Ciarrah's Light

by Lou Hoffmann

  “This cannot continue.” Though he hadn’t raised his voice, something in its timbre had changed, and it seemed very powerful all by itself. “You all know that in the Sunlands we do not have an autocracy. We do not have royalty. But when the stars are right for it, we do have a Suth Chiell—Behlishan’s own blessed child. The Suth Chiell doesn’t rule—we have councils like this one and the even less effective larger one in Nedhra for that purpose. Yes, I am sorry to say it, but we have what Earthborns call a ‘bureaucracy,’ government by rule-making. Nevertheless, at such times as we have a Suth Chiell among us, we accord to him or her certain powers because of the special abilities such a one is born with—because we know those powers exist so that we all can be safer, can live better lives.”

  Without seeming to move, he suddenly was standing behind Lucky, which just about made Lucky faint. That would have been unfortunate in light of what the wizard said about him.

  “This young man right here, Luccan Elieth Perdhro, son of Lohen Chiell and nephew to Han Shieth, son of Liliana and through that line my own many times great nephew, is born for this. And should he choose to take up the mantle when it is time, he will be a Suth Chiell such as this land has not known for many centuries. And believe me when I tell you, this comes at a time when a true Suth Chiell will be sorely needed.” He set the heel of his staff firmly on the floor and took a stance that somehow spoke clearly of all the latent power Thurlock held.

  “We in the Sunlands are a free people. You do not have to love the Suth Chiell, nor do you have to do as he says—except where his word becomes law. You are free to disagree with him, gossip about him, undermine him politically, even call him names if you wish. But you are not free to harm him. You are not free to incite others to harm him. Whoever attempts to do so will be dealing not only with his considerable powers, but those of all the Sunlands forces, and mine—which, I’ve been told, are nothing to sneeze at.”

  He sat down and sipped his tea, and his size and voice returned to normal. “Are there any questions about that particular elephant?”

  Chapter Twenty-One: On Being Drakha

  AFTER THE council meeting, Lucky sat with Han and Thurlock in the common room of the inn across the small valley from the manor, enjoying a leisurely lunch. The high-ceilinged room, rich with the scent of oiled wood, fresh rushes on the floor, and savory foods, fairly boiled with discussion, debate, and laughter. In contrast, conversation at their own table stayed low and sparse. From the looks on their faces, and the looks they occasionally exchanged, Lucky assumed Thurlock and Han were eavesdropping. He tried it for a moment, but Han discouraged him with a thought.

  “Probably won’t be useful for you, lad. You don’t know these people, and don’t know what to take seriously.”

  So Lucky went back to enjoying his sandwich—sausage on a roll—and potato chips, which had caught on once Cook started serving them at the manor and were now almost a staple of the Sisterhold diet. He fed Maizie one bite for every two of his own. When he’d finished what was on his plate, he helped himself to two dark plums from the bowl in the middle of the table. When the smiling, black-bearded server had brought ale to the table, he’d brought Lucky a mug too, so when all his food was gone and the extra plums eaten, he sat back in his chair and finished his ale.

  Thurlock and Han paid him no attention until he belched.

  Then they laughed.

  Lucky could have had his feelings hurt, but honestly—it was funny. He laughed too.

  They left the inn not long after that, and as they walked toward Han’s quarters, Thurlock passed Lucky into Han’s care, saying, “You need to stay with him, Luccan. None of this wandering off you tend to do. Not right now. Not as things stand.”

  Han added, “I’m going to keep you busy, anyway, lad. The reception for the Droghona visitors has to happen tonight.”

  “Why?” Lucky asked. “I mean why the rush?”

  Thurlock scratched at his beard and gave him a puzzled look. “Well, a lot of other things need to happen—which should be fairly obvious to you—and we need to get this out of the way, first.”

  Lucky’s response had a belligerent edge to it. Not brilliant when dealing with these two powerful men, but for the moment he couldn’t help it. Thurlock sometimes made him feel stupid. “But then, why do it at all?” he challenged. “Things are bad and we’re going to have to fight the… somebody… something, so why take the time out for a fancy get-together? Just showing off?”

