A Bright Power Rising

by Noel Coughlan

  It was almost noon when the precipitation eased to a drizzle. A tingle creeping up his spine made him freeze. Was someone stalking him? The forest whispered innocently. The curtain of leaf and shadow draped about him on all sides offered nothing to confirm his suspicion. He walked on.

  A branch snapped.

  DayFlambeau looked behind him, but the source of the noise was lost behind impenetrable foliage. Briers snagged his cloak. He tugged it free and pretended to examine the stitching, listening to the wind playing on the trees. It carried a murmur, too faint to be coherent.

  Again, his eyes scanned the wood with more subtlety than before. A face stared at him from the bushes. The Mixy wore no halo, but DayFlambeau had seen his impressive brow before in Pigsknuckle. The man looked straight at him, his expression as fixed as stone. DayFlambeau continued to look about the forest, partly to convince the Mixy he remained undetected, partly to determine the presence of any accomplices. If they were there, they were better hidden.

  Why was this Mixy spying on him? Curiosity? Perhaps it was that innocent.

  An arrow breezed by DayFlambeau’s head. The archer was somewhere behind him, but DayFlambeau, ripping his batonaxes from their rack, charged at the Mixy in front of him. The Mixy rose to his feet, pulled back his bow, and loosed an arrow. DayFlambeau leapt toward him, his whole body curled behind the embrace of his arm-shields. The arrow scraped against the shields as it sped past.

  DayFlambeau rolled out of the leap and swung his batonaxes wide, tearing through his foe’s body. Pain distracted him from the bloody mess slumping at his feet. An arrow had struck his left shoulder. His left batonaxe slipped from his fingers. He hooked it with the other, and as two other Mixies broke cover, he flung it at the nearest. It smashed into his face, toppling him to the ground. His companion loosed his bow. DayFlambeau roared as the arrow struck his foreleg. He stumbled backward and slammed against a tree trunk, banging his head against its knotty surface.

  The Mixy’s eyes flicked from DayFlambeau to his fallen comrade. “Ilyam, get up!” he hissed, kicking the corpse to no avail. “I guess it’s just you and me,” he said, breaking into a smile, as he slowly reached for his quiver. “I wonder how many arrows it will take to kill you.”

  Evram Erath’s lopsided grin was unmistakable.

  DayFlambeau was dizzy with pain. He could hardly stand, much less close the distance between him and the politician’s toady. Somehow, he had to draw Evram nearer.

  DayFlambeau laughed as Evram began to pull an arrow from its container. “Coward!” DayFlambeau shouted, waving his remaining batonaxe. “Put away that child’s toy and fight me like a man!”

  Evram’s smile faltered. He scowled as he let the arrow slip back into the quiver. He slung the bow over his shoulder, drew an axe from his belt, and walked so very slowly toward DayFlambeau.

  His hand tightened around the shaft of his batonaxe as he waited for the fight of his life.

  A warm tap on his forehead briefly disturbed AscendantSun’s slumber. A second warm drip trickled down his face. He wiped its tickle from his cheek. A hand ripped him from his sleep. It was greased with warm blood. In the dimness of the early dawn, a vision of agony and horror stared into his uncomprehending eyes.

  “We are betrayed,” DayFlambeau growled hoarsely, thrusting a bloody halo into AscendantSun’s hands. It could be white and blue, but it was hard to be sure in the dull light.

  “Help me,” DayFlambeau groaned. He rolled onto his back, revealing the broken arrow shaft jutting from his shoulder.

  “NeverFear, wake up!” AscendantSun cried. “DayFlambeau is injured.”

  They needed to carry him to the campfire to get a better look at his wounds. With NeverFear’s help, AscendantSun slid DayFlambeau onto a blanket. They picked it up by the corners, turning it into a makeshift stretcher.

  Outside, DayFlambeau’s crawl had left a long black slick on the grass. AscendantSun raged. Why had the Orstretcherists on guard duty not spotted DayFlambeau before he reached AscendantSun’s tent? They would regret their laxity.

  “Everyone get up!” AscendantSun roared as he and NeverFear weaved DayFlambeau through the maze of tents to the main campfire. DayFlambeau groaned as he rolled about on the blanket.

