Song of the Risen God

by R. A. Salvatore

  It is, then, no surprise that they elevated it to god stature.

  It also did not surprise me to learn, as I probed deeper, that the differences between the Usgar god and those of the lake were more semantic than profound, the emphasis of one word over another to justify behavior supporting the present top caste in the tribe. For the Usgar, the emphasis remained on the patriarchy, surely. Even though the witches of their Coven controlled all the magic, and that magic offered them survival and primacy in the region, those women were never considered equal to the men. I suspect that this came about, as happens in many societies, because the women were simply too valuable to be out on the dangerous mountain slopes, hunting terrible beasts or doing battle with the lake folk far below. The tribe was not large, was never large, and the loss of a few women of childbearing age could have dire consequences regarding the very survival of the Usgar.

  So, they studied those sermons—sermons also in the ancient writings and songs used by the lake folk—and emphasized those which supported their practical consideration, and lessened, or even ignored, those that did not.

  Isn’t that ever the way?

  Similarly, the Usgar used the power they believed given them by their “god” to exploit the lake tribes, yes, but that divine intervention was not really very different than one lake tribe or another catching a favorable wind out on the lake and seeing that as a sign to justify an assault on another boat in a favored fishing spot.

  It is all semantics, a point made clearer to me when I heard the respective prayers and sermons of the eight tribes, for those prayers were practically identical, save the name given the supreme being. Those prayers, like most I have ever heard from any religion, were mostly an instruction on how to maintain a civil society, even detailing what food to eat and what to avoid or the advice offered by a ring of clouds about the moon. As much as a belief in an afterlife, these were the instructions for survival.

  No surprise, then, the similarities.

  At the place called Matinee, there is little prayer or proselytizing among the gathered humans. These were the most individual of the people east of the great mountains, and if they followed this god or that god or no god at all, that was a matter kept private.

  Not so further east, in the kingdom of Honce-the-Bear, where a dominant religion was shared by almost all the folk, and those who did not ascribe did not speak openly of their disbelief.

  Again, it is no surprise to me that of these four groups, there was little practical difference. All of the religions, and even the lack of religion, called for the same ethics (at least within the selected group) and comradery, the same path for being “good” and so being allowed into paradise.

  The differences remained around the edges, not the core, and usually those differences depended upon interpretation, and in such a way for one group or another to hold power, whether the monks of Honce or the patriarchy of the Usgar (and of Honce).

  What did surprise me, however, were the similarities between all of these groups and the singular religion of the xoconai. Xoconai prophecies of Scathmizzane echo the goodness of the one God of the Abellicans, and the promises of both of those god figures present a society wished by the unbelievers I encountered at Matinee!

  Strangely, to read the sacred texts, all of them, of every land, xoconai and human alike, proved an exercise of losing my religion.

  Not my ethics.

  Not my hopes.

  Just the particular rituals and particular names associated with those rituals.

  Those seem to matter less to me now that I know that all long for the same paradise, the same heavenly kingdom, the same wonderland, the same promised land.

  My suspicion of those who reject this wider commonality roots in my question of what the doubter gains with such a proprietary attitude. Pride, I think, is the source, as so often is the case. If my god is stronger than your god, if my god is true and yours false, then I, by extension, am above you.

  And thus, I am justified in waging war on you, in taking that which is yours, in spreading the truth at the end of a javelin.

  Yes, this war between xoconai and human has taught me a lot, but has raised more questions than answers, I fear.

  Or I hope.

  Ag’ardu An’grian

  Sunrise Face

  9

  TWO KINGS

  Aoleyn peered out the window of the small upper-floor room of the dirty tenement building in the city of Ursal. Truly, the place assailed the young witch’s sensibilities. So many people, stacked on top of each other in what seemed to be man-made caves. She didn’t know there were this many people in the entire world!

  And how could they live like this, she wondered? She, who had grown up on a mountainside, with sweeping vistas and distant horizons, could not begin to imagine ending every day with this sort of a view. They were on the third of four stories in the building, with windows on two different walls, and she couldn’t see anything beyond twenty feet, other than the walls of other cramped buildings.

