A Bright Power Rising Read online

  The villagers fervently believed those who trespassed in its shadow risked waking the monster. Saints knew this was nonsense. A saint had petrified the creature, and miraculous works by a priest of the Forelight could not be undone so easily. But the tenets of childhood still haunted Saint Charlin, so he tread softly.

  The object of his visit was another nightmare of his youth—the Gilt Spider. The very name conjured terror. Every time a hunter failed to return home or a child disappeared, it was whispered.

  He raised the hem of his cassock and splashed across the little stream beneath the snout. The shade concealed a cave entrance.

  “Forelight, protect your servant, the humblest of saints,” he whispered so softly that only his god might hear him.

  He squeezed into the narrow opening. The crevice constricted around him, forcing his body into ever more elaborate contortions in order to progress. Plunging through the earth like this was unnatural, but he had no choice other than to push forward. It was tempting to seek reassurance from whatever sliver of sunlight that had followed him into this rocky vice, but in the cramped space, to even glance back risked injury, entrapment, or worse.

  Relief at stumbling into the wide inner chamber was tempered by the knowledge that he had to suffer that dreadful passage again to exit. A sweet scent dispelled a little of the cavern’s earthy smell. Neat rows of slender candles on the floor wove a shifting web of light and shadow across the ceiling. At the far end stood two y-shaped crosses. One was the Forelight’s holy symbol, a furka, in gold. The other was the Gilt Spider, dressed in the black robes of a saint, arms raised high and head pressed against one shoulder, in the prayerful pose of a devout Stretcher. Though Charlin had witnessed this before, the incongruity of the scene remained jarring.

  The Elf ceased his prayers, dropped his arms to his side, and turned to face Charlin. Candlelight sparkled in his amber eyes and polished his flaxen skin into living gold. On a mess of aureate curls rested the black halo of a saint. The creature's beauty was alien and had a distasteful taint of femininity. Charlin directed his gaze at the floor to avoid the Elf's hypnotic stare.

  The Elf’s dulcet tones filled the cave. “Has something happened to Saint Sebryn?”

  “The abbot of Saint Odran’s remains in good health,” Charlin replied.

  “You never call it Pigsback,” the Elf observed.

  “I am not here to discuss names. Saint Sebryn sent me here on an urgent matter. Harath Melkath, the daughter of the Politician of Pigsknuckle, has disappeared.”

  “Sebryn knows better than to blame me for her vanishing.”

  The lack of indignation in the creature's voice made Charlin shiver. It was a pity that Saint Sebryn was not hale enough to do his own unsavory errands. The abbot might be convinced of this creature's good faith, but the unearthliness of the Elf made Charlin's instincts scream otherwise.

  “Of course not.” Charlin almost choked on his words. A cough exacerbated his discomfort.

  The Elf filled a cup from a pitcher and passed it to Charlin. He sipped, then sipped some more. The beverage was like a wine, but Charlin didn’t recognize the fruit. An aftertaste of something sweet and delicate lingered—honey perhaps. It was rather good, and it softened his cough.

  “It’s one of my few luxuries from home,” the Elf said. “You were saying?”

  “Saint Sebryn wants your help to find the politician’s daughter. On the same day she vanished, some wandering traders—we call them Jinglemen—visited the village. They may have abducted her.” Charlin’s cheeks reddened. “If that's the case, then they hold another hostage—my brother. He secured passage with them to Formicary.”

  “Why do the Pigsknucklers not pursue these Jinglemen?”

  Charlin took a deep breath. “They don’t suspect the Jinglemen. The Pigsknucklers believe the Gilt Spider took her.”

  “You didn’t disabuse them of this fallacy?”

  “The decision was Saint Sebryn's. The Pigsknucklers must not suspect this arrangement.” Charlin waved one hand vaguely around the cavern.

  There was a hint of impertinence in the Elf’s wan smile. “But surely they would accept such an insight as a saintly miracle. The Pigsknucklers could pursue the Jinglemen, and I could be left in peace.”

