Saint Charlin looked askance at the politician. “You want the Orstretcherists to train Pigsknuckle’s rivals? It’s very generous of you.”
“Old rivalries must be set aside if we’re to defeat the invaders. Risks have to be taken if we’re to survive. I need your help to reach out to Ogresquern, Cronesglen, and the others.”
Saint Charlin shrugged. “It should be no problem. You do not need my help to visit them. Unlike Pigsknuckle, their furkas still stand. I’m sure if you explain your proposition to their politicians, they would see the benefit of it.”
“It’s not so simple,” Garscap said. “Why should they trust me? Why should they trust the Orstretcherists who are kinsmen of their enemies? My rival politicians would be a lot easier to convince with your help—”
“Saints do not dabble in politics,” Saint Charlin insisted.
“—and a lot less likely to take liberties with my generosity.”
Saint Charlin frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Well, they could use the offer as an opportunity to attack the Orstretcherists or Pigsknuckle.”
A disbelieving smile spread across Saint Charlin’s face. “They would not dare.”
“They might. Without your direction, they might.” His foot struck a stray fragment of the furka, but, fortunately, Saint Charlin was too lost in thought to have noticed.
“I will contemplate on what you have said,” Charlin said finally.
“There’s something else you should consider. If my own people learn what I am proposing, they’ll drive me from the village. Only your advocacy can protect me.”
Charlin looked uncertain. “You raised a similar concern when the refugees from Cliffringden arrived in the village. I will seek the abbot’s advice on the matter.”
“Whatever you feel is appropriate,” Garscap said, meeting the saint’s glance.
Charlin’s gaze drifted to the broken stones at Garscap’s feet. “I don’t have to answer to the likes of you for my actions,” he growled.
“Of course you don’t,” Garscap said. He was careful to maintain a reverential demeanor. “I’m surprised you feel the need to climb the Pig to ascertain Saint Sebryn’s attitude to my proposal. Do you believe there is even the slightest chance he would be favorable? He distrusts all politicians. He hates me. Yes, he despises me. Don’t pretend otherwise. You already know he’d be against my plan if he knew of it. You must decide for yourself if you’ll help me. Just as you made up your own mind about this furka. Saint Sebryn would have forbidden its destruction had he known. You knew that, but you went ahead anyway because you understood it was the right thing to do. I recall at the time you said you preferred Saint Sebryn’s disapproval on your conscience to the wailing of widows and orphans.”
“Clever words,” Saint Charlin chided. “Clever words.”
Garscap let the breeze whisper his response. A clever silence followed the clever words.
“I will consider what you said,” Charlin said.
“That is all I ask,” Garscap replied.
Gules washed the night in bloody light, as the conspirators gathered in Horgal’s field. Most of them were hooded, their faces lost in shadow. Grael counted somewhere between three and four dozen. It was a disappointing turnout. Lormak had promised more.
“The rest will do their bit when Garscap is gone,” Lormak assured him. “How many men are needed to deal with just one man?”
“And what about the Eraths, Carnaths, and other families who support him?”
“By the morning, he’ll be gone, and there’ll be nothing they can do. They’ll see sense. Most of them just wanted to be rid of Widan. They have no particular love of the Changeling. They can’t go against the will of the entire village.”
“I doubt that’s true of Evram.”
“Evram can go chasing after Garscap for all anyone cares.”
A few of the others chuckled grimly.
Lormak demanded everyone’s attention. “This is the plan. Garscap will be in his hut on the outskirts of the village. About a dozen of us will rush inside, while the rest of you stand guard outside. We tie his hands behind his back, gag him, and take his thorny crown. Then we take him to Saint Charlin’s house. We tell Saint Charlin that Garscap isn’t wanted in the village anymore. Either he takes Garscap away, or we’ll have to kill him.”
“I’m killing nobody!” someone in the crowd cried.
“We’re not going to kill him,” Lormak insisted. “It’s just a threat. The saint will accept our word on the matter and just take him away.”
“But isn’t that a lie?” an uncertain voice asked.
