Light in the Darkness

by CJ Brightley

  “And you’ll hide Tilia away somewhere, as you said before.” The hint of a smile had disappeared from Siiar’s face; it was bleak now, his voice bitter. “Somewhere only you know-- your own private prize.”

  “That is a ridiculous idea,” said Anj, heat rising in her cheeks.

  “Oh? You don’t want her? You don’t love her? Then maybe it will take another song, or maybe two--or maybe you all have wooden hearts, in Cinnabar. All the better for you if you do. Better than to love, when the love can’t be returned.” He shook his head. “You might as well love the wind, that doesn’t care where it bestows its caresses.”

  “But Tilia does love you,” murmured Anj.

  “Yes, like the wind. She loves everyone. Anyone.”

  “She loves you differently.” Anj felt a tickle on her cheeks, went to brush it away and found her fingers wet. Tears. Siiar tilted his head, his eyes lingering on Anj’s damp cheeks.

  “Truly?” So much hope and doubt in one word.

  “Yes.”

  Simultaneously the two of them got to their feet, brushed themselves off.

  “Come to the Cinnabar outpost the day after tomorrow, as we arranged,” said Anj. “Perhaps you can see Tilia one more time, before we carry out our vanishing act.”

  First the sun left the valleys, but the hills and high peaks of the Cloud Mountains still glowed rose and violet, and then the light left the mountains too, but Tilia did not arrive at the Cinnabar outpost.

  “You’re likely to wear a groove in the floor,” remarked Shen, as Anj paced the length of the outer chamber.

  “Siiar was persuaded,” Anj said. “He wouldn’t suddenly have changed his mind--would he?” She chewed a thumbnail. “Or perhaps Tilia’s wandered off somewhere? Or forgotten?” Anj was at the door. “I’m going to find her. I’ll take Glory this time.”

  A near-full moon gave the landscape a ghostly brilliance, and the air shimmered with the tones of a multitude of unseen insects. Tilia probably sings with them, thought Anj, and urged Glory to a trot, aiming for Worthy Ezmah’s homestead.

  Footsteps and voices reached Anj’s ears as she was riding past Worthy Kehan’s fields. By the barn, two men followed a big, broad-shouldered form--Kehan himself--who pulled along a stumbling figure. Tilia.

  A surge of anger filled Anj. She jumped down from Glory, dagger at the ready, and strode toward Kehan.

  “What do you think you’re doing? Release that girl right now!”

  Kehan’s hand was clamped round Tilia’s wrist like a manacle; Tilia, looking faint, leaned against the barn, from which a sour, alcoholic odor emanated.

  “Who’s there? The Cinnabar emissary? What are you doing on the roads at this hour? Put away that knife, Your Excellency. You’re misunderstanding things. Nothing’s amiss here.” His tone was friendly, but he didn’t release Tilia, and his narrowed eyes gazed on Anj appraisingly.

  “A girl alone in the company of three men, at night, and nothing’s amiss? I told you to let her go!”

  “It’s not an ordinary girl; it’s Tilia Songbird, Your Excellency. She’s special and we all have to look out for her, don’t we boys? She doesn’t always know what’s good for her. Take today. In the morning she sings for you, who don’t even believe in spirits, and then this evening I hear my cousin Ezmah talking to that Thunder Tribe boy, saying Tilia wants to see him. When we all know the boy means her no good! I’m just keeping her safe. You should keep safe, too, Your Excellency. The moonlight seems bright, I’ll grant you, but it’s misleading, and if you’re not careful, you could end up slipping and breaking a leg or cracking your skull, or worse. Best ride on back to your house. I’ll be by with my cousin to fix up the roof in the morning.”

  Foreign service officials assigned to frontier areas were accorded a creditable amount of combat training, and Anj drew on that training now to free Tilia and send Kehan to the ground with a bleeding forearm and a slashed cheek. But the tribes of the Cloud Mountains spend their summers in raids against one another, and Kehan, clearly no stranger to fighting, was back on his feet before Anj had time to draw a breath. With all her attention taken up keeping the other two men at bay, she was unable to defend against his blow to the small of her back. The sky with its clouds and bright moon spun about in an unnatural way, and the barn, Tilia still standing before it, swung past her line of vision as she fell to the ground.

