Cries Of The Faithless

By Shaun Kilgore

In the late hours of the night Maric Alran, a patreydan priest, hears a voice from heaven, the voice of Davene the Uncontainable. He is shown a prophetic vision of a coming savior for the Nine Realms, a prophet-king called Davion destined to crush the darkness of Mor'Demas, the Rejecter.

Young Bram Duighrain, son of a farmer and pupil to Alran, believes his future is in scholarship and religion. A tragic turn of events sends Bram on a quest to fulfill the last request of his master, a journey fraught with dangers both natural and demonic.

Joined by others who have their own duties to fulfill, Bram leaves behind all that he knows and takes the first steps towards his own destiny. His fate may be tied to the fate of the world.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Founders House Publishing LLC
• Release date: Jun 16, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476402949

Shaun Kilgore

Shaun Kilgore is the author of various works of fantasy, science fiction, and a number of nonfiction works. His books appear in both print and ebook editions. He has also published numerous short stories and collections. Shaun is the editor of MYTHIC: A Quarterly Science Fiction & Fantasy Magazine. He lives in eastern Illinois.

Book preview

Revelations

Maric closed the age-worn pages of the breviary, taking care with the fragile leather cover, but letting his faintly ink-stained hands trace the contours of the ancient characters seared into the surface. The book brought back the memories of his youth on the streets of Garnell where hunger and violence had been his daily bread. He recalled his dear mother and the sacrifices she made to bring him into a better life, a life that eventually led him to the Patreydan School and a life of service. Every painful memory, like the words on the breviary, was seared into his spirit. It was this belief, that all he had experienced, all that he had endured was invested with some divine meaning and purpose, that shaped the course of his life and had brought him to the small chamber he kept just behind the altar of the fellowship hall. He turned to regard the room that held his scant possessions, numbering mostly in books and scrolls, all of which were strewn about in a haphazard fashion. His ears were keen to every tiny sound that managed to make it through the thick walls. In the quiet of the early evening, he could almost hear the voices of angels whispering in the rafters of the hall.

A boyish smile played upon his rugged face, lighting his eyes like the flickering candle before him on the desk. It was a wonderful thought. Maric patted the book affectionately and pushed his chair out away from the desk. A deep yawn escaped him. He tried to ignore the weariness that swept through him; it was a denial of his advancing age. Yet, there was no use in dwelling on the natural course of earthly life. The clergyman had learned that lesson more than once in his long tenure as patrey of the townspeople of Lockloreand. Life had fostered in the patrey a distinct single-mindedness for the tasks he had to perform.

Once he replaced the woolen robes upon himself, Maric walked to his chamber door, slowly so he could linger in the familiar aromas. The smell of burning wax and the musty odor of aged paper were like sweet perfumes to his senses, invigorating to his soul. There was no denying that he was a scholar.

The door opened to the fellowship hall, just to the right of the altar itself, at the bottom of small flight of stairs. The patrey squinted sharply in the dimly lit room a moment before retreating back inside his chamber. Lamps had been burning near the entrance of the hall since just before the sun fled behind the clouds. Its rays filtered through the stained glass fixture to the storm-darkened skies outside. Maric strode forward with the candle in hand, and headed directly to the banks of votive candles that were gathered before the stone tablets of the Oath. He began to light each one, letting each small flame add to the illumination of the room and further reveal the alabaster surface of the stones themselves. When Maric was satisfied, he set his candle down among the others. His gaze swept around the fellowship hall, taking in the second floor balcony, and the rows of benches receding into the shadows, then returned to the stones.

The first line read:

I am your Maker; I am the one God, your god. You will have no other gods. I am Davene, Keeper of the Wellspring. Bear witness to the words I speak for I give you an oath to keep, a vow to remember always. Listen and I will reveal the path of life.

Maric smiled at the word of the Oath, a portion of the creed of Mahadai. Unbidden the words of one of his patreydan teachers during a lecture decades earlier came to his lips: The creed has remained the summary of our faith since the times of the Four Fathers, the sons of Gilanead, son of Tristan the Swordbearer. Prius, Allan, Ghandrin, and Landris affirmed the Oath in word and deed. It is our oath to maintain it as the spiritual sustenance of the Trellayni people.

Have we fulfilled our oaths? Maric couldn’t voice the question aloud.

The patrey sighed then began to pray.

Davene, I have been your servant, have I not? I have raised your name high like a banner across this valley, for twenty years now, speaking of your marvelous works in the heavens and upon the earth, and entreating the people to come to your mercy. What blasphemy it is that so many who mark themselves as your servants and my brothers proclaim you as the Silent God. What seems to speak as wisdom to their minds reeks with the stench of death and cruel deception from the Hand of Mor’Demas himself. I have seen their works, my Lord. You have witnessed them. The teachings of men have replaced your truth.

He lifted his hands in frustration, his body bowing lower to the ground in deeper supplication. The words came with great effort. The whole building seemed to creak around him in response to the gravity of the moment, somehow sharing the burden that weighed on the patrey’s mind. And how much do I—even I—have right in your sight, Blessed Davene?

