Read Online The Light Within: A Winter's Tale by Grace Draven - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Grace Draven
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Silhara, her copper colored eyes
glinting in the winter half light. “This is what remains of the fortress known
as High Salure, an outpost of the Beladine kingdom.”
Silhara glanced at his surroundings. His first impression of the avastra was that it had been a fortress of some type. The ancient
kingdom of Belawat had vanished a long time ago, but Conclave kept records of
its existence, recorded by the priests during Conclave’s inaugural days.
Belawat had lain on the other side of the Dramorins. This far outpost must
have guarded an important border, overseen by a border warden. Destroyed,
abandoned or both, it now served as a makeshift temple for the nomadic Kurman
who gathered once a year to honor Damaza with fire.
“Martise! Martise!” A chorus of feminine voices called out over
the pealing bell, the bleat of livestock and shouts of people.
Silhara caught sight of a group of Kurman women hurrying toward
them and promptly backed Gnat away from Martise. She grinned at Silhara.
“Fleeing?”
He bowed to her from his high perch on Gnat. “I have an acute
instinct for survival. I’ll leave you to them.” He did as she accused and
fled for the safety of the makeshift paddock built for the ponies in a far
corner of the avastra .
He hardly had Gnat unsaddled before he was swarmed by a horde of
tribesmen. Those who knew him personally clapped him on the back or joked with
him. Those who knew him only by title and reputation hung back, gawking at him
with wondering expressions. Silhara didn’t think he’d ever grow used to those
looks.
After several promises to visit the individual camps and stay for
a smoke or a cup of arkii , the Kurmans left him to finish with Gnat and
gather the packs he and Martise had brought for their trip to the sehad ritual.
“You look no more impressive to me now than when I saw you during
the summer. The way everyone has been speaking your name, I’d at least expect
a pair of wings or maybe glowing eyes. You’re still the ragged crow mage I’ve
always known.”
Bent to hobble Gnat, Silhara grinned at the familiar voice and
rose. He found his acerbic aunt behind him, bundled in layered skirts and
robes of scarlet, violet and lapis. The tiny bells sewn into her head wrap
sang a faint tintinnabulation as she leaned on one of the paddock rails and motioned
him outside to join her.
Dercima was his anchor to his father’s people. She was fourth
consort to her tribe’s sarsen but ruled her chieftain husband and her
sister wives as if she wasn’t only first consort but the sarsena .
Silhara kissed both of her cheeks and accepted the long-stemmed pipe she handed
him. She lit the pipe from a tiny coal in her own pipe bowl, and soon the
scent of matal swirled around them, fading into the light snow flurries
that dusted the air.
Her next words reminded him again that not everyone was in awe of
him. “Don’t embarrass me by drinking so much arkii that you can’t walk
straight and end up stumbling into the sacred fire.”
Silhara huffed a stream of smoke out of his nose. “Your concern
over my possible death by drunken immolation is touching.”
They exchanged smiles and spent several quiet moments sharing the
smoke and watching the Kurmans ready for the evening bonfire. Silhara found
Martise still amidst a pack of Kurman women, chatting as easily in Kurmanji as
if she’d been born to the language.
“It was good of you to come.” The light jingle of the bells on
her headdress emphasized Dercima’s nod of approval.
Silhara shrugged. When the sarsen Karduk invited him as
guest of honor to the festival, he never considered refusing. “These are my
people.”
“They think it a great honor that the god-smiter will light the
sacred fire and the nine torches.”
He rolled his eyes at her teasing tone. “Remind me after this to
hunt down whoever dreams up these ridiculous titles so that I may eviscerate
them.
glinting in the winter half light. “This is what remains of the fortress known
as High Salure, an outpost of the Beladine kingdom.”
Silhara glanced at his surroundings. His first impression of the avastra was that it had been a fortress of some type. The ancient
kingdom of Belawat had vanished a long time ago, but Conclave kept records of
its existence, recorded by the priests during Conclave’s inaugural days.
Belawat had lain on the other side of the Dramorins. This far outpost must
have guarded an important border, overseen by a border warden. Destroyed,
abandoned or both, it now served as a makeshift temple for the nomadic Kurman
who gathered once a year to honor Damaza with fire.
“Martise! Martise!” A chorus of feminine voices called out over
the pealing bell, the bleat of livestock and shouts of people.
Silhara caught sight of a group of Kurman women hurrying toward
them and promptly backed Gnat away from Martise. She grinned at Silhara.
“Fleeing?”
He bowed to her from his high perch on Gnat. “I have an acute
instinct for survival. I’ll leave you to them.” He did as she accused and
fled for the safety of the makeshift paddock built for the ponies in a far
corner of the avastra .
He hardly had Gnat unsaddled before he was swarmed by a horde of
tribesmen. Those who knew him personally clapped him on the back or joked with
him. Those who knew him only by title and reputation hung back, gawking at him
with wondering expressions. Silhara didn’t think he’d ever grow used to those
looks.
After several promises to visit the individual camps and stay for
a smoke or a cup of arkii , the Kurmans left him to finish with Gnat and
gather the packs he and Martise had brought for their trip to the sehad ritual.
“You look no more impressive to me now than when I saw you during
the summer. The way everyone has been speaking your name, I’d at least expect
a pair of wings or maybe glowing eyes. You’re still the ragged crow mage I’ve
always known.”
Bent to hobble Gnat, Silhara grinned at the familiar voice and
rose. He found his acerbic aunt behind him, bundled in layered skirts and
robes of scarlet, violet and lapis. The tiny bells sewn into her head wrap
sang a faint tintinnabulation as she leaned on one of the paddock rails and motioned
him outside to join her.
Dercima was his anchor to his father’s people. She was fourth
consort to her tribe’s sarsen but ruled her chieftain husband and her
sister wives as if she wasn’t only first consort but the sarsena .
Silhara kissed both of her cheeks and accepted the long-stemmed pipe she handed
him. She lit the pipe from a tiny coal in her own pipe bowl, and soon the
scent of matal swirled around them, fading into the light snow flurries
that dusted the air.
Her next words reminded him again that not everyone was in awe of
him. “Don’t embarrass me by drinking so much arkii that you can’t walk
straight and end up stumbling into the sacred fire.”
Silhara huffed a stream of smoke out of his nose. “Your concern
over my possible death by drunken immolation is touching.”
They exchanged smiles and spent several quiet moments sharing the
smoke and watching the Kurmans ready for the evening bonfire. Silhara found
Martise still amidst a pack of Kurman women, chatting as easily in Kurmanji as
if she’d been born to the language.
“It was good of you to come.” The light jingle of the bells on
her headdress emphasized Dercima’s nod of approval.
Silhara shrugged. When the sarsen Karduk invited him as
guest of honor to the festival, he never considered refusing. “These are my
people.”
“They think it a great honor that the god-smiter will light the
sacred fire and the nine torches.”
He rolled his eyes at her teasing tone. “Remind me after this to
hunt down whoever dreams up these ridiculous titles so that I may eviscerate
them.
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