Grael found Harath weeping over the broken furka. He approached her cautiously, afraid that she might not appreciate his intrusion on her grief. As soon as she became aware of his presence, she stopped crying.
“What do you want?” she demanded as she wiped the back of her wrist across her eyes.
He took a deep breath. “I heard what happened. I came to see if I could help.”
“My husband has cast me aside. My father has disowned me. Every door in the village is closed to me. How do you think you can help?”
“My door is not closed.”
She snorted. “What door have you? You’ve no home, other than the Mangals’ floor.”
“That’s right,” he muttered. “You’re not the only outcast in the village.”
She stared down at the broken stone. “At least you have hope,” she said as she drew her hands down her face and behind her neck. “In time, you may earn your parents’ forgiveness. I, alas, cannot.”
The shiver of despair in her voice brought a twinge of panic. It was too reminiscent of Ashin Carnath and her dark fate. Last year, Grael would have happily offered to take Harath away from the village and build a new life together elsewhere. But with the Fair Folk threatening Pigsknuckle, he could not leave. He had to stay here to protect his family. Anyway, she was unlikely to accept such an offer from him.
“You can’t give up.”
Her laugh was mirthless and bitter. “I’m going to Pigsback.”
The suggestion that a woman might visit Saint Odran’s monastery would have been preposterous to some, but this age of miracles and woes had inured Grael to such novelties. He had no hesitation. “I will go with you.”
Her hand touched the hilt of her dagger. “I will go alone.”
“You’ve never climbed the Pig. I can guide you.”
“As you guided my brother?” Her retort was another punch in the gut. “Sorry,” she said. “That was unfair. I know you nearly died up there, too. It’s been a hard day.”
“The climb up the Pig is dangerous for even those familiar with the route,” Grael said, staying calm. “Are you sure you won’t let me accompany you? Let me find Saint Charlin. I am sure he would be glad to be your guide.”
“I would prefer your company to his,” Harath said. “He brought the harlot from Ogresquern that the Changeling intends to marry. The saint’s presence would remind me of her.”
“My brother is decent and honorable,” Grael said.
Harath turned her gaze toward the Pig. “When will we start out?”
“In the morning. It’s too late in the day to reach Pigsback by nightfall.”
“Where will I go till then? Wander the forest?”
“I know a hunter’s lodge where you can stay.”
They barely talked as he led her through the maze of twisted paths crisscrossing the forest. Grael attempted to strike up a conversation a few times, but his questions drew terse responses, and his comments were answered with silence. In the end, he stopped trying. Sometimes, he heard her sobbing just behind him, but he thought it best to feign ignorance. Harath’s pride would brook no consolation.
The hut was farther than Grael remembered, and he struggled to find it. Preoccupied by her own troubles, Harath was oblivious to his difficulty. The sight of the bark shack was a relief. He peered into the darkness within. Its black bark skin was speckled with stars of daylight. The shack was empty, except for some cold ash in the little hearth.
“You should be safe here,” he said, stepping out of her way so that she could have a look. “Hopefully, I’ll be back before nightfall.”
She peered inside, her face full of apprehension. “Hopefully? You’re going to leave me alone in this wilderness with nothing more than a knife to defend myself?”
“I must get some provisions for the journey. I’ll leave you my spear.”
She folded her arms. “Be gone then. I hope you don’t regret your decision.”
“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” Grael promised. He propped the spear by the entrance. As he walked away the urge to repeatedly peek over his shoulder at her was irresistible.
She appeared oblivious to his glances as she stooped to pick up fuel for a fire. His last glimpse of Harath before the forest blocked his view was of her standing outside the lodge, cradling a pile of sticks, watching him go.
After borrowing some spare clothes and food from the Mangals, he hurried back to the shack, spurred by the fear he might lose Harath as he had lost her brother.
Her smile as she greeted him was surprising.
“You seem brighter,” he observed.
“No point on dwelling on the past,” she said, her mood turning somber again.