Maric lifted his head up high. Above him, the Oath resonated, almost hummed with some unearthly power. He felt something. No, it was someone, a Presence. What can be done? I am afraid for my people, afraid even for this whole world.

The patrey drew a crumpled piece of folded paper from a pocket, reading again the words scrawled upon it, this time aloud, in a trembling voice, saying, ‘The time is coming. Gather one to another as in the days of the Settling.’ Even now, Maric knew his response was being delivered to every patrey in the Sandric Valley. A council would convene; he had agreed upon it. Would it be enough, he wondered.

His fears were rising and only heightened by the understanding that very few were even aware of what was transpiring in the fields and valleys of the northern country. Were these the signs foretold by the prophets?

Maric stayed where he was, praying until something moved in the depths of his heart, and then surged forward like the ocean’s tide, completely unstoppable. He climbed jerkily to his feet, ears filled with a buzzing sound that drowned out all else. Above him, the ceiling lay obscured in shadows that danced in the wavering light of the candles. His breath came in ragged gasps and perspiration covered his body. Maric’s vision closed in around him, and the candles faded away, as did the rest of the hall. The burning in his body receded, his heart once more resumed its steady beat, and he could draw a strong breath into his lungs. The sound of a wind blowing reached his ears, filling them and all across the sightless expanse, wispy voices rose and fell in conversations that the patrey could not hear clearly. Dull pain flashed with the effort of shifting his head towards the perceived voices. The hairs on the back of his neck rose at the passing of a tiny breeze as though someone’s fingers gently caressed, bringing a sharp intake of breath.

A terrible voice roared like thunder through his mind, tearing it open with flashes of light to reveal the stains of his soul. How could he even endure this Power with the weight of it reducing him to a mere speck, just another bit of chaff to blow away? Maric did not know. The presence of the one god engulfed him. It was no audible voice, yet it spoke with a white-hot clarity that cut deeply like a warrior’s sword through human flesh, imparting divine revelations. The words awakened deep-seated insecurities within the patrey, and then washed over him with soothing layers of comfort and peace. A sense of awe stole over him and held fast. Nothing compared to the present moment. Maric’s whole life was forgotten in the light of Davene and for one brief moment, he could see the path of life with absolute clarity.

He wept openly and felt joy suffuse his soul, sealing it with divine glory. The Voice put a question before him. Maric responded, Y...yes, Master. I will serve you now. My God, my God, I am afraid. What if I cannot—

Before the question was past his lips, light blazed before his eyes as all of the candles flashed to brightness as one. For one brief second, it was as bright as midday, and then the light softened to normal. The patrey’s breath caught in his throat; the next words were gasped. I shall obey thy word, Blessed One.

The aches and pains of physical sensation returned in force. Dizziness overwhelmed him. The world swam out of focus and pain seized his chest.

Chapter One

Morning Light

Squinting in the weak lamplight, Bram Duighrain noticed the first streaks of daylight piercing the curtains. Using a slender piece of cloth torn from one of his mother’s old dresses, he marked the page and closed the small book. Brushing his fingers across the cover one last time, Bram glanced at the script worked into the leather before placing the book back on the table with exaggerated care.

Throwing the quilt aside, Bram reached over the edge of the bed to retrieve the shirt and breeches he had discarded earlier and pulled them on. He dressed quickly. Once he slipped into his boots, Bram went to the door of his room. The sound of muffled voices drifted down the narrow hall from the kitchen.

He found his father sitting at the smallish table, an ink pot near to hand, and a sheaf of paper marked with his father’s strong handwriting spread out before him, the pen now freshly dipped and poised above the next column of figures. Once he noticed Bram standing there, Marten Duighrain beckoned his son to the chair opposite his own.

How did you sleep? he asked, peering over the wire spectacles perched on the tip of his nose, his eyes sparkling with amusement.

I could say that I slept fine, but we both know that isn’t true, Bram said, a smirk flashing briefly. You know Maric. He has me reading all sorts of things so I will be ready for his lectures.

Bram’s gaze returned to the sheaf on the table. Are you working on the estimates for the herds again?

Aye, lad, ‘tis true enough. I think that I’ve come to a conclusion that everyone—including your uncle Jon—will accept. It took all my patience to wear down his stiff neck. Marten sliced his hand through the air. Ah, but, that’s enough business for right now. It’s time to eat and we don’t want to disappoint Crista. She’s made quite an effort this morning.

Effort is an understatement, Bram thought. It’s a veritable feast!

The small table was bedecked with plates of eggs, fresh cut bacon, buttered toast, and warm bowls of oatmeal. Bram sat down then poured a cup of milk from a chilled stone pitcher. Another cup sat steaming, filled with freshly brewed red-bark tea. Bram took a careful sip of the hot liquid, not wanting to burn his mouth. He winced at the bitter taste. No honey. Looking about the table, he found the jar and took a spoonful to stir into his cup’s contents.