“No no no,” Lormak said. “It’s not lying. It’s the custom in circumstances like this.”
“What about Harath?” Grael asked. He had to make sure of her safety, whatever else happened.
“What about her?” Lormak replied. “She probably won’t be there. She sleeps in the great hall with the Cliffringdeners most nights, so I hear.”
“Grael makes a point, though,” a hoarse voice said. “If we drive the husband out of the village, is it right to leave the wife?”
A few hoods nodded.
“Can’t get between a man and his wife,” someone said, raising a few chuckles.
“The father-in-law should go with them,” someone else chirped, eliciting louder guffaws.
“Harath is not going anywhere,” Grael insisted. “Our quarrel is with Garscap.”
Lormak gave Grael a nervous glance. “Grael is right. We’re not here to threaten women, are we? We’ll get rid of her husband first. If she wants to go after him, that’s her business. Anyway, back to the plan. After Charlin has taken Garscap away”—Lormak rested a hand on Grael’s shoulder—“and this man here is wearing the thorny crown, we’ll pay neighborly visits to the Eraths, Carnaths, and so on to let them know we have a new politician. Any questions? No? Let’s go.”
Lormak, Grael, and Dawan led the way. The rest trailed behind, a long, slithering shadow.
“At long last, we’ll be rid of the Changeling,” someone murmured. “And his Elfin friends will follow him. We’ll drive them out, too.”
Lormak’s whisper tickled Grael’s ear. “Don’t mind loose talk like that. When you wear the thorny crown, you’ll make the decisions.”
Would he? It was hard to believe it. How long would it be before some of these men were plotting against him?
The only sound they made as they approached Garscap’s house was the swish of their feet through the grass. The crowd coiled around the hut. Lormak thrust a rope into Grael’s hands.
“Are you all ready?” Lormak whispered. He pulled back the flap over the door and dashed inside. Grael followed. He caught a glimpse of a shocked Garscap sitting up in his bed before one of the other conspirators jostled him out of the way. The rope was snatched from his hands. From behind a wall of backs came sounds of a struggle.
“Get off me, you…” Something choked off Garscap’s voice.
Grael shoved his way through the crowd. Garscap squirmed on the floor, prostrate, trussed up and gagged. Four men pressed down on his legs. He raised his head to direct a malevolent stare at his captors.
A wide-eyed Lormak picked up the thorny crown from its resting place by Garscap’s bed. As he passed it to Grael, he almost dropped it. Lormak cleared his throat. “If you give us no trouble, Garscap, then you have no need to fear us. We’ll escort you to Saint Charlin. He’ll remove you from this village, and you can go somewhere that wants you.”
Garscap shivered. The sound that he made was like a sob. Surely, he was not about to cry.
The gag could not prevent Gascarp’s snicker from filling the hut, chilling Grael to the bone. A boot kicked Garscap in the side to shut him up, but it only served to redouble his laughter. It continued all the way to the saint’s home.
Lormak knocked on the door of the stone building. It swung open.
Charlin stood in the doorway, frowning. “Who dares disturb a saint’s rest with su
ch raucous merriment in the middle of the night?” Anger turned to shock when he saw the gag in Garscap’s mouth. And then to understanding and horror.
“You have to release him,” he said. His voice was soft, even apologetic.
“You don’t understand—” Lormak began.
“You don’t understand. His thorny crown is protected by saintly blessing. No man in the village may raise a hand against him. You must set him free.”
Laughter shook Garscap to his knees. A few plotters turned and ran. Then the rest followed their example, stampeding into the night, leaving only Lormak, Grael, and Dawan staring at one another, aghast.
Lormak drew his knife. He walked behind Garscap. He looked at the saint with pleading eyes.
Charlin averted his gaze. “You have to free him.”
Anger trembled through Grael. “I have never before heard the like of this blessing. Who gave Garscap this blessing?” he demanded.
Charlin bowed his head and massaged his forehead with one hand. “I did.”
Grael managed to wring out a few words through his choking outrage. “Why? Forelight, why?”
The saint sighed. “He convinced me that it was necessary for the common good.”