  PureFaith Nitor and GoldTear Furcifer were sitting on a log beside it. They stood, their faces stupid with surprise.

  “Wake up the camp!” AscendantSun snapped.

  GoldTear scurried away.

  PureFaith helped AscendantSun and NeverFear to lay DayFlambeau down by the fire.

  While NeverFear set about treating DayFlambeau’s wounds, AscendantSun examined the halo. It was white and blue—Pigsknuckle’s colors. Disgusted, he flung it into the fire.

  “He shouldn’t have had to drag himself to my tent,” AscendantSun said to PureFaith. “You should have found him.”

  PureFaith crossed his arms. “He should have called us.”

  “And what if he had been a spy or assassin?” Or a legion.

  PureFaith pursed his lips as he gazed at the fire. “Sorry. I don’t how we missed him. Everyone is alert and at their posts. The perimeter checks took place at the usual intervals.” PureFaith was not the sort to shy from the truth.

  “If that’s true, we need more perimeter checks, and sentries,” AscendantSun said. He knelt down beside DayFlambeau and asked, “What happened?”

  DayFlambeau recounted how he had been ambushed. “I killed two. The third escaped, though I gave him a nasty slash across his abdomen. He was the politician’s favorite flatterer, the one called Evram Erath. They weren’t wearing their halos, but one of the men I killed had his headdress stuffed into a pouch on his belt.

  “I hobbled most of the way here on a makeshift crutch and splint. When the crutch broke under my weight, I crawled to the camp.”

  “I don’t how you got here with these wounds,” NeverFear said.

  DayFlambeau winced as NeverFear explored his shoulder wound. “Sheer stubbornness,” he said with a wan smile. “And fear for your safety.”

  “Bite on this,” NeverFear said, lifting a stick to DayFlambeau’s mouth.

  DayFlambeau regarded it with disdain. “Will the analgesic you gave me not suffice to protect me from the pain?”

  NeverFear shook his head and shoved the stick into DayFlambeau’s mouth. He glanced at AscendantSun and PureFaith. “You two might hold him down…as a precaution.”

  News of DayFlambeau’s return was rippling through the camp. A crowd of onlookers began to gather in an arc around them.

  DayFlambeau roared and writhed against AscendantSun’s grip as NeverFear withdrew the broken arrow from his shoulder. It seemed to take forever. As NeverFear cauterized the wound, DayFlambeau suddenly went limp. NeverFear touched his neck and lifted his eyelids.

  “I think he has passed out,” he said. “Keep a tight hold of him just in case he comes round while I am working on the arrow in his leg.”

  AscendantSun exhaled a long-held breath when NeverFear had finished. The arrow wounds were not DayFlambeau’s only injuries. The gash in his side needed several stitches. Three fingers on his left hand had been sliced off by an axe blow.

  “Do you think that he will live?” PureFaith asked.

  NeverFear smiled and pressed his hand to his chest. “I may not be an Armipotens, but I don’t usually kill my patients either. DayFlambeau has lost a lot of blood, but he should survive.” He added in a whisper, “Though he requires a division to make a full recovery. Till he does, he’ll be a cripple.”

  AscendantSun rose to his feet and addressed the assembled Orstretcherists. “We must strike camp immediately. PureFaith, can you arrange a litter for DayFlambeau?”

  PureFaith nodded and stood, but he didn’t leave. He just stared at DayFlambeau, mesmerized.

  “Where are we going?” NeverFear asked.

  “Pigsback,” AscendantSun replied. “And we must be well on our way before our allies wake.”

  “Are we not going to ask the politicia
n about this?” PureFaith asked, looking very shaken.

  “We will,” AscendantSun said. “But not until we are safe in the monastery. If it is his intention to do us harm, he will not attack us there.”

  “I thought he could be trusted,” NeverFear said.

  DayFlambeau’s eyes opened. He tried to raise his head but quickly gave up.

  “For all we know, he is no longer the politician, and the villagers’ new leader views us as a menace rather than as an ally,” AscendantSun said.

  NeverFear propped DayFlambeau’s head on his knees.