Just then, Crista came up from the pantry bearing a handful of withered apples. Bram smiled, responding to his cousin’s infectious grin. It dimpled her slightly plumb cheeks and made her round face glow. Bram suddenly recalled her running around barefoot and wearing pigtails, the fights she had picked with him, and the summers they spent getting into trouble with Patric and Denny. Now she sat across from him, a grown woman of seventeen years, wearing his mother’s apron over a well-mended brown and gray homespun she had made for her own mother. Crista had come to live with them at the farm just after Bram’s mother died. It had been in the middle of winter and Crista’s parents, Bram’s Aunt Reana and Uncle Dorgan, had both perished with black root fever.

Bram are you well?

Bram jerked. Wha...what? Oh. I’m sorry. Yes. I’m fine, Crista. Just tired.

Crista leaned forward, eyes squinting, Not coming down with something are you? You look a bit pale.

Bram shifted away, feeling embarrassed by his cousin’s motherly attentions. No need to worry. He gave her a crooked smile. I think I’ll be fine.

If you say so, Bram, said Crista.

Marten cleared his throat. Son, could you say the morning prayer for us?

Yes, father. We thank you, Blessed Davene, for meeting our needs. We ask You for strength to carry on our labors and clear hearts as we seek your pleasure. Amain.

Marten nodded with satisfaction. Amain.

The Duighrains busied themselves with breakfast.

No sooner had Bram piled bacon on his plate than a heavy knock sounded on the kitchen door. Crista leaped up and strained to see out a window. It’s Delan! She turned back, grinning from ear to ear.

A muffled voice said. Aye, it’s me. Now could you let me in please? Bram slid his chair back and reached for the latch. The door opened to reveal Delan tapping his foot. I was beginning to wonder if I had the right house. Delan sniffed.

Marten shook his head. Pipe down, lad. It’s good to see you here bright and early for a change.

Good morning to you too, Uncle Marten. Da wanted to let you know that he would be willing to split the cost to fix the dairy barns on the eastern property so Uncle Paddy could have a place to hold his cows. He said that the herd has just grown too big to stay where he’s got them.

Marten frowned, but then nodded slowly. I suppose that will be fine. When you see him, you might want to ask him what Uncle Paddy has in mind for his herd now. I was under the impression that he was planning to sell off part of the herd. In fact, Paddy asked me to find him good prices with some folks I know over in Coram’s Ridge. What changed his mind?

Not sure, Uncle, but I’ll ask my da. I’ll bet he knows something.

No, lad, that won’t be necessary, Marten replied evenly. Run up the hill and tell him I want to hear more details later.

* * *

After breakfast, Bram did not linger in the house, knowing that his father was trying very hard not to appear annoyed with either of the other Duighrains. He made his way straight to the barn where the plow horses were kept. Bram entered the dark building, lantern in hand shedding its weak and wavering light out to illuminate a row of stalls. His favorite horse, Root, was bedded down on the far end. Bram panned the lantern over towards the tool shelves. The gleam of metal and the supple leather of harnesses reflected back; Bram paused when the light fell upon the shadowy shape of a spindle. Mama’s spindle. Moving forward, the spindle was lost in shadows. The sweet smell of fresh hay mingled with fresh manure. The other horses housed there whickered as Bram passed their stalls, but he ignored them. They would soon get all the attention they desired once the others arrived. He found the shaggy brown mare waiting for him, the light shining upon her wide eyes. Her whickering speech greeted him.

Hello there, old girl. Have you been keeping out of trouble? Bram reached out to pat the animal behind the ears, stroking her neck, scratching her chin.

Ah, yes. Sure you have, Root. I know you better than that. Don’t I? She was still wily at her age, which she proved on a number of unfortunate occasions that still made Bram’s backside ache. You cantankerous animal, Bram grinned, Are you ready to go outside, hmm?

Root snorted.

Bram drew the horse from the stall, leading her by the reins, out into the open air of the farmyard. He had to squint as the sun forced its way through the thinning veil of clouds. It would be a warm day in the valley. He could already feel the temperature changing. Directly across from him, Crista was busy gathering fresh eggs from the chicken coop. The squawking birds flapped about in a flurry of feathers while the girl sidestepped them to retrieve a basket brimming with the white gems.

Glancing around, Bram found his father striding up towards Soft Branch, a tangled strip of forest that ran across the southern corner of their land and angled eastward across the length of the valley only to be cut off by the flow of the Ariol River. Marten moved with a purposeful step, ax in hand swinging with his motions. There were two old maples ready to come down just beyond the edge of tree line.

Despite the growing warmth, Bram did not entirely trust the weather. It was still likely to turn cold again. The weather in the valley was so unpredictable during the beginning of the season. Even Marten had trouble distinguishing the signs as of late.

Bram returned his attention to the horse and farmyard.