This emotional turmoil continued throughout the evening. She was smiling one moment and dour the next. He tried to keep her talking for his sake as well as hers. It was difficult to keep the conversation from steering back to the cause of her despondency. Innocuous topics led invariably back to her family. Sobbing and laughing, she recounted her brother’s childhood adventures or some story about her mother as if she was impelled to pick at her pain.
“Donmor and my mother are dead,” Harath said. “And as far as my father is concerned, I may as well be. We are dead to each other.”
Each time she lapsed into tearful melancholy, Grael patiently waited for her to reclaim her composure. He was at a loss about what else he could do. They talked late into the night. She clung to the conversation, as if afraid to be alone with her thoughts.
Eventually, weariness overcame Grael, and he bid her goodnight. He lay down on one side of the fire and she on the other. He closed his eyes but was too tired to sleep. She sobbed for a while, then fell silent. Her snore was a surprise and a relief, the gentle purr a welcome intrusion of domesticity in a day heavy with drama.
Panic that Harath was gone jolted Grael awake. It was still night. The fire had died down. She lay on the far side of the hearth, her sheathed dagger held to her bosom. Her eyes were open. She was watching him. He lay down again and waited for the dawn to release him from this sleepless night.
Grael wasn’t fooled by the blithe sunshine that greeted them as they set out for Pigsback early the next morning. Though the snows had retreated somewhat in the preceding weeks, the weather on the Pig was as changeable as Harath’s mood. He was unsurprised when the day turned somber and a fog closed in around them.
“We’ll be all right as long as we stick to the path and follow the furkas,” Grael said, pointing to the shallow scar winding up the slope. Of course, it was not so simple. The trail branched in a multiplicity of useless directions. Some sections blended so well into the landscape that they could be easily missed. Explaining this to Harath was pointless. It would only worry her needlessly.
She resisted his attempts to hold her hand, but the memory of her brother made him persevere till she acquiesced. He let go when they reached the furka near where he and Donmor had become separated. He joined Harath in a prayer for her brother’s soul, and then gripped her hand anew, tighter than before.
“I do not blame you for my brother’s death,” Harath said, squeezing his hand. “The mountain took him, and you can’t fight a mountain. If the fault lies with anyone, it’s my father. He sent you both on that ill-fated journey. Thank you for showing me this place. It’s probably the only grave Donmor shall ever know.”
They wandered through the mountain’s frosty breath for what seemed an eternity till a forbidding curtain of rock blocked their way. Grael assured a daunted Harath they did not have to scale the impossible obstacle. He gave no indication they had gone astray in the mist as he led her along the barrier to the Crooked Stair. Grael scrambled up the higher steps first, and then, after advising Harath where to place her feet, hoisted her up the cracked faces by the hand. It was good that the Crooked Stair was clear of snow. Precipices loomed over the passage on the right, while on the left side, a murderous plunge awaited the unwary.
Beyond the Crooked Stair was a ser
ies of steepish inclines punctuated by sections of more gentle terrain. The sporadic tatters of snow littering the stony mountainside increased in size and frequency, till they merged to form a featureless white mantle.
This, combined with the fog, plunged the travelers into a blankness as blinding as the darkest night. Grael encouraged Harath to join him in prayer. His spear led the way, probing the snowy mantle for hidden dangers. Satisfied, he waded forward and gently pulled Harath along behind him. Progress was slow. Their only firm reference point was each other. Even their tracks seemed to bleach into the white monotony.
Luckily, Harath did not fully appreciate the precariousness of their circumstance. Their lives depended on Grael’s sense of direction—a fragile talent. His only consolation was that Pigsback was not far.
When they emerged without warning from their blurry shroud, Grael greeted the brilliant sunshine with a triumphant cheer. A furka emerged from the mist as if conjured by their prayers. He pointed out the monastery of Saint Odran perched some distance ahead, a squat, granite bastion across a sweep of glittering white.
“I thought it was on the summit,” Harath said.
