Light in the Darkness

by CJ Brightley

  “We will sing the Hero Song for you.”

  More eyes turned toward me, and my answer fell into a suddenly quiet room.

  “You can’t sing the song for me. I’m not,” I lost my breath and had to begin again. “I’m not the one to lead.” Phraa, how hard could it be to see that? I cannot even read, much less navigate the maze of politics with kings and nobles.

  “You can lead us. We would have you as our king.” The voice rang out from the back, and was greeted by lusty cheering.

  “No!” My sudden shout brought dizzying pain and I nearly retched. But they were listening and I forced out the words. “If you would follow me, I will serve at the pleasure of the prince Hakan Ithel.”

  There was a murmur of confusion. “The prince is missing, he’s been gone for months. Vidar rules in Stonehaven.”

  I had their trust, and I would use it. “The prince has been among you. He’s well-educated, well-prepared for his role.” Perhaps I embellished a little, for he wasn’t yet ready. But he would be by the time he attained the throne. A few people looked toward Hakan.

  “Aye, Hakan Ithel. My friend and my prince. Soon to be my king.”

  Drama was needed. They were confused and didn’t quite know what I wanted of them. I stood painfully, rising to my full height before dropping to one knee before Hakan and presenting him with the hilt of my sword.

  “Hakan Ithel, I pledge you my devoted service and my life’s blood for as long as you serve the people of Erdem.” A much simplified version of the warrior’s oath of service, but it would have to do. My vision was blurring and I couldn’t seem to get enough air. I nearly fell as I stood again, using the edge of the table to steady myself. “Who is with me?”

  There was a great rustling as they whispered to each other.

  “Stand, Hakan.”

  He stood, awed and pale, beside me.

  “This is your prince. Surely I’m not the only one willing to swear allegiance to him!” Come, now is the time. Now if ever.

  There was a hesitation, then Feo Priven stepped forward. “I will. If you trust him, I will too.”

  I will forever be thankful that good Feo led the crowd when he knelt. Another man followed him, and another, and in a moment the whole room was on their knees.

  It was a great effort, but I managed to get the words out. “Do you swear allegiance to Hakan Ithel, your devoted service and your life’s blood for as long as he serves the people of Erdem?”

  The answers were a murmured flood. “I do.” “Yes.” “We do.”

  Hakan stared at me in shock as I nearly fell back into my seat. The men stood again, some going out into the street, bobbing their heads in respect as they walked by, some remaining for the warmth and the camaraderie that filled the room. I was well and truly exhausted, nearly blind with pain and dizziness. I tried to catch my breath, coughed, groaned, and coughed again. I vaguely remember Hakan and someone else catching at my shoulders as I slid to my knees on the floor, still coughing.

  There was more blood. One part of my mind noted distantly that it was mostly dark and clotted, a good sign, but the searing pain took most of my attention. I finally choked out the largest clot of blood and gasped for breath, leaning against the leg of the table. Someone gave me a mug of water.

  Hakan and Mullin helped me into the chair again. Once I could breathe, I felt reasonably clear-headed, and in a few minutes could stand with only a bit of help.

  Pain is tiring. I slept deeply that night, though I woke often. My coughing was much better, and near dawn I slept more easily. When I woke, the room was bright and warm. Hakan was sitting near the window working on something at a small table.

  “What are you doing?” My voice came out a croak.

  He spun around and smiled. “Some of the men helped me with the map. Would you like some lunch?”

  “Lunch?” Had I slept that long?

  “Aye, lunch.” He imitated my tone on the word aye and smiled. “Priven sent his oldest son off south to Rysling with word that the village has sworn allegiance to me and asking for their support.” He called down the hallway for my lunch before pulling the stool closer to sit perched looking down at me, sober and very intent. “Why did you do it, Kemen? You could have been king yourself.”

  I wanted to laugh, but it came out sounding rather strangled as pain shot through me. “I am no king, Hakan. That’s your place, not mine.”

