by Brandon Barr
Suddenly Monaiella slipped, and he gripped her hand tight, but the force of her fall pulled him down. He felt the edge of the rock on his legs as he slipped over the side of what he feared was a deadly drop, but he struck earth and felt dead grass as he slid down an icy shaft, following her into the darkness.
Then his arm struck a soft, spongy object and he lost his grip on Monaiella’s hand for a moment, but her fingers found him and clutched his arm as they slid further.
The abrupt impact on solid ground stopped their downward journey and he rolled to a stop beside her.
They lay there panting for a moment, the howling wind that had droned constant in their ears was now only a muted tune, like a forlorn whistle heard through a distant doorway.
“It’s warmer here,” she whispered, her voice still shivering with the cold. “And the air is still. I can open my eyes without them turning to ice.”
She was right. Somehow, they’d fallen into a place where the wind couldn’t pierce.
“Are you hurt?” he asked, finally catching his breath.
“No, though I still can’t feel my toes.”
He was relieved to hear she hadn’t been injured. They were fortunate not to have broken a bone, or worse. “If you had not slipped, we might have frozen to death out there on the rocks.”
Her teeth chattered together. “I told you I was resourceful.”
Rathan laughed softly, and for a time, they lay there in silence, too exhausted to speak further. Sleep began to pull at him, carrying him away from the long and arduous events of the day.
Monaiella’s voice pierced through before he drifted off. “Do you have your flint?”
“No,” he said, “it was on my saddle bag.”
“It’s still very cold,” she replied.
Rathan sighed. “We must try and sleep. We need to rest for tomorrow.”
“Would you mind giving me your warmth for the night?”
He was suddenly awake, alarmed by her request. To sleep so near her was irreverent. She was Luminess. And more, he…he was a young man and had little command over his lower half—not that he had ever lain with a woman, for he abided by the traditions, unlike many of the other soldiers. He only worried he might grow stiff and that she might feel it.
“Is something wrong?” she asked, slightly annoyed. “I’m freezing, is all.”
“I don’t want you to suffer,” he began, “but, I must protect your purity. It is my duty as one of your riders and your Life Protector.”
“Avalanches!” she snorted. “I’m not asking you to sleep with me like that—though the oath you swore last night gives me the right. Aren’t you cold? We’ll both freeze if we don’t keep warm together.”
He hesitated. “It’s not you, it’s me. You don’t understand.”
She lay silent beside him for a time, wrapped in her fur cloak.
He was about to close his eyes when she rolled up against him and pulled herself tight into his form.
“Quiet,” she whispered. “Put your arm around me, then go to sleep.”
Rathan hesitated, then put his arm around the fur cloak she wore. She buried her face under his chin, pressing into the deerskin leathers he wore. Her head rested on his arm, using it as a makeshift pillow.
Rathan breathed deep, and angled his hips slightly away from her. The smell of her hair so near was calming—the scent of chamomile and lemon. She squeezed in tighter, probing for the warmest, most comfortable position.
After a time, a shield of heat grew between them. Exhaustion finally drew him away from concerns of her purity, and he drifted into sleep.
CHAPTER 3
RATHAN
He dreamt of something that had happened only a week ago, when Monaiella had returned to the Hold after the long war—the look of repugnance in Regent Mirzoic’s eyes as he came to meet them at the gates. That stony gaze had served as an omen of things to come.
A rumble sounded from the Hold, and Rathan looked up to see an avalanche descending from the heights, rushing toward them over the parapets. As it neared, the rumble grew into a growl.
Rathan woke with a start, his hand springing for his sword. From within the darkened shelter something snarled.
“What is it?” whispered Monaiella.
“Don’t move,” he shouted as he came to his feet. He took two blind steps toward the low-growling animal, then swung at it. The animal barked like a rabid dog.
The familiar bark marked it as a ranger wolf, which was a deadly animal, especially at night. Their size varied from a large dog to near the weight of a black tiger. Rathan stepped back, his sword readied for a thrust if he should sense a charge.
