The Path to the Sun (The Fallen Shadows Trilogy)

by Kimberli Bindschatel

  The Temple rose up from the landscape with its high-reaching stone walls and steep roof. Surrounded by the Temple Gardens, it was an oasis of green amid a world of brown.

  Ding-dong-ong-ong, the bells rang out, echoing across the valley.

  “Look at them all,” Jandon said. Throngs of people were arriving from every direction—farmers and their wives with dirty-faced children in tow, craftsmen wearing their leather work smocks, shepherds called from the hills, dirt on their bare feet—all traveling with a singular purpose, all summoned by the bells.

  Kiran wondered how close he would be able to get. During the weekly worship, he would sit outside the south window where he could sometimes hear the blessings. Today it would be too crowded.

  As they neared the Temple, Jandon turned toward the village well. Kiran glanced down the path. Bria’s green eyes met his and his breath caught in his throat. He quickly turned away.

  “Aren’t you thirsty?” Jandon asked. He glanced toward the well. “C’mon. She won’t bite.” Kiran inhaled a long, calming breath, then followed, his eyes on Jandon’s boots. When he looked up again, Bria was standing right next to him.

  “Hi, Kiran.”

  “Oh, h-hi,” he stuttered and dropped his eyes to his hands. Her arm brushed his as she moved to let others pass. She was so close he was sure she could hear his heart pounding. Many mornings he had wandered the hills, hopeful to catch a glimpse of her as she tended her flock, but he never had the nerve to say hello. Now, she was inches away, smiling at him, her cheeks rosy from the heat, her deep green eyes alive and sparkling.

  … like The Stone, he thought.

  “Hi Bria,” Jandon said, his gaze direct, unflinching.

  “Oh, hi Jandon.” She looked back to Kiran. “You boys are dripping sweat. What have you been up to?”

  “Nothing,” Jandon said too quickly, wiping his forehead. “Just obeying the summons.” He flashed a smile. “How did you get down here from the mountain meadow looking so fresh and beautiful?”

  She seemed not to notice the compliment. “The mountain meadow’s barren. We’ve been forced down into the valley. Only it’s not much better. My sheep lick the sand, trying to find water where there is none.”

  “But if you overgraze the valley now, what will happen come winter?”

  “What would you have me do? Move into the woods? Into Javinian territory? There’s no choice either way.” She nodded toward the Temple. “The drought is worse than they would admit. It’s time they do something about it.”

  The bells rang again. “Perhaps they are. Shall we go find out?” Jandon offered her his arm.

  She nodded and turned to Kiran, expectant. In that fleeting moment he saw all of her in excruciating detail—how the curls of her soft, red hair fell around her face, her tunic pulled snug at her waist, the dirt on her small, bare feet—and reality seemed to fall away, as though she might take his arm instead.

  But that would never happen.

  “See you later, Kiran,” Jandon said and led Bria away.

  Kiran watched them go, his heart sinking. He headed down the road, hoping to get close to the Temple before being run off.

  The bustle of the crowd reminded him of market days when he was a child. Shepherds would drive their flocks directly to butcher, and families would come to exchange eggs, milk, and grain. Craftsmen filled the row of narrow stalls that lined the street. Now, the stall doors hung askew from their broken hinges, the roofs rotten and sagging. Only ghosts passed through those doors.

  Kiran rounded the corner and slipped into the Temple Gardens where he saw Old Horan standing near the back entrance. He hesitated, licking salty droplets from his lip, worried what might happen if he were seen with him. He liked the old man. Once he had saved Kiran’s dog from a fight with a porcupine. Children teased him, calling him the one-eyed ogre. Adults stayed clear of his path. Some accused him of eating from the sea, but there was no evidence; he had none of the telltale lesions.

  Years ago, Old Horan was to be an Elder, but something happened, something no one spoke of. Townsfolk whispered that, through the dark abyss that was his empty eye socket, he could see the future. Kiran had visited him many times, asking for his weather forecast. Old Horan could predict a storm ten days out, but no one else paid him any mind.

  “Beware. The pulse of life ebbs,” the old man warned, his one good eye fixed on Kiran. “The earth sickens and the snake bites. The ground is covered with thorns. To dust we shall go.”