Grael chuckled at her disappointment. “Be glad it is not.”
“Grael Erol, you are a good and kind man,” Harath said, twisting her hand free of his grasp. “Forgive me.”
“There’s nothing to forgive,” he said.
She hurried toward the monastery. He followed in puzzlement.
The outer door of the Needle’s Eye was shut. Harath and Grael battered it with their fists till it creaked open and a saint’s head peeped out. His eyes bulged at sight of Harath, and he withdrew, slamming the door shut again. Harath redoubled her pounding.
“I never experienced such blatant inhospitality at the monastery before,” Grael said.
“You never brought a woman with you.”
The door opened to reveal several saints crammed into the Needle’s Eye. Saint Sebryn wormed his way through them. Never before had Grael seen the frail old man so angry.
“You should be ashamed, bringing this woman to this hallowed place,” the saint said. “Go back to Pigsknuckle and no longer desecrate this mountain with her presence.”
“But it is too late to return this evening,” Grael said. “We’d die, descending in the dark.”
“You should have thought of that before you committed this sacrilege.”
“The fault is not his,” Harath said. “It’s mine. I took advantage of his generous nature.”
“I’m sure you did,” Sebryn said.
“I’m Widan Melkath’s daughter. And Garscap Torp’s wife till Saint Charlin annulled my marriage.”
“I’m sure he had good reason to do so,” the abbot said.
“I suppose he had good reason to have all the furkas around Pigsknuckle destroyed.”
Sebryn’s gape was at once comical and disconcerting.
Harath ignored Grael’s whispered pleas to say no more. “He also blessed the Changeling as the Politician of Pigsknuckle, making his reign unchallengeable.”
“This cannot be,” Sebryn said.
“But it is. He has done the same to the politicians of other villages, and he has aided the Changeling to become their leader. Garscap’s influence extends across the Stretches. Saint Charlin nullified my marriage so the Changeling could strengthen his alliance with the Politician of Ogresquern by marrying his sister.”
“These allegations are preposterous,” Saint Sebryn declared. “Grael Erol, is there any truth to them?”
Grael wanted to deny it, but he could not lie to a saint. He nodded. “It’s all true.”
Sebryn’s head dropped, accentuating his hunch, diminishing his stature, as if the old man had crumbled. “Is this why you came here? To spread malicious gossip?” His accusation was without fire.
“I came here because I’ve nowhere else to go,” Harath said.
“I’ll not say you are welcome. You aren’t. But charity must be shown to the least of the faithful. You can stay, for the moment.”
They shuffled through the Needle’s Eye and entered the reception hall, where a saint conversed with an Elf.
“TrueFriend Peritus, perhaps you might attend to our female guest, as Saint Sebryn says you are immune to lustful desire.”
“Keep her away from me,” TrueFriend said, averting his face from her sight.
Saint Sebryn rested his hand on Grael’s shoulder and murmured. “Tomorrow, when you return to Pigsknuckle, find your brother and tell him I want to see him.”
IronWill Defensor hunched over his desk and studied the map of the Stretches. With every passing day, his cartographer filled in the blank void at its heart with mountains, and valleys, and lakes, and rivers, and villages. Soon, the entire range would be mapped, and the purging of the Stretches could begin in earnest.
Yet, he might not get the chance to lead it. The arrival of the Harbinger’s envoy had put him on edge. Several of the more hawkish officers had petitioned the Consensus to have him removed on account of what they perceived as his excessive caution in combat. In less strained times, these pleas would be ignored, but with the Harbinger in charge, anything might happen. Perhaps this new arrival was to be his replacement.
Someone knocked on the door. He rolled up the map, revealing the neat piles of parchments beneath it. He grabbed the topmost document from a pile of reports and spread it on the desk. “Come in,” he said.