  Even if I had accepted the crown, the dynasty of Kemen Sendoa would have lasted for all of one generation. What woman would have me, and without a woman, how would I have an heir? And that beside my many other failures. Hakan had both the right and the better training, not to mention the chance at an heir.

  Besides, if Hakan were alive, it was inherently unstable to have anyone else on the throne. The thought was terrifying.

  What would happen to Hakan? When I died, who would succeed me? Someone would claim the throne and call himself king, with or without the Hero Song. Vidar. Taisto. Itxaro. Hayato. Even Priven. Anyone with the desire for power. There would be war.

  Lira Twilling knocked at the door and entered quietly with a bowl of soup and bread melting into it. “Would you like water or ale? Or both?”

  “Water. Thank you.” I cursed my weak voice.

  She returned in a few moments. Hakan helped me sit up, and I leaned forward a moment, letting my head hang down to steady the dizziness. Suddenly I grasped the thought that had been tugging at my mind for the past two days, fluttering just out of reach in my mental fog.

  “Did you hear what they said before I challenged the leader?”

  He shook his head.

  “They wanted food. And girls. But the food was their first demand, I think the orders they received. What do you know of Rikuto?”

  “Not enough.” He was watching me closely now, and I took several bites as I thought.

  “Girls are a common demand when men are riding about.” Not one I agreed with, but common nonetheless.

  Hakan was already thinking aloud, speaking my thoughts better than I could have expressed them. “Raiding on horseback is hardly an efficient way of providing food for a nation. They must be desperate.”

  I nodded and watched the bread melt into my soup. Breathing was difficult, and I took a sip of water and a few deep breaths to clear my head.

  “Do you think we should parley with them? Crops were good last year, and we can spare some.” He looked across at me seriously.

  “Aye, we should. What will you ask in return?”

  “No more raids of course, all along the border, not just here. I want to get back to the peace we had when my father was young. Our countries were not so opposed then, and I don’t see why they should remain so now.” He stared at the floor thoughtfully.

  I nodded. “Give me two more days and I’ll go.”

  He looked at me as if I had said I would fly across the mountains by flapping my arms. “You’re in no shape to go. I’ll go myself.”

  I shook my head. “No. You’re the prince, soon to be king if all goes well. The king does not go about parleying with leaders of raiding parties.” A deep breath hurt but helped clear the persistent fog about my brain.

  Hakan’s voice was flowing on. “We’ll offer some food in goodwill, and then try to reestablish trade relations. They broke down years ago, but now is a good time to revive them. That was my father’s fault; he demanded unreasonable prices. Rikuto has had several years of bad crops, but I didn’t know it was so desperate yet.”

  He pulled the map from the table and put it in front of my face. “Here, this pass is wide enough for carts, and joins the Lobar Road here. It goes straight to Enkotan, more or less. If we could make contact with Tafari, I think we’d have a good chance.”

  “Tafari. Is that in the High Tongue?”

  “Yes, it means he who inspires awe. A good name for a king, don’t you think?”

  I nodded.

  Names are important. My name, Kemen Sendoa, is a warrior’s name, and I strive t
o live up to it. Kemen means strong, and Sendoa means courage or vigor, both in Kumar, the tongue of warriors. The prince’s name, Hakan Ithel, is a kingly name. Hakan means emperor or king in modern High Tongue, and is a common one in the last bloodline. Ithel means generous lord in archaic High Tongue. His father was Hakan Emyr. Emyr also means king, but in archaic High Tongue. Not all names have such clearly defined meanings, and not all names fit their owners. But among warriors, we who live and die by honor, names carry meaning.

  “What is his first name?” I knew it, but my mind was so foggy I could not remember.

  “Ashmu.”

  It was in Kumar, odd for a king. It means ‘just warrior.’

  “Aye, I’ll ride out in two days.”

  He was lost in thought, staring at the map. The soup was good, and I felt stronger, more clear-headed.

  “The two that left, they haven’t come back?”

  Hakan looked at me absently and shook his head. I wondered what they would tell their commander.

  12

  “Kemen, you’re in no shape to ride anywhere. It’s absurd! I’ll go.”