  “You find some good spot for His Excellency’s accidental death and make sure it happens; I need to avail myself of the sweet healing song and arms of our Tilia,” Kehan was saying. “Oh, don’t pull away like that, little lovely. You are as hard to hold as sunshine, but we all must have a little sunshine.”

  Anj heard the creak of the barn door being pushed open, and a fresh drift of rank, alcoholic air reached her.

  “Uncle, don’t go in there, something’s not right in there,” said one of Kehan’s men, but another, longer creak from the door told Anj that Kehan had disregarded that warning.

  She struggled to sit up, dodging someone’s swiftly moving foot, and then toppled her assailant with a yank to the leg. He fell hard, but scrambled back up; Anj whirled around, trying to locate the other one. From within the barn, she could hear Tilia’s voice raised in a song that sounded like weeping.

  Then, from the same direction, there came a sudden whoosh and the smell of smoke.

  “Barn fire!” said one of Kehan’s men. “Uncle! Come out of there!”

  And now a new and unexpected voice, from the road: “What’s happening--what’s happened to you? Where is Tilia? I had word she would meet me.”

  It was Siiar, riding up. He dismounted and ran over to meet Anj, eyes on Kehan’s men and his knife already drawn.

  “Parta, we’ve got trouble--that visitor from the Thunder Tribe!” called the other of Kehan’s men. “The last thing we need’s a blood feud with Chieftain Zara. Let’s get out of here!”

  “But the fire--the millet straw’s all going to burn! And Uncle’s still in there!”

  “His fault for storing it damp, and if he’s so mad for the songbird’s touch that he won’t flee a burning barn, then he’s past saving. Come on!” He shot those words back over his shoulder as he ran for the road; Parta’s eyes darted from the barn to Siiar and Anj, then he took off too.

  There was another whoosh, and now flames were crackling through the gap between the barn door and wall.

  “Tilia’s in there!” Anj said.

  “With your attackers’ uncle,” said Siiar, in a voice that made Anj’s mouth go dry.

  Siiar ran round to the back of the barn, followed by Anj. The heat, when Siiar pulled open the door, sent both of them stumbling back. Siiar slipped off his jacket and put it over his head to protect his face; Anj followed his example and made her way into the barn after him.

  The din of the fire deafened, and its flames and smoke blinded with both brightness and darkness. Even shielded by her jacket, Anj felt sure her flesh was roasting, charring. It was almost impossible to draw breath.

  “Tilia! Tilia!” she tried to call, but the words came out as no more than a gasp that was lost in the roar of the flames.

  She heard Siiar’s voice from farther in and followed it to where he knelt by a half-fallen beam that formed a flaming slope up to the top of the barn wall. On the ground beneath the beam, she could make out shapes that had to be Kehan and Tilia. Anj reached them just as Siiar’s knife sliced cleanly through Kehan’s throat. He leaned over Tilia and raised his knife again; Anj threw herself against him, and he howled as he hit the fiery beam. Anj yanked the knife from his hand and flung it into the fire.

  “Help me . . . pull her out,” she ordered, and after the barest hesitation, he joined her in her efforts. Out of the barn, they managed to stagger a few steps into the millet stubble before collapsing, coughing, then drawing deep breaths of cool night air.

  “Is she dead?” cried Siiar, “Because I can kill her well enough with my bare hands if there’s still breath in her.” And for a moment Anj
thought that the rescue she had just accomplished was for naught, that she would have to spend the last ounce of her strength wrestling Siiar. But then Siiar’s face crumpled as he regarded Tilia’s still form.

  “Oh Tilia, please, please wake up, please,” he begged, pressing his head to her chest, eyes squeezed tight shut. She began to cough, and he sat up abruptly, eyes wide and wild.

  “She is alive,” he whispered. “Tilia, can you hear me?” Tilia continued to cough, but nodded. She turned her head toward him.

  “Hello, true love. Will you show me my borders one more time, before you kill me?”

