A Bright Power Rising, Page 4

  “Elf!” Tarum Sire roared from his horse. “You have won. Behold your prize, our humble offering to the Golden Light. Let us leave in peace and bother us no more.”

  As the caravan departed, Grael tested his bonds. He could hear Harath engaged in the same frantic struggle behind him. The Gilt Spider’s precious cord held firm. Its use was a surprising oversight by the Jinglemen in their rush to flee. How far would they go before they realized their error? Tarum Sire would not be pleased.

  The banal melody of the caravan slowly faded into the distance, till the only sounds were the whisper of the wind through the trees and the thumping of Grael’s heart.

  “What will we do?” Harath pleaded.

  “We’ll think of something,” he reassured her, his voice thick with fear. What could they do but wait and pray for some miracle?

  “Perhaps if we both leaned against the rope in the same direction at the same time?” Harath suggested.

  “Let’s try it,” Grael said. Anything was better than sitting here placidly waiting for the Gilt Spider.

  They shifted their combined weight left and then right, but the cord was too strong. If anything, it tightened its grip.

  “He’s coming!” Harath cried. “Oh, my sweet Forelight, he has a knife in his hand.”

  Grael turned his head to look, but Harath’s flowing red hair obscured his view. He sought Harath’s hands, but the trunk separated him from them.

  “Remember, we live not for this life but the next,” Grael said, suppressing the quiver in his voice. Creeping terror inside declared him a liar.

  Harath burst into tears. “I have no next life, other than the endless torture of Hell. I am a sinner. I did not honor my father. I flouted the saints’ law. And now, I am going to die and suffer eternal damnation. Oh, beloved Forelight, forgive me, please forgive me.” She started screaming.

  Grael strained to look back, but all he could see was a bloody knife and the flaxen hand that held it. The fantasy of a prayerful martyrdom died. Fear overwhelmed his senses. Convulsive terror shrieked though him.

  And then, barely discernible through the din of his screeches, came miraculous words—the Forelight’s Prayer. The voice was soft, tuneful.

  Grael opened his eyes. The countenance before him possessed an unearthly beauty, but it was more like a mask than a living face with its unblemished, straw-colored skin and its smooth smile. Only the Elf’s amber eyes sparkled with life. The wind played with the stranger’s shock of golden curls, sometimes partially concealing the black symbols on his forehead: a disc above what looked like a bow and arrow pointing upward. The Elf wore no cloak. His breastplate was adorned with a simple depiction of the left half of a face. A convoluted weapon rested across his shoulders, its complex heads at both ends reminiscent of antlers. Small oval shields protected his forearms.

  “You have no need to fear me,” he said. “I am a Stretcher, like you.”

  “I thought your people worshiped the Golden Light,” Grael said.

  “I did, long ago,” the Elf said. His gaze followed Grael’s eyes to the bloody dagger in his hand. He sliced at the cord. “The blood belongs to one of your captors. I found him lurking in the forest, no doubt waiting to ambush me. This is a trap. Your captors left you here as bait. As soon as you are free, run to the forest in the direction from which I came. Let the mountains guide you home.”

  As the cord fell away, an arrow struck the Elf’s calf. The agony twisting his bland features dispelled any illusion of invincibility. The Gilt Spider was flesh like any other creature.

  The Jinglemen appeared from behind the promontory and the edge of the forest. The Elf’s hands reached to the wooden rack across his shoulders. What had appeared to be a single weapon was a brace of identical wooden rods terminated at both ends with spiked, double-bitted axe heads. As the Jinglemen closed in, Grael grabbed Harath’s hand and ran.

  The Elf shouted after them, “Remember the true name of he who saved you. I am AscendantSun for this lifetime, Auctor always.”

  Grael glanced back before plunging into the forest. The Elf stood in the midst of the five surviving Jinglemen, his extravagant weapons poised for combat, like a wounded stag beset by wolves.

  3

  To know beauty famed but unwitnessed

  Is why I must scale this lofty spire,

  To embrace a love both cursed and blessed,

  Which poets dream of and kings desire.