  This interrogation was irksome. Nobody else would dare question a saint’s decision. “To claim a miracle where there is none is a terrible sin. Besides, by now the Jinglemen are well beyond the reach of Pigsknuckle. Any pursuit by the Pigsknucklers would have to be negotiated with the other villages along the Jinglemen’s route, and of course, with the monasteries to which those villages owe allegiance. Progress would be slow at best. It may also lead to unanswerable questions from other saints.”

  The Elf raised an eyebrow. “Unanswerable questions?”

  “We cannot lie under any circumstances, as you know. The best we can do is to avoid the truth.”

  “Indeed. If I find the Jinglemen, and they have your missing girl, what am I to do? I took a vow of pacifism. My reputation alone may not be enough to free her.”

  “Saint Sebryn has instructed me to release you from your oath, if you are willing.” It was sickening to loose the Gilt Spider again upon an unsuspecting world, but this creature might be Grael's only hope.

  The Elf was silent for the longest time before he spoke. “I will do as Saint Sebryn wishes.”

  Charlin slipped Saint Sebryn’s scroll from inside his cassock. He unrolled it and read the beginning. “Place your hands on the furka.” His voice trembled as he began the convoluted rite to absolve the creature of its sacred pledge.

  2

  The unlucky, the foolish, the bold,

  The Gilt Spider’s latest prey await,

  Enshrouded in webs of silken gold,

  Their snarer’s keen blade to carve their fate.

  FROM ALACKALAS AND THE FAIR PRINCESS.

  Days turned with the wagon’s wheels, slow, grinding, and unmerciful. Whenever the vehicle stuck in mud or hit an obstacle, Grael became another beast of burden. The rest of the time, the wagon dragged him along, wringing out his last vestiges of hope.

  Hackit took a particular dislike to him, seizing every opportunity to goad him with his whip. Once, early on, Harath made the mistake of trying to stay Hackit’s hand.

  “Leave him alone,” she had blurted as the leather seared Grael’s shoulder, forcing him to his knees.

  “Leave him alone,” Hackit repeated, raising a finger with each word. As each finger curled back into his palm, the whip flicked at Grael. The first blow left him face down in the dirt. He squirmed as the second and third lashes struck his back.

  “Anything else to say, deary?” Hackit asked. “Mm? Mm? I thought not. As for you, boy, if you don’t get to your feet now, you never will.”

  After that she never intervened again, but whenever Hackit lashed Grael, the concern in her gray-green eyes salved the sting. The foul old lecher ignored Harath most of the time, probably out of fear for what Tarum Sire might do, should he damage her. Scars would lower her worth to Formicary’s whoremongers.

  Every evening, Grael watched the Jinglemen gather around the fire to eat and swap the same old bawdy tales and grubby dreams of wealth and sexual adventure.

  Tarum Sire was deaf to his men’s pleas for grog. “In a foreign land it is best to stay sober,” he growled when pushed on the subject.

  Their dry revelry soon lapsed into listlessness, and one by one, they drifted away to their bunks to sleep off the night.

  This enforced temperance was a great comfort to Grael. He shuddered at the possible drunken antics of such coarse imaginations. Particularly with a beautiful woman in tow.

  But Hackit was the most persistent petitioner, the most plaintive, the most fawning. “It’s bitter cold,” he lisped one evening as he stroked his dirty beard. “It makes my old bones shiver. I could use a little something to warm me up.”

  Grael held his breath. Would Hackit succeed this time?

  “Drink
your tea then,” Tarum Sire grunted.

  “Ah, Sire, tea might burn fingers and sting the mouth, but it goes cold in the belly. I need a proper warmth there. Something to last through the night.”

  Tarum Sire pointed to the fire. “Eat it, if you must.”

  “What?”

  “Eat the flame. Like one of those fire swallowers in Formicary. Then you will have plenty of heat in your belly.”

  Grael exhaled as the Jinglemen snickered at Hackit’s expense. On other occasions, such gentle teasing had been sufficient to silence the old Jingleman.

  But not this night.

  “True, Sire,” Hackit said. “The flame looks right warming, no mistake. But there’s one problem. I might singe my beard.”

  Grael tensed at the Jinglemen’s chuckles.

  “Hackit’s beard’s so greasy, if it caught fire, it’d burn like a candle,” Scaral, the heavy Jingleman with drooping eyelids, said, patting Hackit on the shoulder.