“Where are you?” came Monaiella’s voice.
“Stay down,” he shouted, and at that moment, the wolf pounced. It struck him before he could maneuver his sword, and if not for holding his arm out to guard his face, the beast would have had his throat.
The animal landed hard atop him and his sword flew from his hand. Powerful jaws clamped down onto the leathers of his left arm. He reached with his right for the blade but his fingers found only soil. The wolf shook him, twisting its head back and forth, teeth cutting into his arm.
“Run!” he yelled, focused on his duty to protect his Luminess. The jaws released his arm and began snapping at his face. All he could do was swing his arms protectively at the dark to block the oncoming teeth. The animal fought to find a way through, to bury its teeth in the soft flesh of his throat.
A shout sounded to his right, and then the wolf’s body was thrown from him and he felt feet trip over him. The wolf yelped, then growled horribly, as if its tongue were caught in a spinning cog.
“My Lady!” Rathan shouted, coming again to his feet to help her, but already he heard the last gurgle of the beast’s dying, telling him she’d either slit its throat or pierced its heart. Gingerly he touched his forearm. It throbbed where the teeth had torn through his leather sleeve.
“I thought I lost you,” she said. “That it had passed your guard.”
“It almost did,” he said. “I told you to run.”
“You swore to protect me,” she said with a hint of anger. “That promise is worthless if you’re dead.”
He felt her hand reach out from the dark, her fingers brushed against his leathers, and then she moved close to him and pressed something familiar into his hand. It was the smooth leather grip of his sword. Had she broken her oath to the Makers to save him? He felt suddenly angry at himself. Twice now she’d come to his aid, first by snapping the knee of a hunter, and now with the wolf. “Luminess, I’m sorry. I failed you.”
She made a quiet sound, like a gentle laugh. “Stop it. If you hadn’t snuck into my bedroom and warned me, I’d be dead already.” She paused with a sigh. “And though I wish it were otherwise, Brantieth is the Luminar now. You no longer need call me Luminess.”
“Until you die, that is the title you bear in my mind. No one else is fit to sit on the throne as long as you live. If I can find a way, I will see you back to your rightful place.”
She said nothing in response, and soon, they lay back upon the ground, and she pressed her head beneath his chin, resuming the entwined position with which they’d both drifted off into sleep.
But sleep found him slowly, the warmth of her body at rest against his only made him more determined to see her to safety. She was god-chosen, a part of a bloodline spanning nearly three hundred years. Above all that, she led a fiercely pure life, devoted to the sacred writings and the traditions. He was unworthy to be her sole defender. He felt her strength in the lean muscles of her arms and thighs as she gripped him while she slept. She was power clothed in beauty. The gods had gifted her with skill of mind and skill of sword, just as they had blessed her with an uncompromising vision of peace for her kingdom.
When he was a young man of sixteen, he’d occasionally stopped in the darkened shadow of a turret overlooking the royal quarters to watch Ella practice with Sword Master Sulfyn. She danced
skillfully about the courtyard, her sword slashing a song in the air, like deadly poetry. And not infrequently, she had come into the Library of the Makers with books from the Scriptorium and sat and read an entire day, preparing herself for her eventual ascendancy to the throne. Her golden hair was longer then, but her eyes were the same glacial blue pools that once in a while lifted from the books below to peer out at her surroundings. He’d never dared talk to her, but he often overheard snippets of her conversations with high-stationed servants or the occasional bold young man who was foolish enough to flirt with a woman who was keeping a pure, celibate life in preparation to succeed her father.
Driven by a sense of calling, he pursued with passion the high calling of the ten riders, the elite horsemen who answered directly to the Luminary. When her father died in battle with six of his ten riders, Monaiella was enthroned as Luminess, and she called upon six new men to be her riders. He was the first she chose. Since that day, he had wondered if she remembered him from their days in the library, and why exactly she’d been so swift in choosing him. He’d never asked of course, for such banal questions were not fit to be spoken to the Luminess.
