A Bright Power Rising

by Noel Coughlan

  Grael’s heart soared. What was this power Harath had over him that a hint of her favor was enough to make him forget the wrong that she had done to him? He had sworn off her only moments ago. A grin slipped out despite his best effort to suppress it.

  Memories of how fate had stolen her from him before dampened his elation. “What will become of her?”

  The saint shrugged. “She can’t stay here forever. A home will be provided for her in Pigsknuckle or some other village. There’s no reason other than inclination that prevents her from taking a new husband. Her honor is intact. If she chose to marry again, the monastery would provide a dowry.”

  “Tell her I have no quarrel with her,” Grael said.

  Charlin rose from his seat. “It would be better if you told her. Wait here. I’ll get her.”

  AscendantSun sat on one side of the table, between NeverFear and Sebryn. Garscap sat on the opposite side with his back to the fire.

  “Why did they try to murder DayFlambeau?” AscendantSun demanded, staring hard at the politician.

  “I swear I knew nothing of this,” Garscap insisted. “The culprits will be punished. I promise it.”

  “Evram Erath was one of them,” NeverFear said.

  “What? Are you sure?”

  “His victim recognized him,” AscendantSun said.

  Garscap sighed. He placed an elbow on the table, rested his cheek against his hand, his eyes turning heavenward. “This is in part my fault.” He shook his head. His lips pressed into a narrow line. “I may have mentioned to Evram that DayFlambeau was leaving.”

  He straightened, his eyes round with sudden desperation, his hands spreading into a beseeching gesture. “I never imagined that Evram would do anything like this. He was very upset about Ashin’s death. He was a bit besotted by her, to tell the truth. There was some loose talk of avenging her. I dismissed it as youthful bluster, but I admonished him nonetheless. My scolding cooled his temper, and he forswore all thoughts of revenge. I presumed the matter settled and forgotten. I never imagined he’d dare to break his promise and follow through on his threat.”

  Sebryn’s eyes narrowed. “Well, he did, and two others helped him.”

  Garscap sighed. “I’ve my suspicions as to who they might be. The Carnaths reported Fapath and Ilyam missing. They are the obvious candidates.”

  “Whoever they are, they are dead,” AscendantSun said. “DayFlambeau slew them. Evram escaped, despite being wounded.”

  Garscap rubbed his mouth. “That’s a terrible tragedy. Of course, Fapath is probably to blame for this calamity. Evram might have told Fapath of DayFlambeau’s intention to leave, but I am sure that attacking the Elf was the older man’s plan. As far as I am concerned, DayFlambeau did nothing wrong. He had no choice but to defend himself.”

  “Of course DayFlambeau is innocent,” AscendantSun muttered. “That is self-evident.”

  “Evram must be found and brought here for trial,” Sebryn insisted, stabbing the table with his finger.

  Garscap nodded. “Of course. Do not mistake my sympathy for Evram as endorsement of his wrongdoing. Hate the sin but love the sinner, as you saints like to say. Justice must be done. If the case against him is proved, and it seems certain that it will be, our former friendship will not prevent me from having him stoned for his crime.”

  Sebryn shook his head. “He must be tried, but not by you.”

  “I am his politician,” Garscap said, tapping his chest with a finger. “His trial is my responsibility.”

  “But you are not the Orstretcherists’ leader,” Sebryn said. “They are a village unto themselves, and AscendantSun Auctor is their politician. This monastery claims jurisdiction over any crime one of your people commits against them. Or perhaps you imagine that because the politicians of other villages consider you to be their leader, you have some special authority over this matter.”

  “The word of a saint is law,” Garscap said with a defiant smile.

  “That’s right,” Sebryn said. “A saint’s word is law.”

  The politician and the saint locked stares in a goading silence.

  Garscap trembled beneath the abbot’s glare, but his voice resounded with defiance. “If you have something more to say on the matter, now would be an opportune moment.”

  Sebryn’s gaze dropped to the table.

  “What of the Orstretcherists?” Garscap asked, turning to AscendantSun. “Will you return to Pigsknuckle now that you know the truth?”