  Even being within this building, regardless of the view, made the walls close in on her, the exact opposite of her favorite thing in the world: to fly in the open sky, either with her mind, within the borrowed body of a bird, or flying fully with her moonstone, feeling the wind across her body.

  She closed her eyes and sent her thoughts out wider, wondering what had become of Bahdlahn. He and a dozen other refugees, including Catriona of Fasach Crann, had gone south from Appleby-in-Wilderland with Talmadge and Khotai, intent on crossing the mountains to Khotai’s homeland to alert her people. Khotai claimed they were great warriors—and after what she had seen rolling in from the west, Aoleyn hoped that was true.

  Her thoughts now, though, focused on Bahdlahn. She had hurt him with her rejection, but she felt better about it now. She had done the right thing, for both of them. Bahdlahn needed to come into the wider world on his own, without constraints—and any relationship with Aoleyn, particularly given the role she was now being forced into, would surely impose a constraint.

  He was in good and capable company, the young witch told herself. Besides, she strongly believed that the xoconai weren’t going south to cross any mountains. They were coming east, all the way, until they were stopped.

  Or maybe a second army of the bright-faced people was also moving east to the south of the mountains.

  Aoleyn shook her head, pointedly telling herself to remain focused on the task at hand and to trust in Bahdlahn and his very capable companions.

  She heard Aydrian mention her name and turned about to regard the man and the monk Thaddius.

  “‘Like Aoleyn’?” she asked, echoing Aydrian’s words.

  “I was explaining to our friend here that there is more magic in the world than he and his church will ever know,” Aydrian replied. “Brother Thaddius still believes that the gemstones you wear came from the brothers of his order.”

  “They came from crystals,” Aoleyn said.

  “Crystals?” Thaddius asked.

  “Large crystals, in a cave atop a mountain far to the west, a cave beneath the great God Crystal that warms the mountaintop throughout the winter snows to keep the Usgar alive.”

  The two men exchanged curious looks.

  “Talmadge mentioned the same thing to me,” said Aydrian.

  “Beneath that giant crystal obelisk, one larger than a man, are caves, long and winding and full of crystals that are full of stones, like these I wear. My sister witches use the crystal, our warriors tip…” She paused and sucked in her breath. “Tipped,” she corrected, for what Usgar warrior remained alive, after all? “Our warriors tipped their spears with crystals, some that crackled with lightning, others for fire, or healing, and almost all possessed of some green flecks to lighten their steps along the dangerous mountain trails.”

  “Malachite,” Thaddius said. “Like the one hanging on your belly ring.”

  Aoleyn nodded, her hand reflexively going to the ring. “I harvested the stones and put th
em upon my body to feel their song more keenly.”

  “Typically, a monk must hold the stones in his hand,” Thaddius explained.

  “I need not. I hear every song of the gemstones upon me.”

  Thaddius motioned for her to come across the room to him, where he sat on a bench against the wall. His eyes locked on her bare midriff and belly ring as she neared. He even reached up as if to touch her.

  “May I?” he asked, suddenly embarrassed by his forwardness.

  Aoleyn studied him, locked his gaze with her own, then nodded.

  Thaddius gingerly lifted the strands of that belly ring, closing his fingers gently over the gemstones hanging on those strands.

  “You can use them right now?”

  “Any of them,” Aoleyn answered.

  “You need not close your hand over them? You need not touch them?”

  “They touch me,” the witch answered. “They are woven into my skin with a strand made of wedstone.”

  Thaddius looked at her closely and mouthed, Wedstone? His fingers moved from the gems to the strands holding them, and a moment later his eyes opened wide.

  “Soul stone,” he gasped, finally grasping the woman’s meaning, that wedstone was in fact the hematite stone, the stone the monks called soul stone.

  He let go and fell back, jaw hanging open. “You have joined with the stones through those threads?”

  “Yes,” Aoleyn answered, one hand going to her belly.