Rathan had seized the position fervently. To him, Monaiella had been a vision of greatness from his youth, and to stand by her side, accompanying her in all her duties was the greatest service the gods could ever give him.
Sleep finally dragged him under, the warmth of the Luminess’s body like a warm current pulling him down. He dreamed of a sword fight with Brantieth, and of watching Monaiella sit down again upon the throne as radiant blue light from the Makers streamed above her head, coronating the reinstated Luminess before the regents and a throng of citizens.
And he, he stood by her side as her champion and Life Protector.
—
MONAIELLA
She woke to a fading warmth, enfolded in her own arms. Her eyelids blinked open and she saw that Rathan was gone. Pale light filtered down into the place where they had spent the night, and she sat up and looked about. It was a large cavern, the depth of which she was uncertain, for the dim light faded into darkness at the very back. Not far from her lay the creature she’d killed in the night. The hair of its body was black and grey, but its head was dark brown. Above her, a steep incline of rock and earth angled out. Grey clouds hung in the sky at the mouth of the opening, which was bright with morning’s light. At the top was Rathan’s outline, his hood was up, but his hair fell over his forehead, stopping just above his eyes and flitting about in a gentle wind.
Carefully she climbed the slope out of the cave and came to sit beside Rathan. His dark green eyes peered at something in the distance.
“I’m troubled by something,” he said, then turned, his gaze so intense it frightened her. “Did I cause you to break your oath to the Makers?”
“No,” she said quickly to quell the severity in his eyes. “It was your sword I used, not mine, and it was an animal I killed, not a man. Further, you cannot cause me to do anything. If I ever break my oath to the gods, it will be my own choice. We are free to choose of our own, as the Makers designed.”
His eyes calmed, then returned to stare off across the meadow.
“Thank you for your warmth last night,” she said. “I would have frozen to death.”
He gave a sort of grunt, then nodded toward the southern edge of the meadow. “Do you see the smoke?”
She looked closely. Drifting out of the forest was a thin line of grey. A figure rested against a large tree, the red cloak frosted with snow.
“A hunter,” she whispered.
“He hasn’t moved since I spotted him,” said Rathan. “You should stay here.”
“No. I’m coming.”
Rathan led her through the boulders, careful to remain hidden, then skirted across the meadow, keeping to the line of trees. No snow fell now, though the clouds bulged dark and threatening. Rathan slowed and drew his sword as they neared the campsite. She kept close at his back so as to remain a single form with him. Rathan paused, and for a moment, the only sound was the bold cawing of a raven. Then Rathan continued forward, coming out into the campsite. Ella glanced around his shoulder and saw the figure, statuesque against the tree trunk, mouth open, lips blue and rigid.
Rathan put a boot to the man’s side and he fell stiff as an axe into the snow.
She squatted down to look at the source of the wispy smoke. “He might have survived if he’d had a companion to cradle.”
“I doubt it,” said Rathan without humor. “They both would have frozen here, exposed to the wind. As it stands now, there are two of them, and they’ll have made it to Tilmar long before we arrive. Likely by noon today.”
An empty burn stirred in her stomach.
“How much food do you have left?” she asked.
“He drew a rabbit skin pouch from his cloak and pulled it open. “Enough for us to share a meal, and you?”
She shook her head. She’d left her food bag strapped to her fallen horse. “There’s wolf meat to be had if we can save an ember.”
He stood and stared at the frozen man. “I’ll strip his clothes and search him for supplies and food. You bring back the fire.”
