The Light Within: A Winter's Tale

THE LIGHT WITHIN

A WINTER’S TALE

by

Grace Draven

The Light Within - Copyright © 2014 by Grace
Draven.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication
may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including
photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the
prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief
quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses
permitted by copyright law.

Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction.
Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s
imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric
purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses,
companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

Dedicated to my sister Kim, for whom this short story was
written and published.

~!~!~!~!~

Silhara guided Gnat along the path that wound high into the
Dramorins, one hand on the reins, the other on Martise’s back as she rode
reverse in the saddle, huddled against him for warmth.  A line of shaggy,
sure-footed Kurman ponies clopped ahead of them and behind them, their riders
bright splashes of color in the snowy terrain.

The great firs hemming either side of the pass towered above them
like dark sentinels, their branches bowed in shrouds of snow.  They creaked and
swayed in the wind that sent flurries spinning and dancing through the air
before landing on horses and riders.  The trees blocked the worst of the wind,
but a few stray gusts broke through the shield of foliage and whistled down the
pass, straight as an arrow and just as piercing.

Martise lifted her head from the shelter offered by Silhara’s heavy
winter cloak and his embrace.  “I thought the plains winds were harsh.  These
cut like knives.”  She formed the words around chattering teeth.  The tip of
her nose was bright red, and she shivered hard in his arms.

Silhara braced for the inevitable cold shock of her gloved hands
as they skittered up his sides to burrow under his arms.  He joined her in the
shivering.  “Those hands of yours are icier than a wraith’s touch.”

“That’s because I’m nearly frozen to death.”  She abandoned his
underarms to map paths down his sides towards his breeches lacings.

He seized one of her wrists.  “Don’t even consider it,” he
warned.  “I don’t want to be pissing ice chips later.”  The thought of his
wife’s cold fingers wrapping around his genitals for warmth made his bollocks
draw up tight.

Martise tugged, still trying to tuck her hands into his
breeches.  “I can’t get my fingers warm.”

Silhara lifted her captured hand to his mouth, tugged aside the
glove and blew into the space between palm and covering.  Martise slumped in
his arms and moaned her approval.  He did the same for her other hand before
nestling them back under his arms and giving her a stern warning not to go
anywhere near his groin.

Swathed in layers of wool, fur and a hooded cloak, Martise hid
her face in Silhara’s chest and laughed.  The sound sent pleasant vibrations
through his torso.  “Better?” he asked.

“Much.  You have a soft heart.”

He frowned.  “No need to be insulting.”  He felt her laughter
once more, followed by muffled words.  “What did you say?” he asked.

She raised her head and frowned back at him.  A tiny snowflake
blew into her eyelashes, and she blinked it away.  “How much farther to the
avastra
?”

He looked beyond her shoulder to the head of the line as it wound
through a col between two of the Dramorin peaks.  “Not far.  There’s a wind gap
coming up that opens onto a ruin and the fire temple itself.  You’ll know we’re
there when you hear the gate bell ring.”

Every year the nine principal tribes that made up the loosely
knitted Kurman confederation gathered for three days to honor their god Damaza,
Light of the Spirit in a ritual known as
Sehad
.  For those three days,
the tribes put aside their clan squabbles and territorial disputes and
celebrated the winter fire ritual together in relatively peaceful
camaraderie—if one didn’t count the occasional drunken brawl or impromptu
wrestling challenges in the snow.

Silhara had attended five
sehads
since he united with his
father’s people and had been eager to bring Martise to one so she might witness
the lighting of the great bonfire and join him in the festivities afterwards. 
They had much to celebrate, he and his wife.  She was a free woman, complete
and independent in body and soul.  Silhara couldn’t think of a more befitting
way to recognize her emancipation than to attend a ritual for a god known as
Light of the Spirit.

 He heard the first peal of the gate bell before he saw the wind
gap.  He steered Gnat off the main path and brought him to a halt.  The big
draught horse snorted his disapproval and tossed his head, eager to rejoin the
much smaller ponies in their procession toward the
avastra
.

“Patience, you overgrown dog.”  Silhara patted him on the neck. 
“This will take only a moment.”

Martise emerged from her woolen cocoon.  “What are you doing?”