  “It must be put to a vote,” AscendantSun said, glancing at NeverFear. “We will tell the other Orstretcherists what you said.”

  “If there’s anything further I can do to reassure them...”

  “You must be famished,” Sebryn said. “You should get something to eat in the refectory. We can continue this discussion later.”

  Garscap’s brows knitted. “I have no appetite. I prefer to continue.”

  “I prefer to pause,” the saint said.

  Garscap stared at AscendantSun with pleading eyes, but AscendantSun fixed his gaze on the table. Garscap’s chair squealed against the stone floor as he rose to his feet. “No need to call a guide. I can find my own way there,” he said.

  Nobody spoke as he strode out of the room.

  AscendantSun was about to speak, but Sebryn silenced him with a wave of his finger and pointed to the door. The politician had left it slightly ajar. The saint shambled over to it, and scanned up and down the corridor outside. He shut the door.

  “I would not have put it past him,” he muttered.

  “Can we trust him?” AscendantSun asked as he watched the saint’s painful progress back to Garscap’s vacated seat.

  “That is a big question,” the saint said as he angled Garscap’s vacated chair to view the fire and sat down. “There is a smaller but more urgent question. On this occasion, is Garscap telling the truth?”

  “Sometimes, we find it hard to read your demeanors,” NeverFear said. “They are more intense than ours. Expressions you might consider subtle strike us as violent. You may think this an advantage, but we find it hard to hear the music from the noise.”

  AscendantSun did not bother to contradict NeverFear’s assertion, though it did not apply to him. Having been immersed longer in the company of Mixies, he was used to their exaggerated miens.

  “And what is your perhaps oversensitive reading of the politician’s demeanor?” Sebryn asked.

  “His shock at the attempted murder of DayFlambeau seemed sincere,” NeverFear said. “His bewilderment at Evram’s complicity also appeared genuine. The whole incident is a deep embarrassment to him. He is eager for us to return to Pigsknuckle.”

  “And he fears you, Worthy Saint,” AscendantSun added.

  “He would be wise to do so,” Sebryn said with a devious chuckle as he turned to one side on his seat and stoked the fire.

  Grael searched for the admiration his brother had spoken of in Harath’s scowl.

  “I will leave you two alone,” Charlin said as he disappeared out the door.

  “What do you want?” Harath demanded.

  Her bluntness tangled Grael’s thoughts. “I...Saint Charlin said...I forgive you. I mean, I bear you no grudge. I hold you in high esteem.”

  “I bear you no ill will either, though I cannot say the same of your brother,” Harath said, glancing at the exit.

  “Saint Charlin respects you,” Grael protested. “He told me so himself.”

  She shook her head. “You misunderstand me. One of us is bait in a trap of your brother’s making. He knows I like you. It’s the custom when a marriage is dissolved in the manner mine was that no unwed man can refuse the spurned woman’s proposal of marriage.”

  Grael’s brows furrowed with disbelief. Such things occurred in old epics, but they didn’t happen now, in this more prosaic age. Of course, the saints were desperate and clever enough to seize upon such an ancient precedent to rid them of Harath.

  She raised an open hand. “Fear not. I’ve no intenti
on to abuse your kindness a second time. I suffered one loveless marriage and have no desire for a second.”

  Though his heart sank at her pronouncement, he mimicked her outrage. “The deceitful monster! No wonder Saint Sebryn chose to confine Charlin to Pigsback.”

  “I am sure Saint Sebryn approved this scheme. The saints are desperate to free their monastery of my presence. Don’t think too badly of your brother. I’m certain he acted with the best of intentions.”

  “I hope I’m not interrupting anything.” It was as if Garscap had appeared from nowhere. The sneer fixed to his lips reminded Grael of a wart. “I came to get something to eat.”

  “Get your food and be gone!” Harath snapped.

  Garscap slipped by them into the kitchen. They were silent as he rummaged inside. “Of course, you could leave and let me eat in peace,” he yelled. “This is, after all, a refectory, not a place for idle gossip...or courting.”