  “Is it so different, I wonder, than the staff you now carry?” Aydrian asked. “You do not hold the six socketed gems directly, yet they are ready for your call, are they not? Might it be that the staff, too, is shot with wedsto—soul stone, and that is offering you the magic?”

  The monk considered it for a moment, then nodded.

  “And this?” Thaddius asked, grabbing the hand Aoleyn had placed on her belly and turning it about to show the woman’s leopard paw tattoo.

  Aoleyn pulled away and eyed the monk carefully. With a nod, she held up the hand in question and demonstrated, quickly turning her arm into that of a cloud leopard.

  “Like De’Unnero,” Aydrian whispered, his voice suddenly raspy.

  Thaddius could only shake his head. He looked to Aydrian, mouth hanging open.

  “As I told you,” the former king replied, in response to that look, “there is more magic in the world than you shall ever know. More forms and more powers.” Aydrian moved a step to the side and collected Thaddius’s remarkable staff, running his fingers over the six energized gemstones set into its sockets before handing it to Thaddius.

  “Who do you think made this?” he asked the monk.

  “Brothers. Those about Saint Belfour. They were skilled…”

  “Where do you think they found this wood? Have you seen it before?”

  “No,” the monk admitted, lifting up the staff to examine the burnished shaft more closely.

  “Yes,” Aydrian corrected. He moved across the room to the cot he had claimed as his own when the group had secretly put up here in Ursal, then returned with Hawkwing, his extraordinary bow. He set its bottom tip against the floor right before Thaddius, right beside the monk’s newfound staff.

  The wood appeared to be identical, more dark green than brown and subtly striated with fine lines of silver.

  “Darkfern,” Aydrian explained. “It is the most important crop of the elves. Since you found it along the Belt-and-Buckle in the south, I would guess that it was more likely fashioned by the Doc’alfar than by your long-ago monk brethren, or perhaps fashioned in concert between both.”

  “The xoconai wear that wood,” Aoleyn said, and both men turned to her suddenly.

  “Their armor,” she explained, moving her hand down before her chest to indicate a breastplate. She held out one hand, fashioning a circle with her thumb and index finger, about an inch in diameter. “A string of wooden poles strung together tightly, hanging front and back on the xoconai warriors.”

  “More magic in the world than you or I will ever know,” Aydrian whispered to Thaddius. “If the xoconai have fields of darkfern for harvest, their weapons will—”

  A knock on the door interrupted him.

  Brother Thaddius motioned to Aoleyn to gather up the cloak he had given her. “Pull it tight,” he reminded. “Cover that belly and that leg.”

  It wasn’t modesty motivating the man, Aoleyn knew, for he had told her repeatedly that she had to keep her magical gemstones secret in this great city. The monks here would not understand or accept one who was not of the Abellican Order wearing such treasures, he had warned her often.

  Aoleyn complied. Thaddius had gotten them into the city through a network of connections. They had come in quietly a few nights before, ahead of the main caravan of remaining refugees from the Ayamharas Plateau and those few who had heeded the warning and abandoned Apple-in-Wilderland, and several other towns they had crossed through during the ensuing weeks, on their way to this greatest of Honce cities. With the help of friends of Thaddius, the small group of companions had entered through the docks, not the guarded gates, and had skulked through the shadows to this tenement, where a room waited and the landlord asked no questions.

  Aydrian, too, took a moment to hide Hawkwing once more, along with his sword, helmet, and breastplate.

  When they nodded that they were ready, Thaddius opened the door to Sister Elysant, who entered in front of an older man who was sharp-featured, scowling, and dressed in robes similar to Thaddius’s, but much finer and cleaner.

  “Abbot Ohwan,” Thaddius greeted. “I am glad you have come.”

  The man nodded, but his gaze went over to the side, to Aydrian, and he sucked in his breath suddenly.

  “So it is true.”

  Aydrian nodded.

  “My king,” Abbot Ohwan said, and bowed, and the eyes of Aoleyn’s three companions all opened wide with surprise.

  “Do I know you, Abbot?” Aydrian asked.