  “Ah,” said Thurlock. “I see I’ve offended you. Not my intent. I’ll admit, sometimes I forget you don’t have the education you should have received by now. And no, that isn’t a slight—your mind is quite capable, and you learn quickly when given a chance. At the moment you haven’t realized how extraordinary it is that Droghona elders came here at all; it’s quite an event. Even in troubled times, if we didn’t acknowledge them and the overture they’ve made with the proper decorum… well, this world is as political as any other so….”

  Thurlock launched into a lecture that within three more sentences had Lucky impatiently pushing his flopping hair off his forehead, stifling a groan.

  Han came to the rescue, boldly interrupting. “The point Thurlock is slowly getting to is that the Sunlands is a nation among others, and we always have to show respect. We’ll hurry things through, be less elaborate than we might be in better times, but the visiting elders know why—the troubles we face are why they came. Still, if we don’t formally receive them, we’ll pay for it later. Even if they’re not offended, other nations will remember.”

  “Even during a war?”

  Han closed his eyes as if the mention of war caused him pain. He said, “We’re not at war, Luccan. Not yet. And even if we will be soon, no war lasts forever.”

  “Well said, Han,” Thurlock put in, nodding sagely. “The long and the short of it—lack of diplomacy even in the face of war will cripple us when peace rolls around again.”

  For Thurlock, that was an amazingly concise statement, and it had the ring of something Lucky would need to know someday, so he let it sink in instead of arguing more.

  When the three of them arrived at Han’s small house, Thurlock said, “I’m off to the Oakridge for a moment’s communion. Rose, Khoralie, Jehnseth, and I will meet with the Droghona elders this afternoon, and then I’ll be preparing for the reception and for travel to Nedhra City. If you need me, I’ll be around. Otherwise, I’ll see the two of you tonight.”

  As he stepped away, Lucky and Han turned to mount the steps to Han’s front porch.

  “Who are Khoralie and Jehnseth?” Lucky asked.

  “Khoralie is a wizard—you probably saw her at the meeting. Short, kind of round, blue-rimmed spectacles, smiles all the time—”

  “Oh, yeah, I remember. Talks a lot.”

  “Right, but don’t let appearances fool you. She’s one of the best. And Jehnseth is something of a witch, but mostly he’s an official—a paper pusher, as Earthborns say.”

  Lucky flashed a smile, but he’d lost interest. “So what are we going to do?”

  “Right,” Han said. “I started to tell you before. I need to get you prepared and dressed for the reception tonight. I’m afraid we lingered at lunch, so we’ve only got a few hours.”

  He liked being with Han, so that was no great burden, and he liked being in Han’s little house. Once again, it reminded him of a time that now, with hindsight, seemed easy—though in reality the week he’d spent with Thurlock and Han in Earth had been anything but idyllic. While Han tended to some paperwork, Lucky sat in the only comfortable chair in the tiny living room and looked at Chiell Shan and the dragon-hide shield that hung on the wall, just as they had in Valley City. Though Lucky could have gone down a dark road thinking about what they’d meant then and how they were likely to find use in the near future, he refused to attach any meaning to them at all, for the moment, simply thinking they were beautiful, and that they somehow defined his Uncle Han’s soul.

  But wh
en Han finished with his tasks and sat down with him to talk, he didn’t like what he heard.

  “You are the Suth Chiell, and whether or not you like it, that makes you the prime diplomat of the Sunlands. This reception is a diplomatic function. You have to be there and be ready to fulfill your role.”

  Lucky snorted. “I don’t know anything! How can I be a diplomat? Besides, I’m not even Suth Chiell yet, not really.”

  Han held a hand up and wagged it side to side in a classic, “maybe, maybe not” gesture. “Perhaps I overstated. Nevertheless, you’re important. These Droghona are of very high standing among the tribes in the Fallows. They’d never say as much because it’s not their way. They don’t have titles, and they’ll adhere to decorum based on a combination of age and function, like everyone in their society. But the tattooed bands on their arms convey some very impressive information about who they are. Because of your… let’s call it rank in our society, if you don’t show up for the formal dinner tonight, correctly dressed and behaving properly, that’s a serious insult.”