  FROM ALACKALAS AND THE FAIR PRINCESS.

  Through the forest they raced, plunging headlong through the foliage. It did not matter where they were going as long as it put more distance between them and the Jinglemen. Though Grael’s instincts screamed otherwise, he gentled his pace to match Harath’s. She was slower, and her long skirt kept snagging on bushes, hampering her. It was tempting to elevate the hem of the offending garment to disencumber her movement, but even in this crisis, such a liberty was inappropriate.

  “I can go no farther,” she gasped. “I need to catch my breath.”

  Grael glanced over his shoulder. The Jinglemen might be already in pursuit. “Very well.”

  She began to wander away, apparently oblivious of the possible dangers lurking in this unfamiliar forest.

  “Where are you going?” he demanded.

  “That is no man’s business,” she said, reddening.

  Grael didn’t know what to say. His ears and then his cheeks burned. “Very well. Be careful.”

  She regarded him disdainfully. “I won’t go far…just far enough.”

  Grael pretended not to hear the rustle of foliage as she did what she had to do. He searched the undergrowth till he found a reasonably sturdy stick. It was better than nothing, but not much of a defense against a pack of wolves or a bear.

  “Do you think we are safe?” Harath asked when she reappeared.

  His nerves unwound a little at her presence. They were free, but they were lost, perhaps pursued, and armed with only a stick. Worse, they were provisionless, without even the protection of a halo…

  “For the moment,” he said. “But we need to keep moving.”

  She nodded. “Lead on.”

  By late afternoon, exhaustion slackened their pace to a trudge. Their progress homeward was even slower. The Pig was a useful direction marker, but it gave no indication as to what lay between them and their home. Impassable cliffs and a frothing river forced them to reverse their course twice. Grael watched for signs of people, friendly or otherwise. If Stretchers inhabited this foreign land, their hospitality wasn’t guaranteed to two unkempt strangers drifting through their territory.

  “Why did you ask the Jinglemen to take you to Formicary?” he asked Harath. The question had been thumping inside his head most of the day.

  “Why did you want to go to Formicary?” she asked in return.

  “To make my fortune,” he said. And come home and marry you and live happily ever after. What a joke. “But I didn’t run away. I got Widan Melkath’s permission. He negotiated my passage with the Jinglemen.”

  “You got my father’s permission, but not that of Lahan, your own father.”

  “Widan is the Politician of Pigsknuckle. His word is law. My father is just an ordinary man and happy to be one.”

  “And you weren’t happy to be ordinary.”

  “You are the politician’s daughter. You aren’t ordinary.”

  Harath raised an eyebrow.

  Grael continued, “I don’t understand why you…you know…invited the Jinglemen to kidnap you.”

  “I needed to get away. My father planned for me to leave Pigsknuckle anyway. He wanted me to marry a politician from another village. If I must live among strangers, I might as well choose them.”

  “And how were you going to support yourself?”

  “With honest work. I hoped I might be employed as a servant in Formicary.”

  Grael laughed. “The politician’s daughter dreamed of being a servant.”

  She displayed the calluses on her hands.
The welts on her wrists looked as sore as his own. “Do these look like proud hands to you? I was a servant to my father and my brother. Elsewhere, I might get proper recompense for my effort. Do you know I’m older than my brother Donmor? If I had been born a boy, he would be the one going to Formicary.” Her face reddened. “What are you going to tell everyone when we get back to Pigsknuckle?”

  “I don’t know,” Grael admitted. Was she asking him to lie?

  “The truth is no more than I deserve, I suppose.”

  “We’ve both suffered enough for our foolishness.”

  “If you truly believe that, then swear to the Forelight you will keep my secret. Tell my father the Jinglemen abducted me.”

  “I’ll not compound lies with sacrilege.”

  “So you intend to ruin me.”

  “As far as I am concerned, the Jinglemen kidnapped you. The details of your abduction are your own business.” He sounded like his dad.