  “Are you sure we can believe him?” PureFaith asked, pointing to DayFlambeau.

  The latter’s face twisted with derision.

  “Do you think he did this to himself?” AscendantSun asked.

  “I suppose,” PureFaith conceded.

  “Get the litter,” AscendantSun commanded, finally rousing PureFaith into action. “The rest of you get packed. We’re leaving.”

  21

  My princess, freed from her glass cage,

  Is captive of her reflection,

  And I, too, am slave to her image,

  Taunted by its imperfection,

  So I came to this saintly place,

  To seek a cure for our affliction,

  That I might look upon her true face

  Without fear of retribution.

  FROM ALACKALAS AND THE FAIR PRINCESS.

  A persistent rapping pummeled Grael’s head, but he clung to his straw mattress and the illusion of sleep till Dawan’s determined nudges forced him to abandon his pretense.

  “Someone’s outside. Go and see who it is,” Dawan growled.

  With sullen weariness, Grael slipped from under the blanket and shuffled to the door. As he opened it, the morning light flooded inside, stinging his eyes with waspish malevolence. The Politician of Pigsknuckle was only recognizable by his thorny crown. The Garscap standing before him was a stricken creature bled of his usual poise.

  “Any news of your brother?” Garscap asked. He was trembling.

  “I’ve heard nothing of Saint Charlin since he last ascended the Pig,” Grael said. It was better not to mention Harath’s outburst or Sebryn’s summons, though they almost certainly were responsible for Charlin’s delayed return.

  “The Orstretcherists have abandoned us,” the politician said. “They were spotted on the trail to Pigsback. The Stonegardeners are readying to depart. Mogod Kulum maintains there’s no point staying with no instructors. Evram Erath, Fapath Carnath, and his son, Ilyam, are missing. I’ve a bad feeling these disappearances are connected in some way to the Orstretcherists’ flight. I had hoped to ask your brother for his advice on this matter, but he’s gone, too. I’m at a loss as to what to do. While there’s no saint in the village, we’re at the mercy of its furka. If Fair Folk attack us, we’ll have to defend it, and we’ll be massacred like the men of Cliffringden and Martyrsgrave.”

  “Perhaps you should go to Pigsback.”

  “If I do, will you come with me?”

  Grael wanted to refuse. He burned with embarrassment at the thought of another encounter with Harath. She had made a fool of him. While he was fumbling to help her, she was planning her vengeance on his brother. As for Garscap, he was a worse schemer than his former wife. If she was the agent of Charlin’s humiliation in Pigsback, he was the ultimate cause. He had abused the saint’s trust to turn him into an innocent accomplice in his intrigues, and brought Harath’s wrath toppling down on Charlin by implicating him in her ruin. It was a pity Grael and his brother had not heeded their father’s sage counsel to keep clear of village politics.

  “What’s going on?” Dawan asked as he sauntered over. He started when he saw Garscap.

  “I’m going to Pigsback,” Grael said. He would rather climb the Pig alone than travel to Saint Odran’s alongside the man standing before him, but the village’s safety was paramount. He started to gather what he needed for the climb, while Garscap told Dawan about the Orstretcherists’ disappearance.

  “I hope you find them,” Dawan said, his voice taut with suppressed anger. “I ask the Stretchers who come here to train with them if they have met my father.”

  “Have you heard anything?” Garscap asked.

  Dawan snorted. “As if you care. You banished him. Grael, please hurry up, and take this…man from my door.”

  Grael’s low opinion of Garscap had not improved by the time that they reached Pigsback. The politician had drawn his habitual veil of smarm across his earlier jitters and was unrecognizable from the tremulous man who had stood at the Mangals’ door begging for his help.

  They pounded the frost off the door of the Needle’s Eye till it creaked open. Charlin’s eyes rounded when he saw Garscap.

  “Worthy Saint, it is a joy to see you,” Garscap exclaimed.

  “Come in,” the saint said with resignation.

  A group of Orstretcherists were gathered in the reception hall, AscendantSun among them. Their chatter died as they recognized Garscap. The Politician of Pigsknuckle was unfazed by their stares.