  Harath seized Grael by the shoulder before he could bolt into the kitchen. “Ignore him,” she murmured. “He’s trying to provoke us.”

  Surprise at the calmness of her voice tempered his anger. Harath’s heroic composure was admirable. Here she was, in friendless exile, despised by her own kin, barely tolerated by the saints, her fate bent and twisted by others’ political expediency, and yet she maintained an ethereal tranquility against the taunts of her cruelest tormentor.

  Garscap emerged from the kitchen. The wooden tray in his hands held a bowl of soup, a mug of beer, and a loaf of bread. He sat down at one of the tables, drew his dagger, and began cutting chunks off the loaf, dipping them in the soup before he ate them.

  “I’m starving,” he said as he stuffed bread into his mouth. He slurped the beer and swallowed, his eyes fixed on the couple. “I hope you’ll be happy together.”

  “That’s none of your business!” Charlin bawled as he strode into the refectory from the hallway.

  “Saint, do you ever stop meddling?” Garscap asked, grimacing into an unpersuasive smile. His hands curled into fists.

  “Get out!” The ferocity in the saint’s voice made Grael shiver.

  “I’m not finished eating,” the politician said with low menace.

  “Yes, you are,” Saint Charlin said. “Get out.”

  Garscap rose to his feet very slowly. He picked up his knife from the table.

  “Apologies to you all,” he said as he slipped it into its scabbard. “I’m not myself today.” He bowed extravagantly to Harath and Grael, and gave Charlin a nod as he passed him.

  “I have never witnessed Garscap in such brutal temper,” Harath said when he was gone. “He was determined to pick a fight, with no care for the consequences. He’s normally so poised, even at his most villainous.”

  “He’s learning that even he’s no match for even the humblest of saints,” Charlin said as he strolled over to their table. “Which is me.”

  “Brother,” Grael said, “Harath informs me the humblest of saints has been plotting my marriage.”

  Charlin raised an eyebrow. “Brother indeed. You never refer to me so casually outside family. I am a humble saint and know nothing of romance, but it is plain even to me that Harath loves you.”

  Feverish with embarrassment, Harath seized his sleeve. “Cease your nonsense. I can speak for myself. Grael, don’t listen to your brother. He’s plainly not in his right mind.”

  Smiling, Charlin gently pulled free of her grasp. “And I know you love her. Lahan told me that the night you learned she was betrothed to Garscap. You...well...you were very upset. You two could find no better match than each other.”

  “You risk bringing the Changeling’s wrath down on your brother with this nonsense,” Harath warned.

  “The damage is already done, if there is any,” Charlin said. “I suspect Garscap is too preoccupied with other matters to take any interest in either of you. Now I must leave you two alone. Saints have no business meddling in affairs of the heart.”

  He strode toward the exit, leaving Harath and Grael crimson and dumbstruck. He paused in the doorway. “Don’t descend the mountain alone with Garscap. Just in case.”

  Charlin’s high spirits did not survive the abbot’s somber mood. The old man sat by the fire, collapsed inward like a derelict ruin. His every breath rattled like his last. Never before had Charlin seen him so haggard and weary. The younger saint tried to lighten the gloom by recounting his altercation with Garscap.

  “Do you think your brother will relieve us of our stray?” the old man asked.

  “I believe so,” Charlin said, sitting down on the seat at the opposite side of the fireplace.

  Sebryn rubbed his lower lip as he studied the fire. “It would be something, at least, to be rid of her. She makes the monastery itch with the threat of licentiousness. Even the Orstretcherists fear her, though they are immune to the temptations of the flesh.”

  “The girl is innocent. It was her chastity that brought her here.”

  Sebryn glared at Charlin. “Did I say otherwise? Saint Odran and his followers built this place to hide away from the corruptions of the world, but their hearts carried their vices here. They couldn’t escape their nature, and nor can we. We are weak-willed men, easily led astray.”

  Charlin’s face warmed as he remembered his recent indiscretions. He smiled. “Come. Enough of this despondency. What ails you? Have you slipped into your dotage and imagine yourself a beau for our misfortunate damsel?”