  Hackit grinned, exposing his sparse, rotten teeth. “Ah, please, Sire. One sip of firewater, enough to moisten the tongue and fortify the stomach, and I’ll be happy for the rest of the trip. You won’t hear another word from me. I promise by the Seven Lights.”

  “Go on, Sire,” Gristle said. His fingers played with the copper beads in his long, silver beard. “Nobody has ever seen Hackit happy before.”

  “I don’t know if I can take Hackit being happy,” Tarum Sire said with a devilish grin. “Or recognize him, for that matter.”

  “Never mind about making him happy,” Scaral said. “Making him shut up all the way back to Formicary—that’s worth a few sips of liquor.”

  “Sips?” Tarum Sire repeated.

  “It’s bad for a man to drink alone,” Gristle said, his face radiating mock innocence as his hand polished his bald pate. “Unhealthy. Would you not agree, lads?”

  Exaggerated nods and playful smiles expressed hearty approval for the sentiment. A few licked parched lips at the prospect.

  As Tarum Sire played with his mustache, Grael silently begged the Forelight. For the love of your servants, keep this unbeliever from succumbing to this temptation. This once. Please.

  Tarum slowly rose to his feet, sauntered to one of the wagons, and retrieved a small ceramic jar. The other Jinglemen, giggling like naughty children, scattered and sacked their belongings, mustering a variety of cups and bowls to receive the precious libation.

  “Where’s your cup, Sire?” Hackit asked as his leader uncapped the jar.

  “Someone needs to stay sober enough to stand guard,” Tarum Sire said.

  “Aye. Someone does, but not you, Sire. Let Kaven do it.”

  Kaven, who was hardly older than Grael, expressed his disapproval with a violent howl. But the others pacified him with effusive praise for his sacrifice and solemn promises of recompense.

  Grudgingly, Tarum Sire collected his drinking vessel—an ornate bronze goblet. He poured some of the jar’s contents into it. Nodding in the direction of his prisoners, he raised his goblet. He gulped down a mouthful of the spirit with wolfish pleasure.

  Grael’s heart shriveled. So this was how the Forelight answered his prayer. He had been stupid to hope for more. Miracles were for saints, not for common folk like him.

  The other Jinglemen roared with pleasure, passed the jar around, and toasted the munificence of their leader. The jar emptied quickly and was discarded, and the sullen Kaven was dispatched to fetch another.

  Harath thrashed about in the back of the wagon in a frenzied effort to loosen her binds. Spurred by her efforts, Grael strained against the rope around his wrists, biting and gnawing at it with rabid fervor, though it was too stout to break.

  The Jinglemen jeered at his exertion till the sting of Hackit’s whip ended it.

  “Enough!” Hackit snapped. “Can’t even have a drink in peace. This is what I get for being so nice.” He grabbed Grael by the hair, dragged him over to one of the wagon wheels, and seizing another rope, wrapped it around his neck.

  As the noose closed, Grael kicked and screamed. Hackit punched his face and pulled the rope so tight that every breath hurt his throat. Grael tried to pull it with his bound hands, but the futile attempt only tightened the noose.

  The Jinglemen laughed and joked, thoroughly entertained.

  “Lashed to the wheel, you won’t be going anywhere tonight. That’s for certain,” Hackit said. “As for your girlfriend…” He unwrapped a stained, ragged cloth from around his wrist. Its original colors of white and blue were barely distinguishable.

  Grael’s neck burned as he twisted his head to get a glimpse of what was happening in the wagon. His inability to see either Harath or Hackit emphasized his helplessness.

  “Remember this,” Hackit said.

  The wagon creaked and groaned as Harath struggled with the Jingleman. Hackit squealed with delight as her screams choked off. His colleagues clapped and cheered and toasted Hackit’s prowess.

  “Thanks to you, deary, we’ve been dry a long time,” Hackit murmured. “The sire was afraid if we got too boisterous we might knock down your value. Of course, the sire is the worst drunkard among us. Once he gets a taste of the liquid fire, he cannot stop himself from having another and another. That’s why I made sure he joined our little celebration. Sober, he was likely to cut it short. Don’t worry. When he is nicely tipsy, I’ll remind him you’re here waiting for him. After he’s had his sport, there’ll be no reason the rest of us can’t.” Hackit’s chuckle decomposed into coughing and spluttering.

