Draven's Light

by Anne Elisabeth Stengl

  She didn’t want to eat. When food was passed her way, she nibbled only a few mouthfuls then sent it on. No one noticed, for she took care that they should not. But when she rose at last to enter her mother’s hut and lie down for sleep, she saw her grandmother’s eyes fixed upon her with a knowing gaze. She hoped Grandmother would not ask her about the story tomorrow. But she knew this was a futile hope.

  The girl scarcely slept that night. She kept believing she saw long, shadowy arms reaching across the open doorway. She believed she heard voices upraised in agonized cries, and though she told herself these were nothing but night owls, she could not make her imagination believe.

  The next morning she rose up exhausted to go about her daily tasks. She tried to slip away to one of the outer gardens, but her mother caught her with a word.

  “Child!” Iulia said. “I need you to take your grandmother to the river now. Hurry along!”

  The girl turned slowly and found her grandmother leaning heavily on the doorpost of her private hut. Iulia stood nearby, beckoning. There could be no argument.

  The girl obeyed. She felt the weight of her grandmother’s arm on her shoulder, and though she normally did not mind, she thought it a great burden on this morning. Their progress was slow, slower than usual even, and grandmother said next to nothing. The girl helped the old woman to wash her face and hands. Then Grandmother removed her leg wrappings and shoes and put her feet into Hanna’s gentle shallows, her old face relaxing, though all the lines remained as clearly defined as ever. She closed her eyes, allowing the sun to warm her pale, thin skin. Then she spoke without looking at her granddaughter:

  “Will you return to the Great House today?”

  “No,” the girl replied, too quickly. She wished she could take back her response; she wished she could turn it into a variety of excuses. But she knew the tone of her voice had been all too clear, and nothing would fool her grandmother.

  Slowly the old woman lifted one foot from the water, grimacing. The air was cool that morning, the wind sharp as it darted along the river’s surface. Grandmother opened her eyes and watched the water dripping from her foot then lowered it back down. She continued to not look at her granddaughter. “Are you afraid?”

  There was no good in lying. Not to Grandmother.

  “Yes,” the girl said. “I’m afraid for . . . for Itala. I don’t want to hear how she died.”

  Only then did Grandmother turn her face to the girl, her brow wrinkled with, perhaps, sorrow. “It is a hard tale, my child,” she said. “But it is a good one. It is one you should hear to its end.”

  The girl shook her head. “I’m afraid,” she said again.

  “So was Draven.”

  At these words the girl’s eyes kindled with interest she could not suppress. For though she feared to hear the end of this tale, her heart thudded in response to that name. Across her mind’s eye flashed the face of Akilun’s carving, and she saw, for the first time, just how much fear hid behind that stoic gaze. But then, he was the Coward. Of course he was afraid. Just like she was.

  Grandmother put out her arms, and the girl entered her embrace, burying her head in the old woman’s bony shoulder. She held on tight, as though clinging to a lifeline, even as her grandmother began to speak slowly, rhythmically, falling into the storyteller’s cadence.

  “Draven would not leave his sister’s side,” she said.

  In the center of the sod house was a fire pit, the coals scraped flat but still glowing red. A thin stream of smoke rose up through the hole in the roof. Moonlight pooled down from above, its pure white glow blending with the deep glimmer of the embers. All was still.

  Then Itala began to groan.

  Draven, sitting beside her in the darkness, reached out and caught her shoulders, holding her flat so that she could not, in her flailing, do herself an injury. She convulsed, her body demonstrating surprising strength, and he was forced to press most of his own weight into her shoulders as he attempted to hold her still. In her mouth he’d tied a stout stick to keep her clamping jaws from cutting her tongue or the inside of her cheek.

  The sight of her so muzzled was enough to bring tears to his eyes. So he blessed the darkness that blinded him.

  The spasm passed. Itala lay panting beneath him. Draven drew a ragged breath and did what he could to make her comfortable. He eased her clubfoot back under the rugs, and he ran his fingers through her hair, pulling it back from her face and smoothing it.