  It seemed from his face that a number of different answers were battling to be the reply that Siiar made. At last, tears rising in his eyes, he simply said, “I won’t ever harm you,” and swept her up in a tight embrace.

  “Tilia,” said Anj, trying to keep her voice calm. “You need to run away right now, before anyone from the Freshet Tribe comes to investigate the fire.” Portions of the barn roof had collapsed, and the flames danced freely beneath the dome of the sky. “Then Siiar can tell your husband you died in it, and no one will come after you ever again. But you have to stay unknown and unremarked on--I want you to go into Cinnabar.”

  “No!” said Siiar, but more painful was Tilia’s own refusal.

  “I can’t go there. I can’t ever leave these mountains and skies.”

  Anj felt arguments rise to her tongue--there is nowhere in these mountains that you will be safe--but the memory of Kehan’s words stopped her. As hard to hold as sunshine.

  “All right. Go west, then, but stay clear of Thunder territory.”

  “I’ll go with you,” said Siiar, squeezing Tilia’s hands in his. “Just for a little bit, a little way--just to see you safe, just--”

  “You’ll only endanger yourself and Tilia if you do that,” said Anj. “It will raise suspicion if you disappear, after being sent here on this task, and with no actual body to show for your efforts.”

  “Just for a day, even,” whispered Siiar.

  “Feel that? The breeze has gone all soft again,” said Tilia. “Tomorrow will be warm.”

  “Tilia,” said Siiar, lifting his hands to her face and turning it toward him. “You’re already floating away from me on that breeze, aren’t you. Will I ever find you again?”

  Tilia put her hands over his and closed her eyes.

  “Without you, there wouldn’t be any me. Only you know where I begin and end. Of course you’ll find me.”

  Somewhat unsteadily, she got to her feet. Siiar caught her in his arms, an embrace that was one last plea. But then he let go.

  “You’re wrong, Tilia,” he said, speaking slowly. “There is a you, even without me. It’s the you I fell in love with--you, without any beginning or end.”

  Tilia became very still, looking up at Siiar. Then she leaned toward him, kissed him full on the lips, and turned toward Anj.

  No, Anj wanted to say. No kisses. Please just leave me with my comfortable heart of wood. But there it was, a light touch, just by the ear.

  Then off through the field Tilia went, turning back once to wave before disappearing into the darkness.

  THE END

  * * *

  If you enjoyed this story, please check out the rest of Francesca Forrest’s work on her blog.

  Wolf of Shadows

  Sabrina Chase

  The cold, red silk fell like water over Donn’s hand as he moved the drapery aside from the tower window. It was a prison with no iron bars—magic warded the windows and the only door; the walls were of stone. Knowing the fate planned for him, he would have preferred to stay in the dungeons. Could she even find him here? That was his only hope of survival. A slender hope at best, but his life had been in danger since the day he was born. If his half-brother Tormod had not found a use for him, he would be dead now.

  Donn was not his real name. Royal bastards were never given true names. Donn meant “the dark one,” a reference to his unusual dark hair. His reflection in the diamond panes of the window was just a pale face, surrounded by shadow, as he gazed out from the tower to the forest and mountains beyond. Waiting, and despairing. She promised she would return ...

  He shivered, his breath visible in the cold. The clothes he wore were much too thin for the chilly room—cast-off formal attire, long out of fashion but still smelling faintly of the musky perfume used by the former owner. Tormod had ordered Donn be dressed well to impress the envoy of the desert people, and reassure them of his royal blood. If he were seen in his usual rags, it might provoke awkward questions—and more importantly, the loss of the horses the desert people had brought in trade.

  A glimpse of motion outside made him stiffen, and Donn leaned closer, staring intently through the icy window panes. A grey wolf stood at the edge of the dark forest, barely visible in the shadows next to the moonlit snow. Its jaws was open, as if it laughed. Donn's breath frosted the window, obscuring his view. Impatiently he scrubbed the frost away, ignoring the warning twinges from the wards, but when he looked again the wolf had gone. He grabbed the window latch in desperation, but agonizing pain from the fully active wards soon made him release it.