Silhara untangled her from around him and slid out of the
saddle.  He motioned to her to dismount.  “Turning you around.  We’re about to
enter the wind gap.  It opens to the
avastra
; you don’t want to miss
that first sight.”

They were remounted and back in the procession in moments,
Martise still in front of Silhara in the saddle but facing forward so she might
have a clear view of her surroundings.  They passed through a narrow wind gap
carved out of the mountain by an ancient stream that left its memory in the
rock’s rippled face.  Snow flurries faded to the occasional lazy drift of
flakes that found their way into the opening.  The peal of the bell grew louder
as they rode further into the gap.

The gap widened and sheared away, opening onto a semicircular
space, protected from the wind on all sides by sheer rock walls but open to the
sky.  A bell mounted on an iron pole driven into the ground hung at the edge of
the wind gap.  A young boy stood next to it with a clapper.  Each time a rider
emerged from the gap, he’d strike the bell, announcing the arrival of another
sehad
participant.

Silhara’s mouth curved up into a satisfied smile at Martise’s
gasp when they entered the
avastra’s
open space.  He had experienced the
same wonder when he first saw it years earlier.  Like the dry stream that had
cleaved both path and memory into the mountain, those who lived here long ago
had left their mark.

A ruin as old as Neith, if not older, the only things remaining
were those bits of architecture carved directly into the mountain.  The stream
was the water source, the gap an easily defended access point.  What wooden
buildings might have existed had rotted away, leaving only dust.  The Kurmans
had appropriated the ruin as their fire temple generations before Silhara was
born and left clues of their occupation in the scorch patterns that blackened
the hard packed earth from the annual
sehad
bonfires.

The
avastra
teemed with people—Kurmans of all nine tribes
in their colorful garb.  New arrivals called out to friends and relatives. 
Embraces were exchanged, cups of
arkii
passed around, invitations
extended to share the smaller camp fires built away from the colossal heap of
wood and silver thorn kindling set in the center of the
avastra
.  Nine
spirit torches, each representing a tribe, ringed the
avastra’s
inner
circle, waiting to be lit with the bonfire’s sacred flame and carried home to
share amongst the tribe’s hearth fires.  Silhara’s stomach rumbled at the
scents steaming from the various cooking pots tended by the women, and the
alluring perfume of
matal
tobacco drifting from long-stemmed pipes
teased his nostrils.

Martise ignored all of it.  She squirmed in the saddle,
excitement obvious in her voice when she half turned to him.  “Guide Gnat to
that column.”  She pointed to one of the pillars hewn out of the rock. 
Tendrils of dead silver thorn covered most of its face, obscuring the symbols
carved from its capital to its base.

Silhara steered Gnat to where she pointed.  Martise scraped away
the brittle vines with a gloved hand and leaned out of the saddle for a closer
look.  Her lips moved silently as she deciphered the symbols.

“What do they say?”  Silhara was virtually unequaled in his
ability to invoke and wield magic, but he was no translator.  Such expertise fell
to his wife whose gift for languages never failed to amaze him.

His eyebrows shot up when Martise held up a finger in silent
command to wait.  She climbed off Gnat to crouch at the column’s base and read
the remaining symbols.  She glanced up at Silhara, her copper colored eyes
glinting in the winter half light.  “This is what remains of the fortress known
as High Salure, an outpost of the Beladine kingdom.”

Silhara glanced at his surroundings.  His first impression of the
avastra
was that it had been a fortress of some type.  The ancient
kingdom of Belawat had vanished a long time ago, but Conclave kept records of
its existence, recorded by the priests during Conclave’s inaugural days. 
Belawat had lain on the other side of the Dramorins.  This far outpost must
have guarded an important border, overseen by a border warden.  Destroyed,
abandoned or both, it now served as a makeshift temple for the nomadic Kurman
who gathered once a year to honor Damaza with fire.

“Martise!  Martise!”  A chorus of feminine voices called out over
the pealing bell, the bleat of livestock and shouts of people.

Silhara caught sight of a group of Kurman women hurrying toward
them and promptly backed Gnat away from Martise.  She grinned at Silhara. 
“Fleeing?”

He bowed to her from his high perch on Gnat.  “I have an acute
instinct for survival.  I’ll leave you to them.”  He did as she accused and
fled for the safety of the makeshift paddock built for the ponies in a far
corner of the
avastra
.