  She was so weak. So much weaker in body than Oson had been. And how long had Oson survived? Only three days.

  Light flashed behind Draven, and he turned to see a torch appear in the doorway, borne by his father’s hand. Gaher stepped into the small, closed-in space, seeming to fill it with his great bulk. He did not look at Draven. He never did these days, since Draven took on his new name and disgrace. Gaher behaved as though his son were already dead, his remains carried away in Hanna’s flowing arms.

  But his eyes fixed upon the face of his suffering daughter. For a moment he wasn’t a warrior—he was a father. Anyone looking at him then would have seen the man who had defied all the urging of the village elders and insisted that his crippled daughter be allowed to live. They would have heard again the pride in his voice when he declared her his wolf pup and urged her to grow, to prove the true strength of her heart to all.

  He crossed the short space between the door and Itala’s sleeping rugs. Draven drew back quickly, avoiding even the touch of his father’s shadow. Gaher knelt beside his daughter, his rough, scarred fingers tracing the line of her cheek then touching the stick tied in her mouth. He grimaced, like a snarl, but did not remove the stick.

  He bowed his head then and whispered, “My fierce one. My Itala.”

  When he rose, he turned his back on Draven, refusing still to look at him. But when he reached the door he paused. His growling voice reached back through the shadows to touch Draven’s ear.

  “It should have been you. I wish that it was.”

  He took the light with him when he left, but it scarcely mattered. The darkness surrounding Draven was so heavy that no mere torchlight could pierce it.

  How long he stood unmoving at the wall, he could not say. But when Itala groaned and began once more to convulse, Draven found his limbs inspired. He leapt to her side and braced again, doing all within his power to ease her in this spell of agony. The pain was so great, he knew she could not suffer it much longer and survive.

  When she lay immobile again, he covered her with her rugs, smoothed her hair, and wiped the foaming spittle from her cheeks. The red glow of the embers gleamed in his eyes, which narrowed suddenly. He bent and, lifting up her hair, looked at her neck.

  It seemed to him that he saw dark marks, as though something even now gripped her by the throat.

  He sat back, his heart thudding in his throat. But though he stared into the empty space above his sister, he could not make himself believe that he saw anything, no matter how he tried. He reached out with both hands, and any who might have observed him would have thought he had gone mad, so daft did he appear as he sought to take hold of thin air. For there was nothing to grasp.

  And yet—though he wasn’t certain if it was a memory or a memory of a nightmare—he seemed to recall the sensation of long, long fingers grasping his own throat.

  “Itala.” He whispered her name hoarsely, crouching down to place his mouth close to her ear. “Ita, my dear one, I am lost and I am afraid. If only I possessed your courage!” Then he pressed a kiss to her forehead. The act itself was enough to undo him, and he gasped, choking on the pressure of a sob in his throat. He caught her face between his hands and touched his cheek to her forehead. “My sister,” he said, feeling the pain of her every breath. “I must leave you. But hear my voice—hear me, Ita! Remember our hunt. Remember how you fought the pain, how you won your victory. Remember, Ita! And hold on until I return for you.”

  With this, he released her and stood. Pulling his fur cloak tightl
y across his shoulders, he ducked out of the sod house into the dimness of Rannul Village. Few fires lit that blighted night, for most of the villagers hid in their homes, afraid to venture out, afraid that they or their loved ones might bring some foul luck down upon themselves and catch the evil malady that even now beset their chieftain’s daughter.

  So it was that no one saw Gaher’s disgraced son descend the path to the river. He chose one of the warriors’ canoes at random and pushed it out into the water. Then, taking up his paddle, he stroked against the current, making his way up river with all speed. When he was well out of sight of Rannul Village, he put to shore, dragging the canoe into hiding among the trees.

  He remembered what his sister had told him only the night before: “They’re traveling east, and they won’t return.”