Well Root, I reckon we’ve done enough standing around, eh? We have to get those plows back inside before the rains come, Bram proclaimed in a mock tone of self-importance, one hand grasping the lapel of his woolen coat like he had seen Master Harwind do numerous times when he gave speeches at town council meetings. He snickered as the old horse rolled her eyes as though responding to his poor attempt at humor. Alright, alright, I need to work on it. I know I’m not as funny as Delan can be.

The two of them continued across the yard, making directly for the work track and out onto the field to where the first plow waited. In minutes, Bram had Root harnessed. Adjusting the blades of the plow, he began to move back towards the barn at a slow pace. Looking down, Bram nodded appreciatively; he had spent the previous three weeks working with the soil to make it easier for the plows to dig into the earth. Eventually, Delan and his brother Feylas joined Bram, bringing additional horses from the barn to remove the plows from the fields. As the day progressed, Bram removed one plow and went back out to get the other. Root was harnessed in a few moments and Bram struggled with the heavy plow.

Typically, Delan was going on incessantly about some new piece of gossip he’d gleaned from Uncle Jon. Farther across the field, Feylas almost had his second plow out of the field. Taller and of broader build than either Delan or Bram, he remained characteristically silent and intent on his work. Feylas was a man of few words. Continuing his own progress across the field, Bram put his cousins out of his mind.

Placing a wrong step, he stumbled in a rut. Blasted plow, Bram muttered.

He picked himself up and dusted off his knees. Glancing up Bram saw the clouds were gathering already. Rain, he thought. It won’t be long now.

The momentary lapse shifted Bram’s attention back to the land around him. A light flickering across the field caught his eye. He released his grip on the rough leather reins that stretched out ahead of him, letting the plow move on out of his control a few paces before Root halted and regarded him with questioning eyes. A rider approached, making way at a reckless speed down the broad dirt path that wound off the main road to the Duighrain farm. Wiping sweat from his brow with the kerchief tied to his neck, Bram walked towards the fence line.

Who’s coming? Delan cried out. Now he had noticed the rider approaching. His gray mare, Betts, snorted in protest when he tugged on the reins to stop her. Feylas stopped too, though he spared only a glance before he removed the plow from the field and continued dragging it towards the barn.

Just as the rider was coming abreast of him, Bram realized whom it was. A warm smile spread across his face. The rider fought to reign in his anxious mount but the towering black stallion wanted none of it; it wanted to keep riding. Easy there boy, I don’t want to ride to next valley.

Patric Harwind was of age with Bram; both had seen twenty planting seasons and had been friends for over half that time. He was also the son of a landlord.

Draped as he was in a voluminous gray cloak the color of the stormy skies and wearing smooth leather riding boots that came to the knees and gleamed with a deep burgundy sheen, Patric completed the heroic picture by flourishing his cloak like some keatha-man out of one of his father’s stories. This only revealed a blue velvet waistcoat, slightly wrinkled as though it had been worn the previous night and a billowy shirt the color of freshly fallen snow, also wrinkled. Shoulder-length brown hair, normally held tightly with a leather cord at the nape of the neck, was slightly disarrayed from racing through the wind, a few loose strands draped across his face. Patric’s green eyes sparkled.

Jumping from the saddle, words bubbled from his mouth. "Duighrain, I came to tell you that Father’s having a feast tomorrow night! You will come won’t you? This year he’s inviting everyone to Windhaven. Can you believe that? He means everyone, Duighrain. It’ll be a great time. We can eat all we want, dance to one of Master Hensil’s tunes, then you, me, and Denny can have fun annoying Rebekah and Lilia. What do you say?" Patric had a mischievous grin on his face. He nudged Bram in the ribs with his elbow. Bram knew well the sort of fun he meant and the trouble he generally found.

Bram shook his head. You remember the last time your father had a party don’t you? Patric began to interrupt but Bram overrode him. "I can’t remember the last time I have seen my father so mad. He would have skinned both of us alive for what we did. From what I can remember, you didn’t fair much better under Master Valadon’s correction. For me, I’d just like to have a nice quiet time and enjoy the food, the music, and the dancing." Bram kept his face stone still, waiting for Patric to bite on the line.

Patric bellowed. Bah! Nice try, Duighrain, sheesh! By Tristan’s sword, it’s the Festival of Renewal! Do I have to beg? Patric bent down on one knee, flourishing the cloak once more with theatrical flair, his face a mask of utmost sincerity. I entreat you good sir. Please fulfill this meager request of your servant’s. I beg thee...come hither.

Bram leaned forward shoving his friend over punching him playfully across the shoulder. Cut it out, Patric, and put your arms down.

The other man got to his feet and waved Bram off. Alright, alright...I won’t beg. But I have asked.

Asked what?