  Old Horan was in one of his moods.

  His bearded, disfigured face furrowed with concern. “Someone must go. Someone must go,” he muttered, clucking his tongue.

  Kiran glanced back the way he had come, wondering if he could slip away without upsetting the old man.

  Old Horan seized him by the shoulders, his bony fingers digging into his flesh. “You will see,” he said and pushed Kiran through the door and into a tiny side room. He eased the door shut behind them.

  As Kiran’s eyes adjusted to the dark, he saw the shelf piled with scrolls. “We’re not supposed to be in here,” he whispered.

  Old Horan brought his finger to his lips, then pointed to a crack high up in the wall where light seeped through. He pushed two stools to the wall, climbed atop one, then gestured for Kiran to do the same.

  Kiran pressed his nose against the wall and peered through the opening. They were directly behind the altar. A small boy was lighting the candles, which were wrapped in garlands of fresh flowers, yellow and orange.

  Kiran looked at Old Horan.

  The old man grinned.

  Kiran turned back to the crack, his hands on the cool stone wall. The Temple’s inner chamber was bigger than he imagined. Shutters in the timbered ceiling had been thrown open and shafts of sunlight crisscrossed, cutting through the stale air. Curious whispers blended with the sound of shuffling feet as the villagers filed down the rows of long, backless pews, cramming in like sheep in a pen.

  From beside the altar platform came a chant in the deep, guttural language of the Elders. A hush came over the crowd and the followers rose to their feet. The chant grew in crescendo, reverberating through the Temple, as one by one the six Elders appeared on the altar platform. They were not in the usual purple cloaks that were worn at the weekly Worship of the Followers. Today, they were clad in full-length, white ceremonial robes.

  Around and around they proceeded in a circle of worship, their robes brushing the floor, appearing as though they floated with divine grace. With each rotation their chant rose to a melodic symphony, then receded again to a deep, soothing resonance.

  As he did so often, Kiran imagined how it would feel to be an Elder. He envisioned the day that he would be bestowed with the ultimate confirmation of dedication to the Great Father—the robe. He could smell the wool, feel the soft textile against his skin as it was ceremoniously draped across his shoulders, and the familiar gladness filled his heart as he imagined being uplifted by His Grace. Some day, he would pass into the realm of the Chosen. Some day. Then, he would know he was worthy, he would know who he was. Every worship day, seeing the Elders dressed in their robes, his dreams were rekindled.

  The chant rose in crescendo once more, then came to an abrupt end. All was silent. The congregation watched in reverence, but with an air of detachment, it seemed. Was he the only one who didn’t know what was going on? He searched their eyes for signs of concern, but saw only solace.

  Old Horan’s lips were moving, silently proselytizing, and a foreboding welled up inside Kiran. What did he know that the others didn’t?

  The Elders formed a line on the edge of the altar platform, their heads bowed like reverent statues, their faces lost within the hoods of their pure white robes. Aldwyn stood in the center, looking out over his congregation. He raised his hands, indicating to the followers to kneel, and they faithfully obeyed.

  His voice boomed through the chamber. “You have been summoned to the Temple today with grave concern. In condemnation of our
sins, this drought has been cast upon us. We cannot survive another barren harvest. In this, our time of peril, we must act. Therefore, it is decreed that seven of our youth shall set forth into the Land Unknown on a pilgrimage to the dwelling place of the Voice of the Father.”

  His words sent ripples of dissonant voices spreading through the crowd. A shiver of anxiety came over Kiran. The Land Unknown. No one traveled there. Ever. Demons lurked out there, evil Mawghuls that dwelled in dark places.

  “Ah, the prophecy. Only suffering to be had,” Old Horan sputtered away, prognosticating in his disjointed way. “Only suffering and sacrifice.”

  Aldwyn raised his hands, calling for silence. “They shall beg forgiveness for our sins and return with the blessing, as foretold in the Script of the Legend.”

  Old Horan inched next to him, his voice, low and raspy, “To certain doom, the lot of them… To certain doom.” Then he laughed.

  Kiran shrank back.