CHAPTER 4
MONAIELLA
The cave was warm, and the wolf was delicious though stringy. The extra meat would keep well considering the cold temperature. Besides the hunter’s clothing, he had almonds and jerky enough for two handsome meals, as well as a knife, small hatchet, and flint. The flint was the greatest prize, for just as she had left her food on her horse, so had Rathan abandoned his flint. The only item they didn’t need was the man’s sword. As for clothing, he’d had a cloak, leathers, under linen, goose down leggings, and boots with gouges in the soles. All this they wrapped up in the man’s cloak, forming a makeshift backpack.
“Laradell is half a day’s ride west of Tilmar,” Rathan said. “I suggest we change course. The woods near Tilmar will soon have eyes on them, if they do not already.”
“We cannot change course. We continue north to Tilmar.”
“It’s too dangerous My Lady—Ella. Tilmar is a death sentence. Mayor Wysum is Brantieth’s cousin. Once the hunters reach her ears, she’ll protect Brantieth and his throne. The hunters will have her entire militia at their disposal. Whatever your errand is at Tilmar, it can wait for safer times.”
She recognized the stark truth in Rathan’s words, but there remained the Old Seer’s warning…the delivery she must make. She had to fulfill the gods’ mission.
“I know the risk,” she said calmly. “But Laradell is another three days on foot. We could reach Tilmar by tomorrow.”
He stared at her intensely, seemingly stupefied by her reasoning.
The discomforting silence and Rathan’s impatient gaze wore on her. “It is more than a mere errand. I have a mission to fulfill in Tilmar. It was laid upon me by the gods.”
Rathan looked dispirited. “You’ve kept this secret from me?”
“Until now, I had no reason to worry you with it.”
“If it concerns your safety, then it is for me to worry over. What is this mission?”
“The night before last, the Old Seer came to me. He gave two promises, each conditioned upon my safely delivering a small item to a man in Tilmar.”
“What kind of item?”
She shook her head. “It’s small. I don’t know what it is, but it’s not from Hearth.”
Rathan’s brow lifted as wonderment spread over his face. “How would the Old Seer have such a thing?”
“He didn’t say. I suppose it could be one of the old relics smuggled through the portal from ancient times.”
Rathan sighed. “And what did the Old Seer say would happen if you didn’t deliver it?”
Ella pinched her lips then spoke: “I’ll die before the promises come to pass.”
“I swear, the gods are trying to kill you. First they take the sword from your hand, and now they want you to go straight into Brantieth’s hands.” Rathan glared
up through the opening in the cave. “What did the Makers promise you?”
Ella breathed deep, joy and fear intermingling in her chest. “Within a year I will bear a son. The child will be a Healer, and I and his father shall be blessed.”
Questions blazed in Rathan’s eyes, then anger. “So…the gods conspire to steal your throne as well,” he said. “Does this not make your blood hot, Monaiella?”
In truth, she had not felt great anger, as she might have expected, only grief. “My soul is torn, Rathan. I feel a mixture of sadness and excitement, but I am not looking back. In truth, I have always longed for love and motherhood, as I believe all the Luminesses of history have. Seen in the right light, the Makers have given me a gift.”
Rathan’s anger seemed to cool a little at her words, but he spun stiffly and turned his attention to butchering the remaining wolf meat.
As she knelt beside him and helped him flay the animal, she stared at the firelight undulating against the cavern walls. There was only one tradition—one denial—that she no longer need follow or obey. For if the promises the Old Seer spoke were to come to pass, then…she would soon conceive a child. It frightened her a little, having rebuffed for so long any thoughts of motherhood as well as her natural longings for a man’s love.
When they had cleaned the meat from the wolf’s bones and packed it in a bag made of the hunter’s red cloak, they set off southwest into the white-painted forest. With no paths and all the animal trails buried by snow, they ventured a rough-cut trail of their own making through a long valley that stood under the shadows of forbidding mountains.
After an hour of strenuous travel through thick brush, Rathan stopped at the crystallized edge of a small river that was nearly frozen over.
“Curse these woods!” he said sharply under his breath. “This is impossible! We need to find the road again or it will take us a week to get to Tilmar.”