  Sebryn’s hearty laugh was a tonic. “You cheeky rapscallion, my dusty old heart is well past such giddy passions. My funk stems from another source. I couldn’t pick apart the edifice you built. The politician retains his precious immunity to challenge.”

  “What devious ploy did he use to secure it?”

  Sebryn shook his head. “None. I chose not to remove it. He sat across from me, fragile and trembling as a newborn kid, and I let the moment slip.” He stabbed the fire with a metal rod, and threw three chunks of wood on it. “When a saint delivers an edict, he speaks for the Forelight, not for himself. For one saint to undo the word of another is to invite doubt into all the hearts it touches. If I stripped Garscap and the other politicians of your blessing, my pronouncement would shake the mountains. There is no telling the consequences, the number of faithful hearts it might poison with doubt.”

  Charlin winced. His hubris had created this mess.

  “To deprive Garscap of your blessing is to sentence him to death,” Sebryn said softly. “Malcontents would have torn the thorny crown from his head already, but for your protection. I suspect Garscap, believing his position unassailable, has exploited that luxury to the full to shed not just his marriage to Harath but other inconvenient alliances, also. The number and vehemence of his enemies in Pigsknuckle is far greater now than when he first became politician. He is as likely to be murdered as overthrown. I don’t want his death weighing on my conscience.”

  “You hate him,” Charlin said. He was not in the mood for euphemism.

  Sebryn rubbed his forehead. “That makes sentencing him to death all the harder. Besides, obnoxious he may be, and a ruthless schemer, but he has not murdered anyone.”

  “Are you sure?” Charlin wasn’t.

  “I believe he spoke the truth when he claimed he knew nothing of the plot to murder DayFlambeau. Even he is not so brazen as to come here and tell a lie.”

  “Are you sure?” Charlin repeated.

  “His shock at learning of DayFlambeau’s ambush was genuine. I’m certain of it.”

  Charlin fingered his halo and sighed. “So, yet again, despite all our vaunted power, we fear to act.”

  “Impatience brought us to this impasse in the first place,” Saint Sebryn chided. “In your urgency to tease apart the knot, you risk snapping the yarn.”

  Charlin made no rejoinder. The truth was undeniable.

  “Your chance will come to undo the harm you caused,” Saint Sebryn said. “You have to be patient.”

  “And what of his request for a s
aint to replace me in Pigsknuckle?” Charlin asked.

  “Tomorrow is Saint Odran’s feast day.” Sebryn said, leaning back in his chair. “Garscap can wait till the day after tomorrow for his saint. The politician’s heart will learn to love us more by our absence.”

  Charlin smiled and nodded, though the petulance at the root of the abbot’s decision troubled him. Once again, the all-powerful saints reduced themselves to children. Instead of striking at the wolf at their door, they played games with it. Nothing good would come of it.

  They left Pigsback the next morning. Garscap kept his back to his companions as they descended the mountain. If only he could forget them. Harath walked beside Grael. AscendantSun kept a few steps ahead of them. The saints were certainly behind his offer to accompany the Pigsknucklers back to their village. His presence was an implied insult. Garscap would never resort to arranging an accident on the Pig for the lovers. He was more subtle than that. And more patient.

  In a sense, it was gratifying that the saints continued to underestimate his cunning. Enamored with their own lofty intellect, they failed to appreciate his more worldly genius. Their blindness was to his benefit. As long as they regarded him as a fool, albeit a dangerous one, they remained susceptible to delicate manipulation.

  He smiled at the certain horror and outrage of Grael’s parents when they learned that their son was engaged to Garscap’s former wife. Any slim chance of reconciliation between Grael and his parents would be gone. Insinuations of barrenness and unconventional living—most of them spread by Garscap—wafted about the annulment of her marriage like a bad smell. Disowned by her father, her dowry was whatever charitable donation the monastery chose to bestow. Grael’s parents would regard a vagrant as a better wife for their son than Widan’s wayward daughter. And the mother, Myryr, would never forgive her saintly son for arranging the match. She would no longer speak of Charlin with such conceited reverence. His name would be a curse on her lips.