Light in the Darkness

by CJ Brightley

  He stood, suddenly energized, and stumped off briskly. His head came up scarcely past my elbow, and Hakan looked very tall and almost regal next to him. The people of the mountains live a hard life of much work and meager food, and it shows in their stature.

  Hakan stared about the town curiously as we followed the man to the small boarding house, where he introduced us to Birt Rawlin, a roundfaced man with a well-used dish towel over one shoulder. Rawlin rang the small bell hanging in the courtyard of the boarding house and we waited while the people gathered. I wondered what Hakan thought of the people, the town. I’d never been to Miafal, but it was familiar enough. The northern mountain towns follow a similar pattern for the most part. A small boarding house with a bell serves as a little town hall, where the people decide on town matters when necessary. The houses are very small, generally with only two rooms, sometimes only one. They have low wooden or slate roofs, depending on what is available in the area.

  The people keep sheep and goats, chickens, and sometimes swine. Sometimes they breed horses for the suvari. There are small vegetable gardens behind each house. Sometimes there are fields of grain, winter wheat, barley, rye, spelt, and teff, depending on the soil and the terrain.

  It wasn’t long before a small crowd of a few dozen people was gathered to stare at me cautiously. Hakan was mostly ignored, but he didn’t seem to mind.

  The man seemed a bit at a loss as to what he should say, though he was the one who’d gathered the crowd together.

  Priven spoke up. “These men are going to hunt for us. We need to share the meat. Maybe someone can go and tell the Caslins and the Pestars and, well. Hm. They’ll need to stay here with Rawlin. So you’ll need to give a bit to Rawlin for putting them up.” Everyone stared at us, not knowing exactly what to do, and I waited while he searched for more words.

  Finally I lost patience and spoke myself. I tried to sound authoritative and reassuring. “I want to know which families lost a man in the raid.” They would be in the most desperate need. “Also the families that lost property and livestock. We can’t stay long but we’ll do what we can while we’re here.”

  The people shuffled their feet uncomfortably, and I wondered if any of them could read and write.

  “My friend Naoki here will record the losses if Rawlin will give us a little parchment and a quill.”

  Rawlin nodded when I glanced at him and we slowly followed him inside. Hakan sat behind a table and recorded the names and losses of each family. Some knew others not present, and we recorded their names though we could not tell what they had lost. It seemed to take hours, but finally the crowd trailed away, leaving us with Rawlin.

  I asked if any suvari had come, but he shook his head. “We haven’t seen soldiers here in months.” His eyes flicked to my sword and then away, and he muttered something about getting us food before hurrying out.

  Hakan put down the pen with a sigh, staring at the parchment.

  I wondered how foolish it was to try to help. Would it make a difference? Rawlin set plates of food before us as we sat in silence and then retired to the kitchen for his own meal.

  Hakan pushed the parchment away and dug into the food, not speaking for several minutes. Finally, he looked up at me. “What are we going to do?”

  “I’ll hunt. Venison now will save their grain for later, or they can dry the meat.”

  It wouldn’t be that much help, for there are only so many deer a man can find, even here in the hills. Often the farmers aren’t particularly good hunters, despite the forests surrounding the little towns, for they have to spend all their time making the poor soil yield its scant harvest. Perhaps the hunting would be easy then.

  I’d give them the rest of my money if I thought it would help, but I had so little it would do them no good. I couldn’t ask Hakan to give his, for who could tell what he might need it for later?

  What had I been thinking, to bring him here? I had no plan, only a vague idea that he would somehow earn the respect of the people and thus be able to take back his throne. Somehow. Now it seemed sheer idiocy.

  I pulled the knife from my boot and spun it on the table. I like the even sound of the hilt rocking on the wood when it spins. The light from open window reflected on the blade. It helps me think, to see the smooth even metal surface. A knife, the surface of the blade, the sound, they’re all predictable. They follow patterns. Unlike people.

  Vidar would surely have a firm grasp on power. It was nearly the end of Kyntaa; he’d had two months already.

  I flicked the knife again, watching it spin rapidly, slowing gently, gradually, the blade pointing at me when it finally rocked to a halt. I wondered whether that meant anything. I’m not especially superstitious, though some soldiers are. Brushes with death do make one think. I spun it again, and this time the blade pointed off to the far wall. I supposed that the blade pointing at my chest was no more significant than that.

  How could Hakan earn the trust of the people? And what difference would it make if he did? One little village on a distant border would mean almost nothing.

  The knife blade winked as it spun again. Did it really matter if the prince regained his throne? Was Vidar that bad? I liked Hakan well enough, but Vidar had credibility for good reason. No man desires power for purely altruistic reasons, even Hakan, as much as I might like him.

  Nekane Vidar. The name is in Kumar. Nekane means sorrows or sorrowful. Vidar means end. How was one meant to interpret that? End of Sorrows, or Sorrowful End? Sorrowful end of him or of Hakan? Or me? Though I’m not afraid of death, I wouldn’t rush it before its time.