Bram jerked around at the voice and saw out the corner of his eye that Patric was just as surprised as he was. There, a few feet away, stood Marten, hoe in one hand, a hunk of crusty cheese held towards Bram with the other, and a steady stream of sweet-smelling smoke wafting up from the pipe between his teeth. Directly behind him stood Delan, brow sweaty, his eyes filled with disdain directed at Patric, but silently chewing his own food. Off to the right, Feylas stood, eating his food in small careful bites, his expression neutral. Bram hadn’t heard his father approach. He took the cheese. Between bites, Bram said, Patric was telling me about his father’s feast. He says we’re invited. It will be tomorrow after the Dedication service.

Delan nearly choked. All of us? You can’t be serious. You must mean the farmer’s council, not everyone in Lockloreand.

Patric’s grin soured. That’s exactly what I mean, Delan. He told me himself. Father has extended this invitation to all who wish to attend. There will plenty of food and drink.

Marten stroked his chin thoughtfully. Well now what a pleasant surprise. Patric, lad, tell your father that Marten Duighrain will be attending, though I know not whether others of my clan may venture. After speaking the words, the elder Duighrain looked long at his son. Bram saw something in his father’s eyes, but could not say what it was. The quick appearance of his father’s gracious smile halted the thought. Well, I will leave you two to your business. Without another word, Marten turned and walked away.

Such a strange thing to be happening isn’t it? The landlord being so generous with his pennies, I mean. Delan drifted away after the elder Duighrain, followed shortly by Feylas, leaving Bram and Patric to themselves.

Delan’s comment hung in the air and neither spoke at first.

Finally, Patric broke the silence. Duighrain, I should make my way back into town. Father wants me to go through some last minute arrangements before the Sabbath dawns.

My da is counting on me to finish the rest of the chores before the weather turns. I’m just glad we finished the plowing before it rained again. Looking at the skies again, Bram added, I think we’ll be getting a shower tonight.

Patric nodded. He mounted his stallion turned the animal around and moved onto the road. He turned back in the saddle.

Until tomorrow then, right Duighrain?

Yes. I’ll see you at the service, Bram answered.

Patric set the horse to a canter down the road several yards before breaking into a gallop that churned up a new cloud of dust in the air. Bram watched horse and rider until they disappeared from view, not moving, surrounded by the smell of the earth and the feel of the subtle stirring of the air around him, allowing a few scant moments to pass before he went back to work.

Once the plow was securely tucked away with the others beneath the lean-to at the rear of the barn, a heavy canvas tarpaulin draped on top to keep out the elements, Bram saw to Root’s needs. Removing the heavy leather harness from the exhausted animal, he hung it on a wooden peg next to the plow.

With a sigh, Bram dug out one of the shriveled apples he had slipped in a coat pocket during the morning. There you go old girl, he paused to stroke the horse behind the ear, I saved that just for you. Thunder rumbled softly to the west. Bram exchanged a look with the mare. We had better get you to the barn.

After Bram placed Root in the comfort of her stall, making certain to secure the heavy doors of the barn in the face of rising winds, he took some time to collect a heavier cloak from the house along with some of the patrey’s books.

Marten stood in the doorway, his pipe in hand. I’ll see you tomorrow. Don’t imagine you’ll make it back tonight.

Tomorrow, da, Bram replied.

Leaving the yard, Bram walked past the coop. Delan was busy mending the chicken wire. Where are you going?

Into town, Bram replied. I have lessons with Maric.

Ah. Delan scowled. Bram, why do you waste your time with all of those books? Don’t you get enough of Patrey Alran’s preaching on the Sabbath?

Bram clenched his fists. It’s not a waste of time, Delan! Maric is teaching me so many things about the world and about people. Don’t you want to know about history or about the lands beyond this valley?

Isn’t the Sandric enough? This is home, Bram. Our people have lived here for ages. I’m sure there’s a reason they decided to move to this valley. Why worry about the past when the present has so many of cares of its own? The Duighrains, your clan, are what matter, Bram. Making sure that we have a good harvest come autumn; that’s what matters. How do a bunch of dusty old books or the meandering words of a preacher compare?

Bram felt his face flush with heat. He couldn’t answer Delan’s questions. His tongue felt thick and unyielding.

I just can’t see why Uncle Marten indulges you. What does he expect you to do with all of that learning? You’re a farmer just like me. Pointing back to the farmstead, he continued, That’ll be yours someday, cousin. Both the household and the responsibilities included with it. Just think about that, will you?

Bram gritted his teeth. He stammered. I...I know that the farm’s important, Delan. I, uh, I just want something more.

Delan’s expression darkened. More! What more is there? Just a bunch of foolishness, Bram; that’s all this is. I swear if—

Before Bram could respond, a strong hand squeezed his shoulder.

Let him alone, Delan. Feylas was standing there, his face smooth, his eyes unwavering. What Bram does is Uncle Marten’s business, not ours. Why don’t you get back to that wire? We’ve got our jobs here. Bram knows what he has to do.