  “I was a mere brother here at Saint Honce when you ruled,” the man explained. “I was known to Master De’Unnero.”

  “And now you are abbot, and serve Father Abbot Braumin Herde,” Aydrian said.

  “I serve Saint Abelle,” the man replied.

  Aoleyn noted the expressions of her companions, particularly of Elysant, who looked as if the old man had just slapped her. There was conflict and subterfuge here in this great kingdom of strange men, Aoleyn realized.

  “I have arranged for your audience with King Midalis,” Ohwan said. “He does not know, of course, and cannot know, until it is just we three in the room.”

  Aydrian nodded and collected a cloak, one with a large cowl.

  “Just Aydrian?” Thaddius asked.

  “It would be better,” said Abbot Ohwan.

  “He will be safe?” Aoleyn dared to ask.

  The old man looked over at her as if he only then had even noticed her. “Who are you?” he asked, and when she started to reply, he cut her short. “You are nobody. You do not dare address me unless I first address you, foolish girl.”

  Aoleyn looked to Aydrian, who nodded for her to remain calm and proceed cautiously.

  The young witch looked down at the ground, feigning obedience. She had grown up among the Usgar.

  She knew how to feign subservience.

  And while she was staring at her feet, she chewed her lip and fantasized about throwing wide her ridiculous robe, calling upon her belly ring, and blowing this old fool out of the room with hot winds.

  * * *

  He couldn’t see them from under the low flaps of his large cowl, but Aydrian could feel the stares upon him as he moved through the castle beside Abbot Ohwan. They didn’t know who he was, he believed, and certainly the guards who had initially searched him when he entered the castle had not recognized him.

  A wave of emotions rolled back and forth through the man as he walked across those mosaic floors, tile patterns he had seen daily and that had been burned into his consciousness. He was home, and
yet he was not, for this was the place where Aydrian Wyndon had fully become Aydrian Boudabras, a king he now despised, a tyrant who cared only for his own power and the desires of the awful Marcalo De’Unnero.

  Aydrian had spent more than a decade trying to forget this place and his role here, but long before he had returned to the castle in Ursal, he knew in his heart that he never would.

  Now he had to spend the rest of his life trying to make whatever amends he could. That was his role, his only role, and he went at it with relish.

  Still, it didn’t make this solemn walk any easier.

  On a signal from Abbot Ohwan, a castle guard opened a side door that was cleverly concealed within the patterns on the audience hall walls. Aydrian knew what to expect when moving through it—so little had changed in this place—and knew, too, the man he was about to face.

  He kept his cowl low and peered under the brim to see King Midalis dan Ursal sitting at his desk, stamping the royal seal onto hot wax to secure a rolled parchment.

  “Abbot Ohwan of Saint Honce,” the sentry announced, “and Tai’ma…”

  “Tai’maqwilloq,” Aydrian answered, the name he had been given by the Touel’alfar during his decade of training.

  Midalis looked up curiously. He didn’t know the name, Aydrian believed, but he, who had been a friend to Aydrian’s parents, certainly knew enough of the elves to recognize it as one of theirs.

  “Tai’maqwilloq?” he replied. “A ranger?”

  “Leave us,” Abbot Ohwan told the guards, and Midalis waved his hands at the sentries in agreement.

  As soon as the room’s door closed, Aydrian reached up and slowly pulled back his cowl.

  King Midalis leaped up, hands slamming the desk, his face a mask of surprise and anger.

  “Aydrian,” he breathed. “What treachery is this?”

  “No treachery, my king,” Ohwan said.

  Aydrian lowered his head and held his hands out unthreateningly. “I come only because of the news I bear.”

  “You should have sent a courier.”

  “I could not. Not for this.”

  “You enter Ursal on pain of death,” Midalis reminded, but Aydrian could hear the man’s tone softening. King Midalis certainly had great reason to want to see Aydrian dead. Aydrian had killed his uncle, King Danube Brock Ursal, and Danube’s two sons, an act that put Midalis next in line for the throne of Honce.