  “Thank you.” She kissed him, leaving the dew of her lips on his cheek.

  Grael resisted the urge to return her favor. The girl was trouble. She had already persuaded him to lie, at least by omission, and now her over-familiarity stirred a mixture of unsavory emotions.

  “I’m sorry if I embarrassed you,” Harath murmured.

  He coughed to clear his throat and struggled out a muddled apology. He had dreamt of her kiss so long, and now when she bestowed it on him, his first reaction was to condemn her. It made no sense. Why was he so horrified by such intimacy? The fault lay not with Harath but with him. He was afraid of what he might do, what sin he might be willing to commit for her.

  Her indiscretion paled in comparison to the bawdy tales of the Jinglemen. He chuckled at his naivety in believing that he could cope with the licentiousness of Formicary.

  “Why are you laughing?” she demanded.

  “Nothing.” He fumbled for a better excuse. “I was thinking of the Gilt Spider and our unexpected rescue. That the Gilt Spider should claim to worship the Forelight is such a queer notion.”

  “You believe the Jinglemen defeated him? But he’s the Gilt Spider.”

  “Elves can die. Alackalas slew several of their greatest warriors to win his fair princess.”

  Harath scrunched her nose in disgust. “The Jinglemen are nothing like Alackalas. He was a hero.”

  “True. They don’t fight fair, for a start. By now, they are on their way to Formicary with their precious trophy. I should have stayed and helped the Elf. I owed him that.”

  “How? You had no weapon other than your fingernails. The Elf told you to go. Besides, you couldn’t abandon me to wander through this wilderness alone and become the prey of beast or man. I don’t see what other choice you had. As you said, the Elf’s rescue might have been a ploy. I’m sure your mother told you to never trust the Gilt Spider.”

  “Did your mother also tell you that?”

  “She died when I was young. My recollection of her is hazy.”

  “At least you still have your father and brother.”

  “True.” Her voice was edged with a repressed bitterness.

  “You don’t like them,” he said.

  “I love my family. And I would love them all the more from the distance of Formicary,” she said. “It must be nice to have a family like yours. No troubles to speak of. Saint Charlin is the eldest?”

  “Charlin is the eldest, followed by me, my brother Maerbard, my sister Wanyr,” Grael said. “Miona—she’s obviously the youngest. When I told my parents of my plans to go to Formicary, I said they would hardly notice I was gone with the other three children to care for.” He chuckled. “They didn’t react too well. I’ve rarely seen my dad so angry. He was shaking with rage.

  “We should find somewhere to camp for the night,” he said. “It will be sunset soon enough.”

  They set up camp near a rocky brook. Grael found an edged rock, but it wasn’t a great substitute for a knife. Even with both of them gathering materials, it took quite a while to lash a shelter together.

  After some discussion, they agreed that they should light a fire. Wolves and bears were more of a concern than the Jinglemen, who had surely abandoned any pursuit and returned to their caravan by now. Without a bow drill, it proved quite a challenge, but eventually Grael managed to get some tinder to catch fire.

  “Take off that rag on your back,” Harath said. “I made a salve for your wounds.”

  His back burned with pain as he peeled off his shirt. Harath winced and breathed deeply through gritted teeth.

  “Hackit greased my back with some stinky stuff they use on their horses for sores,” Grael explained, reddening.

  Harath brought him over to the stream and wiped away Hackit’s vile unguent. The softness of her touch reached through his pain and comforted him.

  She began applying her salve. Every gentle brush of her fingers was like a healing kiss.

  “Hopefully, this will help your back heal. Let it dry a while before you put on your shirt,” she said.

  He glanced over his shoulder. She was smiling. For the first time since the Jinglemen seized them, she looked happy. Her eyes caught his, and he couldn’t pull away. Neither of them moved, stilled by the spell of the moment. Only the thumping of his heart marked the passage of time. A resolve built of saintly edicts, custom, and propriety dissolved into a pool of longing. If her head tilted a little nearer, if he drew a fraction closer...