  Aldwyn unrolled a new scroll and held it out before him. “Those who have been bestowed with the honor of this quest are as follows: Jandon, son of Hagen.”

  Jandon?

  Somewhere in the midst, Jandon’s mother cried out.

  There must be some mistake, Kiran thought. Jandon was a simple farm boy with dirty trousers and bad manners. His only true skill was wooing the girls and keeping far from the watchful eyes of the Elders. Why would he be chosen?

  Kiran spotted Jandon in the crowd. His mother seized him in her chubby arms and pulled him to her bosom, sobbing. His eyes darted side to side, seeking an escape. Aldwyn motioned for him to approach the altar. He pushed his mother aside and made his way through the crowd.

  Old Horan wagged his tongue from side to side and mumbled, “So, it begins.”

  Kiran stared at the old man. “What begins?”

  A wicked grin spread across his wrinkled face. Kiran turned back to the crack in the wall.

  Jandon ascended the stairs to the altar platform and, as he proceeded toward Aldwyn, each Elder in turn bowed in blessing as he passed. Jandon looked as though he thought his soul might be snatched from him on the spot.

  What an honor, Kiran thought. A real pilgrimage! He’d give anything to be able to go in Jandon’s place. If he’d been chosen, he’d run to the altar, his head held high. If only I was a Toran…

  “Deke, son of Morgan,” Aldwyn continued. Heads nodded and the chatter increased.

  Deke sprang from the pew and marched straight up the stairs toward the altar with a smug grin on his face. He took his place next to Jandon. Unease crept over Kiran. Deke wasn’t surprised. He had known. He had known all along.

  “Kail, daughter of Alicion.” The announcement brought more gasps. Kiran was surprised, too. A girl? And not only that, she was the Flower Bearer, chosen as a young child to tend the Gardens of the Father and provide the floral offerings. Why would she be chosen for this quest? Certainly she wouldn’t last a day in the wild, this fragile young girl with long blond hair and rosy cheeks. It didn’t make sense.

  “Innocent and pure,” whispered Old Horan. “Innocent and pure.”

  Kail’s parents smiled with pride. Her mother said something through clenched teeth. Kail jerked upright, correcting her posture, and moved toward the altar.

  Aldwyn appeared to give up trying to keep the calm. He simply raised his voice over the bedlam. “Bhau, son of Sanders.” Kiran knew Bhau well. He had been on the Mount with him earlier. He didn’t like him much, but he was a strong boy, with broad shoulders and thick legs, dedicated to be a warrior, to fight in the name of the Great Father. It made sense that he would be selected. He looked the oaf now as he stood there, dumbfounded that his name had been called. His brother, Tobin, standing next to him, gave him a shove to get him moving.

  “Bria, daughter of Laird,” Aldwyn called out. Kiran felt a jolt go through him as though he’d been struck by a hammer. He gripped the stone wall. It can’t be! He searched the crowd for her. No, not her, he silently pleaded. Not her!

  He caught sight of her moving through the crowd, her red curls swaying side to side. The Elders bowed to her as she floated past them and took her place next to Jandon. Handsome Jandon.

  Old Horan mumbled, “The matriarch. The mother to be.” Kiran turned to face him, shaking. He hated the old man in that moment, despised him with every part of his being. He wanted to shout at the top of his voice, “Shut up!”

  None of this made any sense. Jandon? And Bria? What’s going on? Why were they chosen?

  He leaned back to the crack in the wall. Aldwyn shifted his stance. “Rohders,” he said and seemed to stand a little taller. Elder Morgan turned toward Elder Wregan and Kiran was sure he caught a look of surprise exchanged between them.

  Aldwyn’s voice called again. “And Kiran.”

  Gasps erupted among the villagers.

  What? Did Aldwyn just say… Kiran?

  Elder Morgan swung around, shaking with restrained fury. He looked right at the crack in the wall and Kiran sprang back.

  “To your end and back again,” came the haunting voice of Old Horan.

  Kiran scrambled back to the crack. Aldwyn was rolling up the scroll. He slid it into its mantle with a definitive nod. It was done.

  Elder Wregan had his eyes on Elder Morgan as though he expected him to do something, say something.