  “So I don’t have any choice?”

  The incredulous look Han shot at Lucky spoke of shocked disappointment. He averted his gaze before answering. “You have a choice, Luccan. You always have a choice.”

  “You’re not going to pick me up and carry me in kicking and screaming, then?” Truly, Lucky didn’t want to go—he felt sick and tired and unprepared. But he also didn’t want to fail so soon in the vow he’d made to himself on his trip home from Gahabriohl—could it be only days ago? He feared he’d let Han down by even asking if he could skip the dinner, and he didn’t ever want to do that. So, he’d do the best he could. “Don’t answer that, Uncle Han. I was just being whiny. I’ll go and try to look and act right.”

  Han looked slightly annoyed at first, but that look got replaced with an anticipatory smile. “All right. I’m glad. I’ll need to teach you a few courtesies.”

  Lucky smiled back, but he still wasn’t looking forward to it. “You look like you’re going to enjoy this.”

  “I will!” Han stopped and met Lucky’s gaze with a new intensity. “You are my nephew, Luccan. You have two sides to your heritage. I’d like to see you learn to be proud of both of them. As the Suth Chiell of the Sunlands, everybody considers you and thinks, Ol’Karrigh. But really you don’t even look much like the rest of that bunch. This is the perfect opportunity for your Drakha side to shine. The Droghona are a related people, their culture is similar. They’ll appreciate knowing the future Suth Chiell of the Sunlands has some things in common with them.”

  “If you say so,” Lucky said, but he was secretly glad Han was so proud of their familial tie.

  “I do say so. And you know what? Thurlock says so too. So let’s get you fixed up.”

  HAN’S BATHING facilities were not nearly as magical as Thurlock’s. In fact, he had an outdoor shower that consisted of a wooden tank on a scaffolding with a spigot to let the water out, and it was cold. That was okay, though, as the day had been long and hot, and the shower didn’t have to take long. While he’d been out there, Han had gathered some things for him to wear, and Lucky started dressing while Han took his turn at the shower.

  His outfit for the reception was to have no leggings, which made him glad to at least have his loinies under the new khalta he was supposed to wear, which was just like the ones he’d worn before, except made of a rich cloth of darkest hunter green. He still hadn’t really become used to wearing the skirt-like thing, and when he first saw it laid out for him to put on, he’d tried to talk his way out of wearing it.

  “Can I do without the kilt, Han?”

  “It’s called a khalta, here, Luccan, not a kilt.”

  “Thurlock called it a kilt.”

  “Well, he probably wanted to make it easy for you. Also, he’s always going on about how the Karrish language has some common roots with the old languages on the continent of Europe in Earth. Probably they come from the same word in some ancient language, or something.”

  “Okay. But if he can call it a kilt so can I, right?”

  “Sure. Call it what you like, but yes, you need to wear it to the dinner. The buttons on this one are stamped with your emblem too.”

  “I have an emblem?”

  “Yes, Luccan! You know—the twelve-rayed sun with the sword? That’s your emblem. Why else do you think you see it everywhere?”

  If Han hadn’t been smiling—which seemed almost miraculous considering how dark and dismal everything seemed around the Sisterhold—Luccan would have thought his uncle was angry at him. He wasn’t, and that was a relief for Luccan, because one more upset would have been one too many. But the conversation did drive home for him the fact that Han loved things to be orderly and correct. If khalta was the correct Karrish way to refer to the skirt… er, kilt… garment, then that’s what he wanted it called.

  Or at least, he thought as he dressed himself, making sure all the tiny things are just right is how Han’s staying sane when everything has gone to shit.

  Has everything gone to shit, Lucky?

  Everything was already shit, probably, but maybe for Han it’s especially bad now because so much of the pile is on his shoulders.

  Lucky decided he’d make sure Han knew Lucky was in his corner, and that meant dressing right and acting right for this dinner. He started to put on his shirt, but Han came back and stopped him.