Lormak’s knife was right behind Garscap’s back. One quick thrust, and the Changeling would cease to be a threat. But the wielder of the blade would earn eternal damnation.
Snip.
With his freed hands, Garscap pulled the gag from his mouth. His grin brimming with malevolence, he stood up, strode over to Grael, and snatched the thorny crown from his hands.
“Thanks for minding it,” he said. “Now, what am I to do with you three?”
“I was the instigator of this plot,” Lormak said, his voice trembling. “The blame for it should be mine alone.”
Still smiling, Garscap glanced slyly at Charlin. “But Grael was the one who would wear the thorny crown. This is a strange twist of fate. When Saint Charlin gave me his blessing, only this evening, he could not have realized his own brother would lead the plot against me this very night.”
“Whatever you are going to do, do it,” Lormak snapped.
“Dawan, go home to your mother,” Garscap said.
Dawan did not move, just stared at his father.
“Go!” Garscap cried. “Get out of my sight before I change my mind.”
Dawan ran.
“Wise man, wiser than the father,” Garscap said. “Keep running. By rights, I could put you both to death and cast your families out of the village. Is that not so, saint?”
“It is.” Charlin’s words were barely a murmur.
“As a personal favor to Saint Charlin, I am going to put down Grael’s involvement to youthful folly. Grael, the rest of your fortune”—Garscap smirked—“is mine now. Think of it as a fine. Now, go home to your parents before I change my mind.”
“Thank you,” Charlin whispered
“What about Lormak?” Grael asked.
“You won’t be seeing him again. What did he say to me again? He can find somewhere else that wants him. Now, get out of here, before I regret my generosity.”
As Grael fled into the night, he glanced back at Charlin’s house. Lormak was kneeling on the ground, and Garscap was tying his hands behind his back with the same rope that had once bound the politician.
“Grael, here,” someone whispered. “Over here.”
Grael followed the voice to Dawan, who was lurking behind a clump of bushes. The tears streaming down his cheeks briefly shone red in the moonlight, before he buried his face in his hands and sobbed. Grael threw his arms around him.
“At least, his fate is exile,” Grael said. “He’s not dead.”
“I can’t go home to Mother and tell her,” Dawan said. “She knew nothing about this. How can I tell her that he’s gone forever? How can I tell my brothers and sisters?” He growled as he pushed free of Grael’s hug and punched the air. “Damn the Changeling and damn the saint who saved him! I’m sorry, Grael. I didn’t mean what I said about your brother. It was grief speaking.”
It was hard to watch his friend so distraught. But for Charlin, Grael might have also been cast out of the village, and his family might have suffered this same agony.
Dawan wiped his eyes. “Will you come back to my home? I don’t want to go back there alone.”
“I will, but I’ll not stay long,” Grael said. “I must tell my father what has happened.”
They walked back to the cabin in silence.
“I’ll wait here,” Grael said as they reached the door. He could go no farther.
“You’re family,” Dawan said. “Come in.”
“No,” Grael said firmly. “I can’t.”
Dawan nodded. “Wait here then.” He opened the door and stepped inside the cabin. The door slammed shut. Grael sat on the little wooden doorstep, and cradling his head in his hands, he prayed. “Forelight, forgive me. I beg you, return Lormak to his family and spare them this grief.”
A woman’s raised voice came from inside the cabin, and then a pained wail. Other voices rose up and joined its keening. Morning stirred in the east before this lamentation halted. The door opened, and Dawan peered out.
“Grael, sorry. I forgot you were out here,” he said. “You must be freezing, sitting there. Come inside”
“If you insist,” Grael said with some reluctance. The cold had been preferable to being in the midst of their grief. He stiffly rose and entered the cabin.
Smiles greeted him, but they were forced, even desperate. Eyes, hollow with sorrow and exhaustion, watched him.
Dawan’s mother fussed over him as an honored guest, embarrassing him with offers of food and drink. He was an impostor here. He had to get away, but he did not want to offend them by spurning their hospitality.
“I must go,” Dawan said. “I must find out what exactly they are going to do to him.”