IronWill saw the armor first. The stranger wore a golden cuirass embossed with a spread two-thumbed hand. On his golden helmet, auric fingers and thumbs radiated through the orange hair on his transverse crest in the manner of a senior officer. His arm-shields were shaped like golden wings. His greaves bore the same motif. Finely meshed, golden mail covered his forearms and thighs. It was the panoply of a member of the Harbinger’s new order of sentinels. Its wearer was a Pugnus. The helmet bore only the number five. His name was missing. Wearing that armor, he had little need for one.
IronWill saluted the sentinel. “Welcome to Fort Lumen. I hope you find the hospitality of the Third Reconstituted to your liking.”
“Yes. Thank you, Legate,” Sentinel Five said. “The Harbinger of the Dawn asked me to convey his congratulations for your victory and his thanks for all your hard work in building this fort.”
IronWill braced for bad news. The sentinel’s tone was too amicable, too full of false politeness.
“The Harbinger has charged me with a special mission,” Sentinel Five said. “He has come into possession of information regarding the location of AscendantSun Auctor and the other Orstretcherists. I am to take charge of two of your centuries and eradicate this menace at last.”
IronWill’s surge of relief dissipated. “Are two centuries sufficient? I can spare another if you wish.”
“The Harbinger believes so,” Sentinel Five said. “The Orstretcherists number about four dozen. Two centuries will outnumber them six to one.”
You know all about killing Ors, IronWill thought. You slew enough of them already to get that precious armor. “But the Orstretcherists must have allies. What about them?”
“We are to exterminate them as well if they get in our way. You have already illustrated that the denizens of these mountains are no match for legionaries,” the Pugnus said.
“No doubt two centuries are enough to secure victory, but casualties on our side would be minimized if you took three.”
“The concern for your legionaries is admirable, but we have our orders. Our duty is to obey them.”
Duty demanded that IronWill agree, though his heart urged otherwise. “Very well. I will make the necessary arrangements. I will instruct my tribune, SunTalon Risus, to accompany you. Have you no qualms about hunting AscendantSun Auctor? Your lineage and his share a history.”
The sentinel snorted. “We are over a millennium old. All Ors share a history. In any case, the cutting away of a diseased limb is an act of healing. The Lineage of Auctor will be all the better for his pas
sing.”
Sentinel Five gave the legate a farewell salute. As he exited, he paused at the door. “Remember this, Legate. We are the myrmidons of the Golden Light. We all must be as prepared to die as kill in his name. Death is but a joyful return to his sacred flame.”
“And to become a sentinel, you have already sent eleven Ors back to him,” IronWill retorted. “Or two short of two dozen, if you include those whom the first Pugnus dispatched to earn his armor.” His regret of his outburst was immediate.
The sentinel indulged IronWill’s pique with a smile. “Very soon I will add four dozen to that tally. When the Golden Light receives their corrupted essence, I wonder what he will do with it?”
20
He ached to glimpse beyond the glass
At her, not her reflection,
Though his love forbade such trespass
Lest that glance bring ruination.
FROM ALACKALAS AND THE FAIR PRINCESS.
A hand shook AscendantSun awake. He rubbed his eyes and yawned. “What time is it?”
“Just after dawn,” NeverFear said. “DayFlambeau is here. He wants to talk to us.”
“What about?” AscendantSun asked. Surely, whatever it was, it could wait till later.
NeverFear shrugged. “He wouldn’t say.” His eyes shifted to the entrance of the tent. DayFlambeau’s head was sticking through it.
“Come in, DayFlambeau,” AscendantSun said wearily as he sat up. “Tell us your trouble.”
“Thank you,” DayFlambeau said as he entered. “I apologize for your early waking, but this is a matter of some importance.”
The tension in his voice filled AscendantSun with dread. Had DayFlambeau become another victim of girlish fixation?
NeverFear sat beside AscendantSun. They folded their legs to permit their stooped guest to sit down.
The silence stretched as DayFlambeau struggled to find his voice. “I am leaving you,” he said, steadying his quivering breath. “I am going home.”
A Bright Power Rising Page 28