Bram felt the tension drain from his body. Feylas led him away from the other Duighrain, turning back once to make sure Delan wasn’t following. Once they were out of earshot, he spoke again. His deep voice held a comforting tone. He’s more like da every day—more bluster than common sense sometimes. Don’t let him get to you, cousin. It’s a good thing, what you’re doing. Never feel shame for what you’ve been given. I think it’s a grand thing to know so many interesting things about the world beyond this sleepy valley.

Bram smiled. Thanks, Feylas. It’s hard for me to express what I’ve learned these last few years. Yet, it feels right…like what I’m supposed to be doing.

It’s no problem, Feylas said. Anyway, don’t you think you should get going?

A look to the sky was enough. You’re right. If I don’t move fast, I’ll be soaked.

Chapter Two

Valuable Lessons

The walk into Lockloreand was long enough to help him shake off Delan’s words. Bram needed to clear his head. Without hesitating, he sprinted down dirty, dusty tracks, cloak flapping wildly as he went, and the threat of rain palpable to the young man’s sensitive reckoning. From the secondary roads, Bram slowed to a jog to catch his breath, feet still pounding against the hard packed earth of the Vale Road.

Night willows cried out from the boughs of the stout white ash trees that lined both sides of the roadway, their chortling calls made Bram shiver, though they were left behind in the wake of his steady stride. He passed the entrances to the neighbors’ farms; to the right just down a pace, old Basil Lensdale and his kindly wife Nelea lived in a one-room cabin; several feet later, now to the left, Malo Macglarien, his wife Ella, and their pack of unruly children made their home in a grove of peach trees. He passed these familiar lanes, not slowing down but picking up speed again at the groan of thunder, which now rumbled overhead. It was coming.

Ahead of him, Bram could make out lights burning to ward off the murk of the storm dark afternoon. The smell of lamp oil was wafting from the windows mingling with chimney smoke reached him even where he was. He slowed his pace to a walk, heaving to catch his breath. Even in the light of the cloud-darkened sky, he could make out the tower of the fellowship hall jutting up from the center of the town. All of Lockloreand lay spread across his field of view. The faint sound of music reached him. The tunes were familiar; the songs were those Bram had heard all of his young life. A smile crept upon his face. Tomorrow will be a grand day.

Bram approached the first of the dwellings that ringed the outer limits of the town, boots clacking upon the smooth cobble stone surface that met him. It was one of Master Harwind’s recent improvements. Many of the local craftsmen that operated within the market square had been pleased. It made good sense to him as well. It cut down on the terrible muck of mud streets. The edge of the cobble was set in such a way as to act as a sort of drainage channel, which kept all the roads cleared from most of the water. Yes, it was true that the tenant farmers and craftsmen alike had really been the ones to pay. The question was whether the outcome of the venture was worth the expense.

Bram mused over this while taking the most direct route to the town center, straight through the town’s sprawling Market Square, past stalls set up in preparation for the bazaar that would fill with merchants and peddlers alike, all vying for the attention of the visiting patrons. He crept carefully along the narrower pathways that had been formed by scores of smallish peddler carts and the taller, sturdy merchant train wagons, not wanting to disturb those within. From what he could tell from a few darkened windows, many had already bedded down for the night to wait out the storm.

Bram knew this was just the beginning. Even more travelers from all across the Sandric Valley would be coming to Lockloreand to share in the celebration. In the past, even outsiders had found their way in, sometimes from as far away as Faldan, the neighboring realm to the north. Bram had seen the fair-haired Faldanis from a distance, never stopping to talk with them, but hearing comments from some of the elders about the war.

Bram had listened with the others of his clan, time after time around the great fires of Midwinter’s Eve to his father’s tales regarding the war between the two kingdoms, but Maric’s history lessons had provided far more details. Thinking again of the passage he had memorized from the book, Bram quickened his pace.

He cleared the square, left the cobblestone, then entered the softer stone and well packed earth of the Holy Circle, the treeless expanse that surrounded the lone edifice of the Mahadai fellowship hall. As he drew closer, Bram’s eyes locked on the mosaic patterns of stained glass set just above the fellowship hall entrance visible because of clever backlighting. Other thoughts faded before the shimmering colors. Bram remembered Maric telling him that the scene had been etched by a Garnellan glasswright some thirty-five years before and installed in its present place by Patric’s grandfather, Adon Harwind. It was a depiction of The March of Gilanead.

Standing there, alone, Bram let his mind linger upon each colored panel, tracing its shape, seeing how it connected to the panel next to it. He discerned the artist’s subtle pattern of colors, which created the forms of horses and riders and the mountain path where they treaded. His lessons about the ancient battle were a bit fuzzy but he remembered the gist. So many battles fought for so many reasons, yet many of them lost to memory—or left to the clever hands of the artist to immortalize.

The next thing Bram knew, the sky opened and drenching rains pelted him on the steps. His efforts to elude the downpour had been in vain. You need to get your head out of the clouds, he muttered. Bram opened the door and left the storm behind.