  What was Taisto’s place in this tangle? Ryuu Taisto. Ryuu meaning Great, taken from the same root as the beginning of Yuudai’s name. Taisto meaning Battle. Great Battle. Great in the sense of noble? Great as in victorious? Or Great in the sense of bloody and vicious, causing much sorrow and loss? Or perhaps I was too limited in my thinking, limited by my warrior training. Maybe his name meant a Great Battle of morality, of right and wrong, of public opinion, of trust and betrayal.

  For the more I thought, the more convinced I was that Taisto’s was the hand behind the attempt on Hakan’s life. Vidar was hungry for power, but if it came to bloodshed, he was more likely to thrust the knife in your chest and to look you in the eyes as he did it, not send assassins in the night.

  “Aren’t you going to eat?”

  I looked up see Hakan staring at me over his empty plate.

  “Aye.” I shoved the knife back in my boot and ate, still thinking.

  “Where will we go next?”

  “North. You should see the border towns.”

  He nodded, accepting that as if I knew what I was doing. I wondered if he would accept my leadership so easily if he knew I couldn’t read the words he’d written on the parchment. I don’t often think of myself as inadequate, but I suddenly felt all too aware of my many failures.

  What business did I have trying to play kingmaker? I can’t even read, and no amount of effort on the part of the teachers had been able to overcome my problem. The letters would not resolve into words as they did for other students, even those I knew had not the slightest grasp of tactics or strategy or anything else that came so easily to me. Even a child, an average child of no special intelligence, could puzzle out the words and their meanings with a bit of instruction, but I could not.

  Yet did I have the right to forsake the idea of Hakan’s kingship? It was his throne, not mine, to give up. He had received the training for it, and Vidar had not. I wondered whether any of that training was actually useful. A king must make many decisions, and education can only prepare a boy so much to become a man and a king. But surely his training would be of some use as king, if only he could gain his throne. How would that compare to Vidar’s experience as a soldier?

  I glanced up at him and was startled to see him staring at me. “What?”

  He shrugged. “What are you thinking about so hard?”

  I stared at my plate. What could I s
ay? Finally I stood.

  “You might as well rest tonight. I’m going hunting.” I felt his eyes on me as I pulled my crossbow out of my pack. I needed to be outside.

  We stayed for only a week. I went hunting before dawn and at dusk every night. During the day, Hakan and I helped the men repair fences and with other work. He didn’t know how to do any of it, but when asked he just shrugged and said he’d never learned. He was willing to work though. The second night I smiled to see that the palms of his hands were covered in blisters from hammering all day. He groaned when he got up the next morning, and said his arms were terribly sore.

  “You’d best not complain too much. They’ll ask questions.”

  I wondered whether he’d be able to keep his complaints quiet, but I didn’t hear anything worrying from the townspeople.

  Mirson decided not to rebuild his home yet and instead the men built an extra room onto his mother’s house, so he could sleep there and she could keep his two living children while he worked his little plot of land. Hakan and I helped with that too. I enjoyed the work, though I wished it wasn’t necessary. Mirson himself was not there often, and I heard his crops had been some of the ones that suffered the most damage. He was trying to salvage what he could, and when he tried to help with the construction, his friends told him not to worry. They’d do everything they could to help him.

  I saw him a few times. I couldn’t bear the look on his face of absolute loss, grief beyond all comprehension. A wife, clearly beloved, and their infant daughter, were both gone. I wondered what I would do, if I’d suffered such loss. Would I have the courage to continue living alone? A father doesn’t have the right to desert his two remaining children, nor to place the burden of their care upon his own dying mother. But I ached for him, though I never knew how to show it.

  Once I saw him with his two little boys. They didn’t understand, of course, and seemed as carefree as they would have the week before, when their world was simple and whole. No doubt they cried at night for her, but when I saw them they seemed happy.

  Mirson showed me courage of a different sort than I’d ever seen before, though he didn’t know it. The younger boy, only three years old, ran to meet him from the door of Mirson’s mother’s house, tripping over his own feet and falling flat on his face in the dust, pushing himself up to run to greet his father with dirt sticking to his cheeks and lips. Mirson grabbed the boy about his middle and threw him wildly into the air, catching him with a laughing smile to hold him close. The little boy had been on the verge of tears, but at this, he burst into laughter and wrapped his arms about his father’s neck in childish faith.

  In Erdem, warriors like me often believe we have a monopoly on courage. We face death with firm jaws and stout hearts, unafraid of pain. We train through agony and exhaustion, we march through snow and driving rain when necessary. We serve Erdem with our bodies and our hearts, strong and proud. There is a long history of great deeds, of heroism, of honor and courage that demands the same from each warrior down to the youngest volunteer and even the foundling children in training.

  Mirson showed me another kind of courage, a courage most warriors would never have to exercise. His was the courage of love, smiling through heart-breaking pain for the sake of another. Many of us would never have the chance to forge such close ties, find a wife and have children, but any man can identify raw pain when he sees it. Mirson humbled me, though I hadn’t known that I needed it.

  We were on our way out of town when Hakan stopped me. “I want to do more for them.”

  I waited.

  “I have money. It isn’t much, but it might help the families buy food this winter. But I’d like your help in distributing it.”

  I nodded. “Aye then. How will you do it?”