  “A king does not ride out to deliver his own messages.” I was frustrated. If we waited too long, Rikuto might well decide to send another, larger party. It would be much better to approach them peacefully before they made another attempt.

  “Then I’ll send someone else! Mullin or Adin or,” he stopped.

  “A king does not send his messages by blacksmiths and shepherds. You must take care for your prestige, Hakan. If you want him to think you a king, you must act like one.”

  He cursed. “You can’t ride.”

  “I’ll strap up my ribs.”

  He raised his eyebrows.

  “It will help the pain. I’ll need to be able to loosen it at night.”

  Lira Twilling made the strap for me, a wide band of fabric with a buckle sewn on, so I could tighten and loosen it with only my left hand. When I stripped off my shirt to test it, she and Hakan flinched at the ugly bruising. They raised their eyes to me doubtfully. I almost blacked out when I tried it, but once it was on it was a considerable help.

  Despite my best intentions, I did not leave until three days after the village swore its allegiance to Hakan. Thosin lent me a horse, a beautiful chestnut mare built for speed. Hakan wrote me a letter of authority to negotiate on his behalf. He also gave me a much better idea of how much food we could actually spare.

  The night before I left, he sat at the little table in my room, chewed his lip, and stared at the parchment for some time. Then he wrote the letter in one frowning rush, read it over, and handed it to me. “What do you think?”

  I shrugged. “I’m sure it’s fine.”

  “You didn’t even read it.”

  I swallowed. I should have told him then that I couldn’t read. But I was tired, and my ribs hurt, and I wasn’t brave enough. I glanced over the letter; I didn’t pretend to read it, but I didn’t admit that I couldn’t. I shrugged again and handed it back. “Thank you. I’ll do what I can.”

  I was ashamed.

  I didn’t expect to see Tafari himself, only the leader of the nearest raiding party. I was merely to deliver a formal letter from Hakan to Tafari detailing Hakan’s desire to reestablish trade relations and a mutually agreeable peace along the border. I would also offer the measure of food as a goodwill gesture for an immediate halt in the raids.

  I took only a small pack with some bread and jerky and a long pole with a rough flag tied to the top. The colors were a little off, rough cloth dyed hastily the day before rather than the customary rich velvets, but it would signal my official intent. The path to the Ising Pass was easy to find, and I was seen off by a small crowd waving and shouting encouragement. It was an odd feeling, and I hoped they would cheer Hakan with the same enthusiasm. Hakan was worried about me, but I felt confident that I was healing well.

  I’d rested the first two days after the town swore its allegiance to Hakan, but the day I left, I limped about the square, testing my strength. The pain in my leg was tolerable, my shoulder barely worth mentioning. The days of rest had helped my ribs considerably, though I was still troubled by bouts of coughing that brought spots before my eyes. The blood had mostly gone though, and except when I coughed, my breath came easily, though not without pain.

  When I first opened the door, the street was mostly quiet. I chose the short walk toward the well, and I was glad it was short because I was more unsteady than I’d imagined. But no matter; I would be riding, not walking. Several women were drawing water at the well, and they smiled shyly at me as I approached. I reached the stone edge with relief and turned to lean against it, half-sitting with my eyes closed. I think they were cautious of me, but I had to either sit or fall on my face, else I would have shied away.

  The air was cool, but the sun was warm on my shoulders, and my mind wandered a moment. The women finished drawing water, chatting all the while, though I felt their eyes on me at times. Always afraid of me, though they need not have been. One of them said Bethla’s name, and I thought her voice was softer than it had been.

  A girl cried out, and I opened my eyes to see a small boy hurtling toward me. He crashed into my leg, wrapping his arms about it in a tight embrace. His forehead bounced off the bandage on my thigh, and I gasped in pain, hiding it as best I could. A girl was running toward me calling him. I thought she was calling him because she was afraid of me, afraid for him, and it stung.

  I reached down to pull him away from my leg. “What is this?”

  He looked up at me, a laughing grin splitting his face. “You are the best!”

  “What? What’s your name?” I tried to shake off a feeling of unreality.