“I must go, too,” Grael said, seizing his opportunity. “I must tell my father what has happened.”
Relief at escaping the Mangals’ cabin quickly dissipated. Grael’s apprehension grew with every step that brought him nearer his home. His father’s reaction, on learning of the plot and Grael’s part in it, was not going to be pleasant.
When he reached his father’s house, the door was shut. Grael shied from entering. He knocked respectfully.
The door opened, and Grael’s father filled the entrance. He regarded Grael with flinty eyes and crossed his arms. His face burned with indignation. Anger sweated from every pore.
“You have to leave,” he said. “Right now.” The callousness of his visage denied any possibility for appeal.
“So you know,” Grael said, swallowing.
The redness of his father’s face deepened. “The Changeling already called around to gloat.”
“I was a fool,” Grael pleaded.
“You were warned,” his father said. “But you wouldn’t listen. You put your family’s lives at risk for some stupid bit of cloth.”
Grael had not done it for the thorny crown. He did it to protect Harath, but it was pointless to explain. His father would never understand.
“I cannot risk keeping you under this roof any longer,” Lahan said, his voice thickening with emotion. “You are going to have to make your own way in the world.” He wiped his hand across his eyes before he slammed the door shut.
Garscap let Evram push the bound Lormak ahead of them with a spear. They were a good distance outside Pigsknuckle. The Witchmilk roared beside them. The river’s foaming waters, splashing against its rocky banks, sprayed them with gentle mists.
“Here’s where the journey ends.” Garscap drew his knife.
Lormak stared into the frothing waters before him. “I knew you had no intention of letting me go.”
Garscap laughed. “But you kept quiet for the sake of your family. How noble.”
Evram’s smirk faltered. He licked his lips. “Did you not promise Saint Charlin to free him?”
“I promise
d to escort him from the village. I never promised to release him.” He began to strip off his clothes. “I can’t have him wandering from village to village gossiping about me, telling everyone what a monster I am.”
“What in the Forelight’s name are you doing?” Evram asked.
“He doesn’t want to get my blood on his clothes,” Lormak muttered.
Garscap sat up on a rock. “Let this be your last lesson in this life, Lormak. It’s something I learned long ago. If you knock a man down, make damn sure he never gets up. Lormak, turn around. Evram, if you please.” He waved toward Lormak.
“What?” Evram cried.
Garscap shrugged. “You are the one with the spear. Kill him.”
“Don’t do it, son!” Lormak cried. He was still facing Evram. “For the love of the Forelight, don’t listen to him.”
Evram glanced back and forth between Lormak and Garscap. His spear shook. He looked more scared than Lormak.
Garscap sighed. “All this talk of killing this one and killing that one. I knew it was no more than talk.”
Evram grunted as he lunged. Lormak roared and crumpled as the spear tore through his belly. Garscap hopped off his perch as Evram pushed Lormak toward the water.
“Wait!” Garscap cried. He raced over and grabbed Lormak’s head by the hair. He stared into Lormak’s eyes. “I want you to know your sacrifice is a waste of time. When I get the chance, I am going to kill your son, and Grael Erol, and the rest of those stupid bastards who followed you.”
Bloody spittle spattered upon his face. Garscap twisted Lormak’s head to expose his neck. The knife jerked as it sawed through sinew and bone.
The bloody deed finished, Garscap sliced the corpse’s bindings. If the body was ever found, it would be better not to give the impression that it was anything other than a fair fight.
“Push him over the edge into the river,” Garscap panted.
Instead, Evram wept.
Thought he was a big man, found out he was a child. Garscap grumbled under his breath, “Oh, in the names of the seven divine Lights.” He wrenched the spear from Evram’s hands and poked the corpse into the Witchmilk.
He threw the spear at Evram’s feet. “Clean it well. There can’t be a hint of blood on it, or you. I’m going to have a wash to clean off this filth.” He fanned his fingers toward his blood-spattered torso. “You did well, Evram,” he lied. At least Evram was blooded now. Hopefully, he would find it easier to kill in the future.
A Bright Power Rising Page 24