* * *

Maric. I’m sorry I’m late. Bram called out. His eyes swept across the hall and found the patrey leaning against one of the benches that bordered the wide center aisle to the Altar, clutching his chest tightly, his face pale and stricken, a fine sheen of sweat glistening on his forehead visible even from where Bram entered.

Bram felt a blade of cold fear drive into his stomach.

Maric! he cried, his body washed with a sobering coldness. Dropping the bundle that held his books, Bram rushed forward, tripping over his own feet to reach the other man. Kneeling next to the patrey, he floundered, not sure what to do next.

Come now, don’t just stand there gawking, help me up. Bram hastened to take hold of the patrey’s arm, letting him put weight on his shoulder, his heart pounding in his head.

The patrey gazed at Bram, his brow furrowed. Now, calm yourself, boy. Go on. Take me to my room. Perhaps some mulled wine and the heat of the fire will do us both some good, yes. Besides, you need to dry off. Bram complied, though the patrey’s assurance did not clear away the cloud of uncertainty from him, and he was somewhat disturbed by the strange smile that transfixed the patrey’s face.

Maric, are you sure you are not hurt?

Bram lead the patrey towards the Altar itself. The heat of the votives that encircled the Oath Stones chased the vestiges of the chill from his flesh. Bram stole a glance at the words inscribed on the smooth surface of the stones before angling to the left and taking the short flight of steps down to the chamber door. Maric, I could go and get Mistress Cozain. You look pale. With the Dedication tomorrow—, he began. The patrey stopped him with a squeeze to the wrist.

Bram Duighrain, I tell you that I am fine, he replied chidingly, causing some of the warmth and color returned to his face.

Bram nodded slowly. Once the patrey set his mind, there was no changing it. His tone brooked no resistance—he knew this from experience.

The air was much warmer inside the chamber, the heat sufficient for him to remove his damp cloak and then drape it across one of a number of chairs sitting in odd places across the chamber length. He had to step around piles of books on the floor, pausing from time to time to slide one stack or another carefully aside with an outstretched boot. Maric was stronger now than before and released his hold on Bram when they came close to the chair. The older man sank down into the deep cushions, soft sighs escaping his mouth. Maple logs burned in the small fireplace set into the wall, filling the room with their sweet aroma.

Bram went in search of the wine that Maric requested, finding a chipped clay pitcher covered by an unfurled map just opposite a precariously balanced collection of dusty tomes. The map was covered in a precise rendering of the entire valley region. Angry scribbles and a scrawling, barely legible handwriting marred the smooth black ink drawing. He had to squint in the dim lighting, half tempted to reach for the room’s only lamp. It sat glowing on Maric’s desk. Maps held much fascination for the young man; Bram had spent many hours after nightfall at home before the fire, gazing over the old musty maps his father kept on the top of their bookshelf. Bram’s grandfather had left maps from his days in the war, complete with troop positions and progress notes dotting every open space on the rough surface.

Bram, what are you doing over there? Maric called out.

Bram jerked. Oh, sorry Maric, I was just looking at this map.

Well come away from there. Get that wine over here so we can heat it up. I could certainly use some now, he paused to scratch his head vigorously, and then continued, Now what were you here to do? Before Bram could answer, Maric resumed. Oh, yes, you are here for your lessons. I almost forgot with preparation for the festival and the Dedication rituals. He paused, looking around the fireplace. Where are those mulling stones? I thought I told Gillan to put them back in the fire so they would be ready. Ah, but the lad’s abed, isn’t he? Trying to get over whatever illness the change in weather brought on. Humph. I am sure that Mistress Cozain has done him some good, yes. Probably, poured some wretched concoction down his throat. No, no, my boy, you’ll not be bringing our dear Mistress Cozain in here tonight.

Bram smirked to cover his apprehension. There was something in the patrey’s demeanor, some change he was trying to hide behind his rambling.

If you say so, Maric, said Bram.

Bram laced his voice with sarcasm so the patrey could not fail to notice. He set the pitcher down upon the stone hearth. He located the mulling stones and shoved them into the hot coals.

Maric snorted. I most certainly do, Bram Duighrain. You just remember that now, he answered.

The younger Duighrain nodded but said nothing, letting the jest fall. He moved back across the small chamber to the desk again and rifled through a pile of discarded robes behind it. He searched for a few minutes more until he located two fairly tarnished silver cups, the surfaces of each marred by ugly nicks and dents. By the fire, Maric had opened one of the books taken from a teetering pile next to his chair. His soft, thoughtful humming soon filled the room, mingling with the rhythmic crackling of the fire. Above him, Bram heard the rain hitting the shingled roof and all of the sounds combined. It was comforting.