  He turned and began to walk back toward the center of town. “I suppose an equal amount for each family, with a bit extra for those that lost a husband and father. And for Mirson. I imagine a wife performs vital tasks as well. But not all the families are in town. Who should distribute the money for those families?”

  I thought for a moment before I spoke. “If it were me, I’d give the money for each family to Rawlin, and let three more men know he received it all. Rawlin seems a good man, and three others should keep him straight if he isn’t.”

  I was surprised when we actually reached the inn again. Hakan pulled out his bag of money and gave Rawlin nearly all of it, along with detailed instructions about how much each family was to receive. I hadn’t expected him to give so much; it was probably more than the town had seen all year. In any case it widened Rawlin’s eyes. He took it with a bit of trepidation, and I saw no greed in him, though he was more awed by the amount than Hakan had apparently expected.

  Hakan spoke to three more men as we again left town, explaining what he’d done and how much each family should receive. The men looked at him strangely, for of course it was unheard of for a commoner to have such a great amount of money. But they didn’t question him, accepting the instructions with a grateful nod. In a city, I wouldn’t have expected such a plan to work, but in the small towns, everyone knows each other. They wouldn’t hide the money, for half the families were connected by blood, and all relied on each other for help in farming every year. It would do them no good to try to cheat each other.

  Finally we were on the road north again. I was proud of Hakan, for I think he was changed by that week in Miafal just as I was by watching Mirson. Or perhaps I had underestimated him before. In either case, I was pleased to see this unselfish compassion in him. A compassionate king cares for his people in a special way. Though they did not know him as the prince, much less the king, the people would be well-served by a king who cared for their needs. Though his ability to help them was yet limited, it gave me confidence that he would consider his people’s needs when he finally ruled. He would be unlikely to seek out foolish wars, or to exact harsh taxes for little reason.

  A king’s pride is a good thing, for it helps him ensure his nation’s power and prestige in the world. It gives the nation pride. It may help keep the nation safe in peace with its neighbors, less likely to be pushed to war because of its very strength. Other nations will fear it with a healthy fear, for its strength ensures that it may defend itself, while a sober and rational ruler will not provoke other nations to war against his people.

  Many kings are proud, but a king should not veer from proud into prideful. A prideful king may become foolishly arrogant, not taking adequate care for his people. Pride should be tempered with compassion for the people. I’d seen plenty of pride in Hakan already. It cheered me to see this compassionate side of him as well.

  9

  We made good time on the road north, though I wondered why I was hurrying us so. Hayato knew to expect us in Senlik in a month or two in case there was news. Hakan was helpful with the work of finding wood each day to cook with and gathering food. He didn’t grumble at the tasks anymore, which made my days much more pleasant.

  We traveled each morning and generally used the afternoons for his training in swordplay and barehanded fighting. The weather was warming with the spring, but we moved higher into the mountains and the greater elevation ensured that the nights were still quite cool.

  I love the mountains, the clean bright air that stings your lungs with its purity, the scent of pine and rich dirt. Rotting leaves and pine needles make a thick carpet that softens footsteps. The snow on the Sefu Mountains has a purple and blue cast in the early morning light, almost silhouetted if you look directly east. It brightens to an impossibly beautiful white in the noonday sun and catches the orange and red hues of the sunset each evening.

  When I was discharged from the kedani, I went to the base of the mountains to recover in the serenity of absolute solitude. I grieved for Yuudai there, a few leagues lower down the hills and west of where we walked, and I grieved for my former life. It had been good, though harsh, and I didn’t quite know what to do with myself in the odd freedom of civilian life. It was
nearly a year before I spoke to anyone, for I lived alone in the woods, and when I finally did return to society I worked off and on as a mercenary.

  It was different from formal service, but not bad in the way that some nations view mercenaries. Because of the many retirements in the past decade, mercenaries were well respected, for they performed a vital service. We were paid a bit more than active duty soldiers because the work wasn’t steady. Most have army experience and are likeable enough, old soldiers, a few are knaves more or less but most are honorable and good men. Once a soldier, always a soldier. Mercenaries were often used for escort duty, light patrols, sometimes even border security.

  I could have taught with my experience, but I didn’t want to live in Stonehaven or any of the cities with major training schools. I didn’t want to be surrounded by people, and I suppose it pained me to no longer feel a part of that camaraderie. Instead, I wandered around the country, feeling a bit aimless but not sure whether I really minded it.

  When I did take a job, I sang with the others, for we knew many of the same marching songs from the kedani. I’d practiced my Dari on the most recent job; one of the other men wanted to learn it, more for the sake of curiosity than anything else. I probably wasn’t much help to him, since I’ve spent all my life around Common-speaking Tuyets, and only learned bits and pieces of Dari by chance. His accent was better than mine, though I knew more words.

  Every afternoon I drilled Hakan hard, and he toughened somewhat under my training. He didn’t complain as much. His footwork improved, and certainly his blocking and parrying improved. They weren’t good, but they were better. Again and again I made him attack me. He wasn’t good at seeing openings in my defenses, and when he saw them, he hesitated. He did better with empty hand fighting, though he’d started it later. I wouldn’t have bet on him in a fight, but he did improve.