  So he plunged into the forests, traveling sometimes by narrow trails, sometimes crashing through underbrush. Birds and beasts fled at his coming, and he made no effort to move silently or disguise his path. He simply raced with all speed against the night and on into coming dawn.

  As he ran he told himself, They will be many and burdened. They cannot have gone far. They cannot have gone far!

  It was a hopeless quest, and he knew it. But he would not allow his heart to acknowledge what his head kept trying to insist. Over and over again he saw Itala, her body wracked and tortured, her face so twisted with pain that she was scarcely recognizable. This image drove him on, faster and farther, until his lungs pleaded for air and his limbs pleaded for rest. He would give them neither. They cannot have gone far! he lied to himself.

  Then, just as the sun rose over the horizon, spilling light across the world, Draven beheld a wonder. At his feet, just where his footsteps fell, red asters bloomed. Though their season would not arrive for many months yet he saw them, bright as drops of blood, a crimson trail spreading from where he even now ran, on through the forests.

  He did not stop to think or reason. His heart was already desperate; why not place his trust in the impossible? Perhaps the airy gods had not abandoned him. Perhaps they had sent him a sign. In the trees overhead he heard a wood thrush sing its first morning song, and he recalled hearing the same song when he and Itala hunted Hydrus.

  So he followed the trail of crimson blossoms, followed the lilting song of the thrush. He had taken only a few paces when the trees gave way and he found himself on a rocky outcropping overlooking a wide valley. A trail of burdened travelers, their backs bowed with their belongings, wound their way across the valley, making for the rising sun. The displaced tribe of Kahorn.

  “Callix!” Draven cupped his hands around his mouth, putting all his heart and soul into that one great bellow. The world was so wide, the air so thick, he felt he could never throw his voice far enough, but this did not stop him. “Callix!” he cried again and again, and sometimes, “Kahorn!” He flung himself over the edge of the outcropping, slipping and sliding his way down, pausing only momentarily to shout again, “Callix! Kahorn!”

  At the very back of the line the Prince of Kahorn walked, his hand clasping a staff, his heart heavy in his breast. He could scarcely raise his face to see the rising sun, so deep was his sorrow. He kept thinking of Itala, recalling their final conversation and their parting. Somehow he had known she would not come away with him. But how could he have left her so quickly? Left her, knowing full well what evil preyed even now upon her people.

  His steps slowed. Soon he was far behind the rest, as though some anchor had caught hold of him between the shoulder blades and refused to set him free. If he left, she would surely die. If he stayed . . .

  Faintly he heard a voice he almost recognized crying out his name.

  “Callix! Callix!”

  Startled, the Prince of Kahorn looked back over his shoulder. The sun cast its long beam far, illuminating the distant but swiftly approaching figure of Draven. His enemy. His savior.

  Callix stood in amazed silence. Then he realized. He realized the only reason Draven could possibly be pursuing him now. His heart froze in his breast, and his eyes darkened even as he stood bathed in morning light.

  He dropped his staff and ran, covering the distance between him and Draven as swiftly as he could. Soon he was close enough to see the pale lines of Draven’s face, and he knew his fears were true.

  “Itala!” he cried, unable to say more.

  Draven, his whole body heaving with the exertion of his night-long run, bent double, his hands on his knees. Even so, he managed to gasp out, “Yes. It took her.”

  Everything in Callix’s spirit wanted to cry out. But he could neither speak nor move. He could only stand in numb horror, watching until Draven finally caught his breath. Then Draven straightened, towering above the Kahorn prince as he always had.

  “Tell me,” he demanded, “what happened to Kahorn.”

  “You know what happened,” Callix replied, his voice dull with dread. “What you have seen taking place in Rannul . . . that is what happened in Kahorn. It had been happening for many months before you and I met. It continued the whole of spring, summer, winter . . . on until the following spring. When your people attacked, we were so weakened. Weakened by many deaths, weakened still more by fear.” He cursed then, bitterly, and his hands clenched into fists. “I warned you not to let your people cross the river,” he said, his eyes flashing with rage, possibly with tears. “I warned you, Draven.”