After two frothing cups of the spicy wine had been poured and two hot stones tossed in, Bram settled down on a low stool beside Maric. It was normal place when he was receiving instruction or just listening to the older man talked of former days. Depending on his mood, Maric described life beyond the Sandric Valley. While he remained sketchy regarding his life in the narrow streets of far off Garnell, the city of the King, the golden domed capital of Trellayn, he was not hesitant to describe his other misadventures. He talked of Belam, the great eastern city, with its Fortress of Rumere, jutting up from the Cantrells, a wide swath of plains between the rise and fall of the Hadrian and Maraduth Valleys and the mounds of the Great Hillens beyond on the distant horizon. He described his journeys south to the vineyards of Ishamet and his encounters with the exotic people of Calleare. Maric was an able storyteller in his own right, birthing beautiful, if shaded, images of the distant cities, spoken in sparse prose, lacking his father’s richer, embellished tones. Bram didn’t mind the difference all that much, but was aware of it. The idea of his father and Maric in a contest of tales suddenly fired in his imagination. Bram covered an amused smile. His eyes darted up to Maric’s face, half buried behind the book before him.

When would the lesson begin?

Before he could open his mouth to speak, Maric forestalled him with an upraised finger. How did the patrey know he wanted to say something? It wasn’t the first time though, so he let it go. Maric laid the book across his lap then shifted in his chair until he faced Bram more squarely.

Bram, do you remember when you first came to me, those years past, just after your mother died? You fought me so hard at first. You wanted nothing to do with the Mahadai or me. You were angry with God for her death. I can see many things now, differently, more clearly than I ever could before. I have witnessed what sort of man you’ve become. I thank Davene that I have played a small role in raising you up in the ways that you should walk.

The patrey paused to consider the next words, his features softening with affection.

There was a time, when I first came to Lockloreand, ah, some twenty years ago this past autumn I would say, in which I doubted my calling. I had come from the west, nearer to the shore waters of the brilliant Emerald Ocean than I would wager most of the people of the valleys had been in a generation and had resented the assignment by my Patreydan elder. I had believed that he wanted me far from any place of influence and where I could make effective use of my talents. Such was my arrogance then. I had to learn, as we all must, that wisdom can see farther than our youthful and prideful assumptions of importance.

Master Gullad placed me in the Sandric Valley with a good purpose in mind. I know that now; I have been blessed a hundred times over with the passage of time and the blossoming of my own wisdom. It has grown brighter in these last years of my life, and with your presence in my life. I have shared so much of what I have learned, of what the sacred writings hold for those who merely seek it with open hearts and minds, and what the academies of the city desired to instill in their students. This is my legacy if nothing else is that you have come and have listened to an old man ramble on in the dark hours of the night. For that, you are blessed, Bram.

Maric stretched forth a hand to clasp hold of his, and Bram looked into the patrey’s eyes, and could see the unshed tears sparkling there.

You have taught me well and I am most grateful. I have no way with words. You know that. All I can say is thank you. Thank you for being here for me. I know that Davene has blessed me with your guiding hand.

Maric smirked. Ha, yes he has, my friend. More than you could know. Ah, but you will. Bram, do not be afraid to speak. You will find the words; trust me.

The patrey slowly stood up, all the while grinning knowingly, as though he was aware of something that no one else was. I would even venture to say that a great many people will hear your words not so very long from now.

Bram stared after Maric, his brow furrowed in confusion, What do you mean?

The patrey’s soft laughter trailed behind him as he turned his back from the younger Duighrain and walked towards the chamber door. "Now, now, I would not want to ruin the surprise for you lad. God will show you when the time arrives. This you can count on. In the meantime, come with me. I want to show you something out in the hall." What did the patrey mean? The only real course, though, was to follow him.

Out away from the fire, the air was much cooler. The rain still beat upon the wooden shingles above, pounding out a staccato rhythm. The wooden floor below him gleamed with the reflections of burning votives and he inhaled their pungent scent. Maric moved up and around to the altar, halting before the alabaster stones of the Mahadai Oath. He waited for Bram to join him before speaking again.

Read the words of the Oath, Bram.

Bram gazed up at the stones, tracing the sharp and clear lines of the script. He began hesitantly, not quite clear of the patrey’s motive. ‘I am your Maker; I am the one God, your god. You will have no other gods. I am Davene, Keeper of the Wellspring. Bear witness to the words I speak for I give you an oath to keep, a vow to remember always. Listen and I will reveal the path of life.’ Bram turned to the other man.

Go on lad, read further.

"‘Truth will abide with you as you remain true to My word. Never forsake what I have given you. Teach My commandments and instruct them how to keep the Oath for you are to be keepers of this deep oath. Blood will bind you and honor will guide you in the dark watches of the night. Do not let time fade your memory. Let the younger ones recite My words to you in your old age just as you once did for them when they were children. My love will be your possession and it will shine through you as a witness to all other nations. You men protect and serve in the ways that I have taught you, wielding the sword and shield with wisdom and forbearance.’"

"‘Strive for peace and not war. You women shelter your children, those who once suckled at your breasts, for they are a great treasure. Let them not be stolen in the night. Do not just honor Me with your lips but come to Me and I will lead you. I will lead you even to the Wellspring, back to the place from which your Father and Mother were cast out so long ago. This is My word to you. Remember it without ceasing even