Calefaction. Common wisdom held that his flame would incinerate anyone who dared to touch it. In that endless day, that eternal noon, when I served the Golden Light, my heart burned, too, with love for him. Even now, when the memories stir, it sometimes smolders.”

  AscendantSun looked to Sebryn for reassurance. In all their diverse theological discussions, he had never before admitted this to the saint.

  Sebryn sighed. “If you still feel so strongly for your former god, why then do you choose to disdain him?”

  “Because he is dead. He failed us. He promised victory but brought defeat and slavery. He professed love for us while butchering us for sport.” Anger built in AscendantSun as he spoke. The old bitterness was always there, ready to reignite.

  He smiled to reassure Sebryn. “Do not mistake nostalgia for remorse. I do not regret my conversion to your religion. I have never seen the Forelight, but I know his worshipers. I first encountered your people on Gules. They served the Blue and White Lights as I served Aurelian, but the Stretchers never loved their masters. Because of this, my people condemned them, like all other Mixies, as faithless and duplicitous. We did not understand that Stretchers served a greater power than the squabbling tyrants we considered gods. The Stretchers’ faith endured all the marvels and horrors whirling around them during the Light War. It survived slavery and exile on Elysion.”

  He glanced at the golden furka, encrusted with precious gems, sparkling in the candlelight. “Of course, my people could make similar claims, but in one sense, the Stretchers’ achievement is the more admirable. Ors’ recollection of Aurelian remains vivid, whereas your people’s faith must transcend the churning of the generations and the death of memory. Even Saint Odran never beheld the deity whom he spent a lifetime serving.”

  Saint Sebryn smiled. “You always did say our faith’s endurance played a significant part in your conversion.”

  “It was an important reason, though not the sole one,” AscendantSun continued. “I cannot imagine Aurelian encouraging his myrmidons to love others as they love themselves or offering salvation to all races. That the saints entertained my conversion was, in itself, inspiring.”

  “You gave me a bit of a scare there,” Sebryn admitted. “Your conversion is very important to me. It is the reason I became a saint. I thought that if an Elf could become a Stretcher, even I might be worthy of sainthood. I wouldn’t want to think your faith was waning. It is a little late for me to start over at my age.”

  AscendantSun concealed bitter thoughts behind his smile. He tried not to dwell on what the saint’s reaction might be if he learned the true reason for his tardy arrival at Pigsback. NoName’s dismal fate made every word spoken to Sebryn hollow. While AscendantSun was trading philosophical niceties, NoName was closing on his quarry.

  “You look exhausted,” Sebryn observed. “Even I can see it.”

  AscendantSun’s tiredness was not merely physical. It was mental, spiritual. “I feel fine.”

  Sebryn was unconvinced. “I will have you escorted to the Elves’ dormitory. We can talk more tomorrow, when you are rested. We haven’t scratched the surface of your adventures.” He hobbled over to the door, and holding it a little ajar, bellowed hoarsely for Saint Finshin to return, but it was NeverFear who popped his head inside.

  “Come in, come in,” Sebryn said wearily. “Have you been waiting out there all this time?”

  NeverFear nodded. “I suggested to Saint Finshin that there was no point in two of us waiting in the hall, so he went to tend AscendantSun’s guides.”

  “That was very good of you,” Sebryn said. “I’m sorry about my earlier behavior. I was a bit harsh. Anger got the better of me.”

  “I should have stopped TrueFriend and the others.”

  “You tried.”

  “I should have done more than try. The Orstretcherists chose me as their acting leader. I should have taken charge. That is what leaders are supposed to do.” He glanced at AscendantSun. “At least I am relieved of that burden now that our true leader has been restored to us.”

  AscendantSun protested. He cajoled. He begged. In the end, he acquiesced. If NeverFear was so determined to give the leadership of the Orstretcherists to him, why deny himself that honor? He accepted with the proviso that the other Orstretcherists endorsed the change.

  “Of course they will agree,” NeverFear assured him. “We have missed you. Since we departed Tincranny, your fate has been a persistent topic of discussion. Now, at last, that mystery can be solved.”

  “I was chatting with the Politician of Pigsknuckle,” AscendantSun said, hoping to change the subject. “He asks for our aid against the Harbinger’s invasion of the mountains.”

  NeverFear frowned. “He is a tricky character, not to be trusted. Is that not true, Saint Sebryn?”

  “He has a reputation for underhandedness,” Saint Sebryn said. “Not undeserved.”