  “Rihol. I want to be like you.” He took a step back and flung out his hands wildly, holding an imaginary sword. “There! And there! And then they fall!” He spun around and fell dramatically, his legs flopping up toward the sky. I laughed in spite of my confusion.

  “That’s very good. You’re well on your way. How old are you?”

  He jumped up to come stand before me, clasping his hands together properly. It is a Common custom that I never learned; soldiers have different courtesies. But it was polite, and spoke well of his parents that he did it automatically. “I am four years and nine months old. How old are you?” That question was less proper, but I didn’t mind.

  “Ancient. I’m thirty three.” I did suddenly feel ancient, aching and sober in the face of his innocent adoration.

  His eyes widened. “Thirty three! That is old. But someday I will be old too.” He spoke very solemnly. “And when I am, I want to be like you. Father says you’re a hero, like the great heroes in the stories.”

  I smiled slightly as the girl drew up behind him.

  “Rihol! Come away.” She pulled at his arm as he tried to extricate himself. She was embarrassed, her face turning pink in frustration.

  I gathered my courage and spoke. “Excuse me.” Speaking to girls, women, takes nearly as much courage as battle. She was pretty, too, and it only made her more terrifying. Nothing can pain a man like the scorn of a woman.

  She looked up at me in surprise, her eyes wide.

  “He isn’t bothering me. I don’t mind.”

  She smiled and shrugged uncomfortably, and I knew I was right. She did fear me. I don’t know why I said it, especially with Rihol still standing there, but the words came without thought.

  “Do you think me a monster? Do you think I would hurt him?”

  She dropped her eyes to the ground, and Rihol looked back and forth between us. “I suppose not.” But she was not entirely reassured.

  I gestured to the edge of the well beside me. “Sit. Please.”

  I stood, pushing away the slight dizziness. I bowed low, lower than would be normal for a warrior to a commoner, because I wanted her to trust me. Men are so weak before women, and the best women do not realize their power and use it against us. But I sat immediately after, saving my strength for the after
noon ride. “I would like to see more of Rihol’s fighting prowess, and you are welcome to watch and see that I do him no harm.”

  She was more embarrassed, and I felt only a little guilt for it. However, she did sit carefully some distance away from me on the edge of the well.

  “Rihol, will you show me again how you fight?”

  He grinned with glee, jumping up and flopping down in the dirt as he imitated the raiders, thrashing his arms about as he supposed I must have done.

  Suddenly I wondered. “Did you see the fight?” It was no sight for a child.

  He pouted. “No.”

  “Good.”

  Rihol was happily rattling on. “But my father told me all about it. There was one of them who fought you first, then a hundred more all at once! And then a man on a horse who ran the horse over you, but you got up and won!”

  I chuckled, rubbing my ribs absently. “More or less. I wouldn’t recommend being run over by a horse when you’re a warrior.”

  He played for another few minutes, until the girl stood. “Come, Rihol. We must go now.”

  I felt oddly saddened at their going, though the girl had hardly been happy to be there. But I smiled when she turned back to smile at me tentatively.

  I ate lunch at Twilling’s before I departed that afternoon. I meant to set an easy pace; I don’t have the foolish wish to injure myself out of pride. At least not often. But the horse made good time, and I was well into the mountains by nightfall. I didn’t make a fire, supping instead on meat, cheese, and rich bread that Lira Twilling had packed for me. She’d also packed me a nearly full bottle of precious brandy for the pain. I had only a little because I didn’t want to become inattentive, but that little was quite welcome.

  I slept well that night, though I expected that the uneven ground would hurt terribly. I must have been too tired to care, for I woke with the early morning light streaming through the leaves onto my face. I put the strap back around my ribs; I didn’t want to sleep in it for fear of the bones healing wrong, but I couldn’t ride without it. Thosin had filled the saddlebags with grain so I fed the horse, and in a few minutes we were off again. We crossed a small stream, and the horse drank long before we continued. In the morning we made good time again, but the ground became much steeper as we went farther into the mountains and our pace slowed.