  Grael chewed again on the knot holding his wrists, more out of frustration than any hope of freeing his hands. He was nothing more than an audience to Harath’s danger.

  “I bet you’re sorry now you begged us to take you from your village,” Hackit croaked as he plodded back to the campfire.

  Shock halted Grael’s biting a moment. The tilt of Hackit’s head indicated the comment had been directed at Harath, not Grael. The notion of her begging vagabonds such as these to whisk her away to some foreign land was beyond scandalous. It was preposterous. The woman in the wagon could not be the daughter of the Politician of Pigsknuckle. She had to be an Elfin impostor, a changeling of some sort. And yet, Grael’s heart vouched that his fellow prisoner was the genuine Harath Melkath. Why would she choose to leave her village in such a sordid fashion?

  He continued to gnaw on the bindings despite the scrape of the noose against his throat with his jaw’s every movement.

  The mountains snuffed out the sun. Clouds crept across the sky and blotted out stars just glimmering to life. Soon, only the campfire pierced a little corner of the implacable, starless night. The Jinglemen’s merrymaking became more rambunctious with every clink of an empty jar striking its discarded predecessors. Even the luckless Kaven sneaked a few swigs of forbidden spirit.

  Conversations became incoherent, random, and sodden. Scaral’s rambling, pointless story about a one-legged whore in Formicary was cut short by the brothers Chalas and Asurach, who were inspired to fart a tune from the grassy plains of their birth. Gristle and a wiry, bow-legged man called Anorsop had to be held apart after Anorsop took offense at Gristle’s urinating on his wagon. The next instant, when one of their comrades fell on the fire, their feud dissolved in manic laughter.

  Grael spat out the few broken fibers in his mouth and studied his bindings. The rope exhibited little evidence of his effort.

  Tarum Sire hushed the others as though trying to bring some decorum to the proceedings, but then started a rendition of an old fireside favorite: the difference between riding a woman and riding a horse.

  “You know, you could show us,” Hackit slurred. “You’ve a horse, and you’ve a woman yonder.”

  “I doubt you could tell them apart, you old codger,” Tarum said, guffawing and pounding Hackit’s back.

  The gathering convulsed in laughter.

  Grael exhaled a trembling breath as the moment of danger passed and the high jinks swept onward. A few revelers played a
knife game till they tired of nicking their fingers, while others danced sloppy jigs to the contorting tune of Gristle’s flute. Chalas and Asurach wrestled. Scaral crawled into the bushes and vomited. Kaven forgot all pretense of being sober.

  Tarum Sire rose to his feet and turned his back on the merriment. Hackit’s rotten grin was ugly with triumph as Tarum wobbled toward the prisoners’ wagon.

  “She won’t be worth much after you finish with her,” Grael said. It was a heinous argument, but he had no other. “Would you rob yourself of a fortune for a few moments of pleasure?”

  Tarum paused. With his back to the fire, he was an impenetrable black mass. “You may be speaking good sense. Unfortunately, my balls are deaf to your advice.” He chuckled and walked by Grael and out of sight behind the wagon.

  “Beloved Forelight, save your innocent servant from this heathen!” Grael pleaded. “If you are to ever answer one prayer, let it be this one. Please!”

  As Harath gave a muffled scream, Grael punched the side of the wagon with his bound hands and kicked his legs in frustration. The rope around his neck pinched his throat as her scuffle with the Jingleman shuddered through the wagon. The defeated Tarum emitted a pained groan as he fell from the back of the vehicle and thudded against the ground.

  As Tarum climbed to his feet, his stream of curses dissolved into booming laughter. “Damn, woman, you kick like a mule.” His voice brimmed with reluctant admiration. “You’ve more spirit than the rock breaker fastened to the wheel. Maybe I won’t throw you to the others when I’m finished. Maybe I’ll make you my wife.”

  Harath let out a defiant growl. She flailed and kicked the sides of the wagon as Tarum staggered toward it.

  “If you hurt her, I’ll kill you!” Grael yelled.

  Tarum took no notice. The other Jinglemen cackled and guffawed.