  “So we are not going to help our friends in Pigsknuckle?” AscendantSun asked.

  NeverFear’s brows lowered. “Our efforts to help are unceasing. The Pigsknucklers would have starved this winter but for the meat we put in their pots. We are willing to help in any peaceful way we can. But we did not come here to kill, to murder. We may be pariahs estranged from the rest of our kind, but the Ors in those legions are still our lineagemen and friends. For all I know, my own twin could be serving as a legionary. Do you think I could turn my batonaxes against him?”

  “He would turn his batonaxes on you,” AscendantSun said. “Make no mistake about it.”

  “There are better ways to help,” NeverFear insisted.

  Was NeverFear already ruing his hasty promise to relinquish the Orstretcherists’ leadership? The direction that AscendantSun favored was obviously not to his liking. It wouldn’t be surprising if NeverFear found some pretext to rescind his offer. “What do you think, Saint Sebryn?”

  “Saints do not dabble in politics,” the saint said. Concern was carved into his face. He was about to add something else, but for whatever reason, would not bring himself to say it.

  AscendantSun smoothed away the sharpness in his voice. “I am only the messenger.”

  NeverFear’s mood lightened. “I know. I know. We can discuss this further tomorrow.”

  “You have taken no vow of pacifism?” AscendantSun asked.

  “I considered it,” NeverFear said. “But no. None of us have. This matter is not for you or me to decide, here and now. The entire group should make the decision after a proper debate tomorrow. We should be off to our dormitory. We have disturbed the abbot’s prayers enough, and the others will be sore with me for not bringing you to them sooner.”

  “Could I have another few moments of privacy with our friend?” Sebryn asked NeverFear.

  NeverFear nodded. He closed the door as he stepped outside.

  “Politics is not the concern of saints,” Sebryn said. “But there is something you should know about Garscap Torp. He is an orphan of Martyrsgrave, or as you know it, Tincranny. He is the same child whom you rescued from wolves. His mother believed him to be a changeling. She went mad and killed herself. Pigsknuckle, infected by her fear, refused to take him in, and the monastery was forced to receive him. He has no reason to love you or your kind.”

  “Then I have wronged him twice,” AscendantSun said. “My blind hate took his father from him, and then my botched act of generosity robbed him of a mother.”

  “I meant this to be a warning,” Sebryn said. “It was not my intention to inspire a deeper sympathy for a man who has every reason to be your enemy. As for your sins, the Forelight has already forgiven them through baptism.”

  Not all of them. Not DawnGlow’s death. Not the sins of his twin that he abetted. Not the hypocrisy of his every word s
ince he’d arrived in Pigsback. He was about to ask for absolution, when Sebryn drew their conversation to a close by inviting NeverFear to return. It was just as well. AscendantSun was not finished with sin yet.

  He and NeverFear bid Sebryn farewell and headed toward the Ors’ dormitory.

  “What was that about?” NeverFear asked him.

  “The sins of the past,” AscendantSun said.

  “You are not hobbling anymore,” NeverFear observed.

  AscendantSun heaped mute curses on his stupidity. He had forgotten about his antecedent’s limp. “My leg healed. The limp comes back sometimes when I am tired.”

  NeverFear’s eyes glimmered with suspicion, but he said nothing.

  The Orstretcherists swarmed around AscendantSun as he entered the dormitory. In place of cropped or straightened hair, every head bore riotous curls, a subtle acknowledgment, perhaps, of the group’s outcast status. Their tunics were civilian colors—mostly yellows and greens. He struggled to read the names tattooed on the joyous faces whirling around him; to disentangle the clamor of well-wishes and questions crashing against his ears and shake the anonymous hands competing to seize his.

  It was difficult not to feel like a fraud in the midst of the frenzied welcoming. They were greeting their friend, not a stranger with the same name. Such melancholic notions were dangerous. He was every bit his forbear. They were the same person. He would be foolish to think otherwise.

  As salutations waned, the interrogation began.

  He claimed he had traveled to Sunthorn to seek allies against the Harbinger, but the effort proved fruitless. He found much sympathy but little willingness to act. He was trapped in Sunrest until recently, when his accomplices there judged it safe to smuggle him out. Promises to protect their anonymity forbade him to reveal more detail. His audience was oblivious to his deceit, but with every lie, the gulf separating AscendantSun from his comrades yawned a little wider.

  He shared what hearsay he had gleaned from DawnGlow without divulging its source.

  “So, what news of DawnGlow Fulgur?” TrueFriend asked. “You have not mentioned him.”