  “Wait. You need to shave.”

  “I only have like twenty hairs, Han.”

  “I don’t have many more than that myself—it’s genetic for most Drakha. Problem is, without much facial hair, you’ll never be able to grow a proper beard, and it just looks scruffy if you don’t shave. So shave. Please.”

  Preparing to follow that order, Lucky examined his face in the mirror. His skin looked a lot less gray than it had when he’d first woken up. His eyes still looked tired—a little red and with darkish shadows under them, but overall he was almost back to normal. But then, he saw a shift and suddenly it was his mother’s eyes looking back at him in the mirror. He looked away quickly and gave himself a good mental talking to:

  Lucky, you’ve lived through so much. You’re strong. You fought death kittens, made it through vicious storms, and endured crossing the ice. You survived the prison caves and helped rescue your friends. You’ve seen the Wraith Queen and didn’t die, for the gods’ sake, to say nothing of slithering across Mardhral on an ice bridge, climbing Gahabriohl and helping Han fight a freakin’ black dragon! You ride a badass flying horse, and Rio loves you—other people too. No one is gonna beat you down! Not even that thing that used to be your mother—not with all the undreams in the world.

  That last seemed a little silly, because really, how many undreams were there in the world? Who could know? So he was smiling at himself like a doofus when Han stepped up behind him.

  “What are you smiling at?”

  “Just life is kind of strange, don’t you think?” But he was looking at the reflection of Han’s face and thinking, Now those are some eyes. Odd that I got used to them so quickly. It’s almost like I always knew he was a dragon… which is really weird. Not normal on so many levels.

  “You know, Han, sometimes not normal is okay.”

  “Sure,” Han said, just being agreeable, no doubt.

  Lucky had already lathered his face, and he held the straight razor in his hand, poised to scrape away his twenty hairs. He’d only shaved, like, twice in his life before, though, and his hand shook a little with fear of slicing his jugular.

  “Han,” he said. “My hand’s shaking, and I’m afraid shaving might be a suicide mission.”

  Han’s answer came with a smile in it. “I’ll help.” It took him maybe a minute, tops, to rid Lucky of his scraggly facial hair. “Rinse your face and dry it,” he said, passing Lucky a small towel, “and then get your shirt on. I’ll help you with the rest too.”

  “There’s more?”

  That got both a headshake and an eyeroll. “Well, y
es, Luccan. Your hair for starters.”

  “My hair?”

  “You haven’t had much practice braiding it. Stop wasting time.”

  Lucky knew when to quit, so he followed instructions, and in the end he thought he looked a lot better—a lot more adult—with his hair pulled back like Han’s. He thought it might be futile, but he asked if he could skip wearing the usual overtunic. “It’s just so hot, and besides I think the shirt looks better by itself.”

  “No tunic, tonight,” Han said. “I’ve got something else for you to wear instead.”

  Lucky turned away from the mirror—he’d admired himself long enough, he supposed—to ask Han what he meant by “something else.” But then, for the first time, he noticed Han was wearing a long cape, the design of which seemed both regal and practical. Dark red suede, it was edged in gold thread and fringed in the front with strings of red, gold, black, and white beads that matched the patterned beads on his belt. He wore a matching garment almost like a khalta, but he was shirtless. The cape was flipped back over his right shoulder, revealing his muscled chest and the Mark of the Sun. His legs were covered with loose leggings that parted over his feet, and he wore a type of slipper instead of the usual sandals—both leggings and footwear beaded as well. The ensemble made Han even more striking than usual, but the most eye-catching piece of all was a large sun-metal brooch pinned just over his collarbone on the right, a dragon in profile, wings back in a dive, its eye a brilliant, deep red gemstone.

  It might have been a good thing if Lucky had been rendered speechless. Instead, he eloquently sputtered, “Wow, Han. I mean, those clothes!”

  Han smiled, then stepped back to his closet, pulled a box of dark polished wood down from a high shelf, and took from it a suede cape much like his own. “This was your father’s, Luccan. Now it’s yours.”