  He wrenched his gaze away. The spell was broken. She bolted to her feet and strode over to the fire, arms folded.

  “You can use the shelter tonight. I’d rather sleep in the open,” he said. He had to keep his distance.

  “You built it for both of us,” she said, studying him.

  “I’ll only use it if it rains,” he said, looking away. Forelight, I beg you, test me no more. I haven’t the strength.

  “If you are sure,” she said.

  He nodded and smiled. At least neither had acknowledged the moment with words. There was some comfort in that. Somewhere to hide.

  They ate what meager fare was to be found in the forest and lay down to sleep, Harath in the shelter, Grael on the far side of the fire. A leaden exhaustion weighed on him, but he was too restless to sleep. The day’s events spun in his mind. It was hard to believe so much had happened. The morning could have been a month ago. He kept reliving that moment with Harath, picking at it. Writhing emotions mocked his insistence that he had done the right thing. He longed for a second chance but was afraid he might let it pass again, or worse, seize it. Could anything good come of sin? He might be wrong, might have imagined the whole thing. Imagine reaching out to Harath only for her to pull away. Imagine her horror.

  In desperation, he turned to the Forelight and prayed himself to sleep.

  A narrow wooden bridge straddled the azure river. Grael greeted it with mixed emotions. It was proof of habitation, however transient, but offered no clue as to the identity of its builders. A furka would have established that the locals were Stretchers and provided a sanctuary with which to parlay with them.

  “If there is a furka nearby, it is up there somewhere.” He pointed to the ridge above them.

  “And if we find one?” Harath asked as she rubbed the perspiration off her forehead with the back of her hand.

  “We wait,” Grael said. “Pigsknuckle’s furkas are checked regularly. The local Stretchers must do the same. We should be able to convince them to bring a local saint to us, and he will ensure our safe passage home.”

  It was a shame that they had to be so guarded in making contact with others of their religion, but unfortunately, there was little amity between villages. But for the saints, there would be perpetual war.

  “We haven’t even halos. How am I going to face my father like this?” Harath said, pulling at her disheveled hair.

  “We could be dead,” Grael said. “Or worse. We could be slaves in Formicary. Widan will understand.”

  “Understand what? The shame I have brought on his
family? His scorn already rings in my ears, heaping the curses of his father and his father’s father on my head.”

  “He can hardly fault you for being the victim of abduction. If anyone deserves blame, it’s me. I brought the Jinglemen to Pigsknuckle. I will tell your father that.”

  “Please, Grael, that is a noble gesture, but you mustn’t.”

  “But what about you?”

  She smiled. “I’ll be fine. I’m tougher than I appear. My father will marry me off sooner and farther away than he originally intended.”

  Grael’s heart sank. Of course, she was right. He was a fool to hope otherwise. Widan Melkath wouldn’t want the likes of him as a son-in-law. At least, he hadn’t done anything foolish last night.

  “Are you okay?” Her concern only made it worse.

  He pushed up the corners of his mouth into a smile. “I’m fine. Let’s keep going.”

  They began the laborious climb up the incline. Every step was hard on the legs. Harath wobbled dangerously a few times, but the only sound from her was labored breathing. When they paused about half way up to catch their breath, they both sprawled out on the slope. Grael let out a sigh. It would be so easy to close his eyes and drift off to sleep.

  Movement on the bridge made him sit up. Men were crossing. All six wore the same gray headdress. If it was a halo, it did not belong to Pigsknuckle. They were armed and in a hurry. One of them waved his spear toward the ridge.

  “Run for your life,” Grael hissed.

  As he and Harath scrambled up the slope, he prayed to the Forelight they would find a furka on the ridge. Without that miracle, they were doomed.

  Though he encouraged Harath not to look back at their pursuers, he couldn’t resist glancing back to gauge their progress. The men were close enough for the gray of their halos to resolve into the entwined black and white of the village of Cronesglen, and they were gaining fast. Harath was too slow, too hesitant picking her way up the slope. Grael grabbed at her hand to pull her along