He hardly had Gnat unsaddled before he was swarmed by a horde of
tribesmen.  Those who knew him personally clapped him on the back or joked with
him.  Those who knew him only by title and reputation hung back, gawking at him
with wondering expressions.  Silhara didn’t think he’d ever grow used to those
looks.

After several promises to visit the individual camps and stay for
a smoke or a cup of
arkii
, the Kurmans left him to finish with Gnat and
gather the packs he and Martise had brought for their trip to the
sehad
ritual.

“You look no more impressive to me now than when I saw you during
the summer.  The way everyone has been speaking your name, I’d at least expect
a pair of wings or maybe glowing eyes.  You’re still the ragged crow mage I’ve
always known.”

Bent to hobble Gnat, Silhara grinned at the familiar voice and
rose.  He found his acerbic aunt behind him, bundled in layered skirts and
robes of scarlet, violet and lapis.  The tiny bells sewn into her head wrap
sang a faint tintinnabulation as she leaned on one of the paddock rails and motioned
him outside to join her.

Dercima was his anchor to his father’s people.  She was fourth
consort to her tribe’s
sarsen
but ruled her chieftain husband and her
sister wives as if she wasn’t only first consort but the
sarsena
. 
Silhara kissed both of her cheeks and accepted the long-stemmed pipe she handed
him.  She lit the pipe from a tiny coal in her own pipe bowl, and soon the
scent of
matal
swirled around them, fading into the light snow flurries
that dusted the air.

Her next words reminded him again that not everyone was in awe of
him.  “Don’t embarrass me by drinking so much
arkii
that you can’t walk
straight and end up stumbling into the sacred fire.”

Silhara huffed a stream of smoke out of his nose.  “Your concern
over my possible death by drunken immolation is touching.”

They exchanged smiles and spent several quiet moments sharing the
smoke and watching the Kurmans ready for the evening bonfire.  Silhara found
Martise still amidst a pack of Kurman women, chatting as easily in Kurmanji as
if she’d been born to the language.

“It was good of you to come.”  The light jingle of the bells on
her headdress emphasized Dercima’s nod of approval.

 Silhara shrugged.  When the
sarsen
Karduk invited him as
guest of honor to the festival, he never considered refusing.  “These are my
people.”

“They think it a great honor that the god-smiter will light the
sacred fire and the nine torches.”

He rolled his eyes at her teasing tone.  “Remind me after this to
hunt down whoever dreams up these ridiculous titles so that I may eviscerate
them.  Slowly.”  He drew another long inhalation of spicy smoke and exhaled a
procession of smoke rings.  “I’m still Silhara.  Orange grower, crow mage,
houri’s bastard get.”

Dercima gazed at him from the corner of one eye.  “Let’s not
forget thief, heretic, and defrocked Conclave priest.”

“Novitiate,” he corrected.  “And are you reciting my failures or
successes?”

She chuckled before her gaze sought and found Martise.  Her
features sobered.  “And what is she, this new wife of yours?”

Silhara didn’t hesitate.  “My humanity.”

Dercima kept her eyes on Martise.  “I once told her she embraced
shadow.”

“If she remains with me, she always will.”  The notion she might
not sent an icy splinter of unease down Silhara’s spine.  He’d almost lost
Martise once.  Never again.  Not if he had a say in it.

The tiny bells chimed once more as Dercima gave him a farewell
nod.  “I’m off to welcome Martise to the
avastra
.  Don’t just stand
there like some fat prince waiting to be served.  Even god-smiters have to set
up their own tents here.”  She winked and abandoned him at the paddock.

Silhara laughed and shook his head.  He finished the bowl of
tobacco, found a clear spot not yet claimed by another Kurman family and set up
camp.  Martise joined him, built their camp fire and heated water in her cook
pot while he unpacked their gear and stored it in and beside their tent.  By
the time he finished, she had a cup of hot tea waiting for him.

He sat down beside her on a pile of straw overlaid by a small rug
to keep them dry.  Martise edged closer to him until her hip pressed to his. 
Silhara took advantage of their relative privacy to stroke her back while he
admired the way firelight highlighted her profile.  A plain woman to most eyes,
she stole his breath every time he looked at her.  “Are you ready to dance and
drink tonight until you can’t stand up?”