  “Murderer,” one of them muttered.

  Garscap’s puzzlement appeared genuine. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean. I’ve always been a friend to Orstretcherists.”

  “Saint Charlin, must your brother always bring trouble to our door?” Sebryn asked as he shuffled through the crowd.

  “Trouble? Your once-beloved ward, Lilak, is home once more,” Garscap said, smiling. “I have such fond memories of this place.”

  “I wish this place had fond memories of you,” Saint Sebryn said. “Only you ever called yourself Lilak. Nobody here ever called you by any name other than your true one, Garscap.”

  “My mother called me Lilak,” Garscap said wistfully. He smiled. “I must admit that I was a difficult child.”

  “I suppose you have come here to find them,” the saint said, waving his hand at the Orstretcherists.

  “I came here to seek an explanation for their disappearance and to make amends if I was in any way the cause.”

  This brought a scornful chorus from the Orstretcherists.

  “Perhaps we might continue this conversation in private,” AscendantSun suggested.

  “AscendantSun and Garscap, please follow me,” Saint Sebryn said. “Saint Charlin, you can stay here and entertain your brother.”

  “NeverFear, you should come, too,” AscendantSun said.

  “You must be hungry,” Charlin said to Grael, his eyes darting about the crowded room. “Let me take you to the refectory.”

  The famished look on Garscap’s face made Grael smile. “Sure,” he said. “I am starving.”

  The warmth of the mutton dumpling soup poured down Grael’s throat and massaged his chest. His fingers cupped the bowl and basked in its heat. “I was worried about you,” he said to Charlin, who sat across from him on the bench.

  “You shouldn’t have. What could happen to me here?”

  “Are you in trouble?”

  Charlin glanced around the empty room. “Not any more. I was in trouble. It was of my own making. But for Saint Sebryn’s intervention, there’s no telling what damage my folly might have caused. I’ll not be returning to Pigsknuckle for some time.”

  “What do I tell our parents?”

  Charlin’s eyebrows lifted. “Tell them my duties confine me to the monastery for the foreseeable future.”

  “Damn the Changeling. This is his fault.”

  Charlin winced. “Refrain from swearing in this sacred place, please.”

  He folded his hands on the table, his thumbs tapping together as he spoke. “This is more my fault than Garscap’s. He cannot rise above his nature, but I am a saint and must. He used me to further his own selfish ends, but he succeeded because of my vanity. My actions were unsaintly, as were my impulses.”

  His hands parted into two imploring gestures. “I presumed to know better than Saint Sebryn and his predecessors. I was contemptuous of their disdain of secular politi
cs. I thought it precious, even hypocritical, in this time of crisis. For the best of intentions, I took upon myself the right to exercise the authority that they feared to use.”

  Both hands dropped to the table. He shook his head sadly. “Vanity, vanity, all was vanity. I lied to myself by specious argument, to Saint Sebryn by omission, and to the saints of other monasteries by both.”

  It did not matter how much Charlin blamed himself. Garscap was the real culprit. He had exploited Charlin’s generous nature to lead him astray.

  Charlin glanced from behind the hand rubbing his forehead. “I feel particular guilt about annulling Garscap’s marriage to Harath Melkath. I observed the word of our laws but not their spirit. I dealt with the matter in indecent haste. The marriage had not been consummated due to willful abstinence on the part of not just Harath but her husband, as well. I should have encouraged them to complete their union, or at least, denied Garscap permission to marry the Kuny girl.”

  Charlin took away his hand and leaned toward Grael. “What do you think of Harath? She thinks very highly of you.”

  “She is as devious as her husband,” Grael muttered.

  Charlin frowned. “If she is, necessity has made her so. Can you condemn her for saving your brother? But for her, my folly would have been my ruin.”

  Grael shook his head. She had abused his trust. He would never make that mistake again.

  “Harath speaks to me of you often,” Charlin said. “She praises you as her savior and considers you to be the noblest soul in Pigsknuckle. Her misuse of your benevolence is her greatest anguish. The thought of your disfavor weighs heavier on her heart than her estrangement from her father or the opprobrium of Pigsknuckle or the quandary of her future.”