  What’s going on? Had Aldwyn gone against the other Elders?

  Elder Beryl stepped forward. “Someone find the boy.”

  Old Horan gave Kiran a nudge.

  Kiran shook his head. “There must be some mistake.”

  Old Horan grabbed him by the arm and dragged him down from the stool. “Go on now.” He shoved him toward the door.

  In a daze, Kiran made his way around the building to the front entrance. The crowd parted as he passed through the narrow vestibule and into the immense inner chamber. All at once, the congregation turned to stare at him. His throat went dry. The chamber stretched out before him, the altar so far in the distance it seemed impossible to reach. Kiran tried to take a step. It required all his attention to lift one foot then set it down again. All the while, faces hovered around him—watching, judging, scrutinizing. Somehow, he continued. The people seemed to move past him instead of the other way around as muffled voices swirled around his head in a haze of whispers. The bastard child? On a pilgrimage? He’s not even a true Toran. The words, flinging through the air, stung like sleet, and he winced, again and again.

  At last, he reached the altar and took his place among the others, standing still as a stone. He couldn’t face the congregation, all those people. He looked over his shoulder, above the altar. He could feel that one knowing eye looking down on him. Kiran’s throat tightened. Does that old man really have the power of foresight?

  Aldwyn addressed the pilgrims. “Together, you shall bear the Voice of the Father with humility and dignity, for our fate is in your keeping. Make haste in your preparations. Time is of the essence. In one week’s time, you shall go forth. With diligent prayer, we will await your safe return with the blessings of the Great, All-Powerful Father.”

  A cacophony of voices broke out. The villagers bustled about, everyone in a hurry to consult with everyone else. Heads nodded, hands waved in animated gestures, fingers pointed. Kiran stood motionless, taking it all in as if in a dream. He wasn’t sure if they were celebrating or in a panic; the feelings and action blended together in a flurry.

  Aldwyn laid his hand on Kiran’s shoulder. He drew in a breath, as if he were about to say something, then simply smiled. Kiran fought the urge to let loose his flurry of questions.

  Elder Morgan took hold of Aldwyn’s arm. “We need to talk,” he growled.

  Aldwyn pulled away. “What’s done is done.”

  Deke appeared next to Elder Morgan, his head held high. “What’s wrong, Father?”

  “Nothing that can’t be made right,” Morgan said. He turned from Aldwyn and put an arm around his son and patted his shoulder, pride in his eyes. They w
alked down the altar stairs, arm in arm, the elder’s robe swaying behind them.

  “What’s going on?” Kiran whispered to Aldwyn.

  Aldwyn gave him a reassuring smile and squeezed his arm. “We’ll talk later,” he said and turned to follow the others.

  The other pilgrims disappeared in the crowd, their families gathering around to praise them.

  Kiran stood alone, looking out over the congregation. Everyone had somewhere to go, someone to be with. He thrust his chin forward, threw his shoulders back, and headed toward the stairs.

  No one waited there to praise him.

  Chapter 3

  Kiran paced the floor of their home until finally the door opened and Aldwyn stepped in.

  Kiran threw his hands in the air. “What happened in the Temple?”

  Aldwyn went straight to the washbasin and splashed water on his face.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Your chores?”

  “They’re done.”

  “The chickens fed? Water hauled?”

  “Yes, now tell me.”

  Aldwyn spun around. “Don’t you take that tone with me, young man.”

  Kiran dropped his gaze to the floor. “Yes, sir.”

  Aldwyn wiped his face with a towel. He hauled a rucksack from the corner and dumped the contents on the plank table. “You have preparations to make. Look over what I’ve packed for you.”

  Kiran plopped down on the bench and sifted through the pile. There was a waterskin, several small pouches of salt, a fork and spoon, a wooden cup, a tinderbox and a leather pouch stuffed with dry tinder, a length of rope, a short knife, a darning needle, a chunk of soap. “Do I need all this?”

  “Is there anything there that you can go without?”

  “How would I know?” He turned the tinderbox over in his hands, then set it down and picked up a pouch of salt. “I can’t imagine why I’d need so much salt.”