  She could open the wards. He’d helped her do it, and she had promised. And he had believed her.

  Closing his eyes, he drew his knees up and rested his face against them. He should never have believed he could escape the castle. If she had not come, he would not have been caught so soon. If she had not come, he would not have hoped.

  The sound of approaching footsteps alerted him that he was no longer alone, and he stared stonily out the window. The glass reflected the approaching figure of a minor courtier famous for gossip. The cruelty of Tormod meant the wards of Donn’s prison were only for him. Everyone else could come and go as they pleased.

  "But a short time until you wed the desert leader! At least you will be well away from all the snow and cold,. You must be impatient to go."

  Donn said nothing, hoping the man would take offense and leave.

  "And of course, as befits your...connection to the royal house, you will be her principal husband. I can’t imagine the others, barbarians as they are, will be serious competition even for you."

  This promising lead, and several others, were equally ignored. Unable to pry the smallest tidbit of information from him, the courtier's spite flared.

  "They are ignorant, the desert people. What will you do when she learns you have no name?"

  This bitter parting cut won only a listless glance, and the courtier left in great annoyance.

  Donn sighed. The courtier was correct; the desert people knew little of the customs here. The courtier was equally ignorant of theirs—unlike Donn. He had taken refuge many times in the dusty rooms of the archives, where the members of the court never went. He devoured any account of life outside the castle walls, desperate for escape if only in his mind. One such account was of the customs of the desert people.

  He would be treated kindly, lack no luxury—once they had blinded him to prevent his escape. And after two years the desert leader would require a new principal husband. Or, more correctly translated, “blood sacrifice.”

  The hunter had come in the season of Redleaf, guiding a storyteller who had lost his way in Longwall Forest. Her profession was clear from the longbow and shaggy grey pelt she wore over her shoulders.

  It was the fourth year of the king's madness, and only tales, new tales, could calm his rages. All the corners of the kingdom sent their best tellers of tales, but fewer and fewer came each year. This storyteller came from a village of the fisher people, on a bare stony island. An old, twisted man, he seemed lost so far from the sound of the sea.

  Donn had felt restless that day, sensing an unsettling disturbance in the atmosphere of the castle. He traced that disturbance to the Audience chamber, where the king gibbered and thrashed on the throne, tied down with heavy silken cords. Tormod, the unofficial regent, stood below the dais as the travelers were brought in, the old
man leaning on the hunter woman. Donn watched them from the concealing shadows of the gallery pillars even though it was dangerous for him to go so close. In his sixteen years he had learned that it was always safer to stay out of sight, to steal his food from the kitchen instead of taking his place at meals, to sleep anywhere but his bed.

  The Audience was not so much a room as a clearing in the thicket of columns that supported the dome. Clusters of slender pillars stood about in such a way that there was no straight path to any doorway, nor was any path indicated as more important than another. As the hunter went by his hiding place, a small breeze, carrying the faint scent of pine and woodsmoke, cut through the must and florid perfume of the court. That must be what Outside smells like. Donn shifted to see her more clearly. Her rough, ash-white hair had bone beads woven in it. He could almost see the invisible lines of power bend around her disturbing presence.

  There were others with business before the storyteller and his hunter escort, so Donn had time to watch them both. The hunter stood out from the gaudy court brocades and silks like a barbaric ghost, all in shades of grey and white. A black bow was slung across her back, a belt quiver held black-fletched arrows. He tried to imagine what it would be like Outside, never being surrounded by walls, but his imagination failed him. He was certain, however, that he would prefer it.

  He had stared some time when she suddenly turned her head and looked in his direction, the only motion during her long wait. He froze, his heart hammering. It was impossible she had seen him, the shadows were too thick, but still he found himself moving cautiously to another group of pillars further back.

  When at last their turn came, the hunter remained silent as the old man quavered his name and business. Tormod thanked him urbanely, asked him to begin that very day, commanded him to ask for anything he required—while his gaze never left the hunter. Donn inhaled sharply. The dark aura that he always saw about Tormod had increased, and seemed to roil around him.