  The next moment, a powerful grip lifted the prince by the front of his shirt almost off his feet. He found his face close to Draven’s, and the expression in that young bear-of-a-man’s eye was more terrifying than anything he had faced in the war with Rannul.

  “What are you not telling me?” Draven growled. “What do you know that you are not saying?”

  Callix was no coward, but his courage failed him for that moment. Then he caught at the arm arresting him and twisted it hard, just managing to escape Draven’s grasp. He backed away quickly, for he thought Draven’s fury such that he might slay him, even as he should have a year ago when claiming his man’s name. Neither of them bore any weapon, so they circled each other like two wolves.

  “Did all who suffered from this sickness die?” Draven demanded.

  “Yes. All,” Callix replied. “Not one who fell prey was spared.”

  “Then what are you not telling me?” Draven said again. “Why were you found alone so close to Rannul territory? What were you doing? What do you know about that promontory?”

  And so the disgraced prince and the displaced prince faced off, each striving against the will of the other. But Callix saw in his enemy’s face a love of Itala that reflected his own. A love that was possibly deeper still, for the roots of brother-and-sister bond grow from the same soil.

  Callix stood down, placing his hand on his heart in a gesture of submission. Draven, seeing that gesture, relaxed his stance. “Tell me what you know,” he said, his voice pleading as much as it commanded.

  So Callix told him: “It is said among my people that the forest growing atop that certain promontory on the bank of Hanna is not a forest of our own world. Indeed, it grows in a place that exists on the edge of our very dreams. Kahorn has always revered that high place.”

  He shook his head then, for a shadow seemed to grip his soul as he remembered a not-too-distant past. “One day we looked up and saw that the wood on the crown of the promontory was gone. Vanished, as though hewn down in a single night. When we drew nearer, we saw instead a single tree, apparently dead, standing on the very crest. We knew it was a bad omen, for we saw a carrion bird circle as though to land, only to change course and fly far away, out of sight. We could not guess what the omen would mean.

  “Only one day later the first of our people fell prey to the sickness you have now witnessed. And so it continued, day after day. As soon as one died, another would take ill. Only ever one at a time. Some would live on up to four days, even five. Some lasted not even a day. All succumbed, no matter our prayers, no matter our pleas to the airy gods.”<
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  Draven nodded. But he had not come all this way only to learn what he already knew: that the gods did not care for the fates of men. “What did you do?” he asked. For he suspected Callix was one who would search out answers even when no answers were to be found.

  “As I told you,” Callix continued, “my people have many stories about the forest on that hilltop. One such story claims that if a man enters that forest, stepping out of this world into the other, and calls out, ‘Mercy!’ then mercy will come to him.” He shrugged, his fists opening in a helpless gesture. “What could I do? The forest growing up the hillside was still intact. I thought perhaps I might enter, might try to discover if the legend is true. I thought I might call for mercy in the Wood and see if mercy would come to me.”

  “Did you?”

  “No. I set out with a small party, but we were caught by men of Rannul, who had entered our territory unknown to us. My companions were slain, and I was taken to your village. When you helped me escape, I was sick unto death. I could not risk the Wood in such a state. It took me many days to make my way home, and then I lay in fever for some while I do not recall. After that . . .” He bowed his head, ashamed of what he must say next. “After that, when I traveled again with the same purpose at heart, I chanced to see you and . . . and Itala. I saw her hunt the great fish. I saw how she, crippled though she was, faced that monster, willing to die for the sake of the mighty hunt. I knew that I could not step beyond my own world, perhaps never to find my way back again, without . . . without speaking to her first.”

  Draven studied the prince before him, his brow drawn into a stern line. He wondered if he despised Callix but thought perhaps not. After all, his sister was a young woman like no other. And he considered the many mad dreams he had entertained concerning fair Lenila, which he might well have enacted were he not such a coward. No, he could not blame the Kahorn prince for his choices.