Rising from Dust (Light from Aphelion Book 1) Read online

  The village was silent, as it was in late winter. The only sounds were the dropping of the melting snow and the snuffling of the horse. The red wooden houses looked deserted except for the reflection of a candle through a window here and there. Smoke rose out of the chimneys like a forest of stunted trunks. A door opened. An old woman came out and gazed at him with a scornful look. She spat in his direction and disappeared around a corner.

  Selen kept on riding. He halted by a house near the river. The construction was a bit larger than the others with a sloping roof on the side, covering what looked like a smithy. Selen dismounted, took out a leather pouch from his bag, and knocked at the door. A tall, bearded man in a dusty leather apron opened.

  “Dear gods, if it’s not our local hermit. It has been ages since we last saw you here in Fjolsta, Selen. What can I do for you? Are you here to sell me some potions?” the man asked, laughing. The blacksmith crossed his dirty arms over his chest, revealing the protruding muscles under his shirt. The man had always been amiable to him, and Selen knew he could trust him.

  “Actually, I am here to say goodbye,” Selen said with a sad face. “Still, master Dalin, I need a last service. Would you buy my last stock of products? I can make you a price on it. I have no time to sell it myself. And I need the money.”

  The blacksmith looked at Selen and frowned. “I could, indeed, but why do you need money so eagerly?”

  “I intend to journey south,” Selen answered. “More, I don’t know myself.”

  “South, you say,” Dalin grunted. “You must have stayed too long in your forest. There is bad news coming from that way. Some men talk about war. There is nothing good for you down there, Selen.”

  “I’m sorry, but I won’t turn back,” Selen said. War sounded bad, but he would not die in his shack. He handed the pouch with his products to the man. “I also give you my key. My sheep are yours, and so are my belongings if I don’t come back in a few months. There is nothing of great worth, I fear.”

  “Wait here,” Dalin said. The blacksmith left the door and disappeared inside the house.

  A few minutes later, the man was back, his arms full of provisions. “Let me give you these. You will need food to cross the Frozen Mountains. And try to stay away from the road when things look bad. Men like you are easy prey,” Dalin said with a concerned look.

  “I think I can watch over myself,” Selen answered, taking the provisions and a small pouch full with coins, “but thank you very much for the food…and for my sheep.” Selen smiled and turned away.

  “Fare well!” the blacksmith exclaimed. “And may the gods be with you.”

  Selen filled his bags, got on his horse, and waved back. Heading south, he crossed the village in silence. From a roof above his head, a flock of crows took to the air, squawking.

  The pink-red sun beamed above the horizon. A flock of birds rose from the edge of the woods. Selen sat on a stone with his flask of water in his hand. He was weary. It had taken him two weeks to cross the Frozen Mountains. With the rising spring temperatures, the roads had been turned to swamps. Some rivers had proven to be impossible to cross, thus forcing him to make detours through rocky slopes and deep copses. He had been obliged to make many breaks to let his horse rest. The poor beast had panted most of the time and had been close to hurt itself on many occasions. Selen had not met a single traveller. Neither had he seen a tavern or a shack to take shelter. The road south was barren of human life. The nocturnal dampness and the rain had made his clothes so unbearably wet and cold that he had had to keep a fire going at every bivouac to partially dry them. He had also been too exhausted to be disturbed by nightmares, falling instantly asleep where he had laid down his head. Fortunately, he had enough food to last for weeks and could harvest roots or trap a hare if needed.

  The Frozen Mountains were behind him now. The forest that stretched to the horizon was full of promises. The burning he felt in his heart was like a beacon leading him through the elements. Something strong called him. He was sure he had made the best choice. He gazed south at the bright kingdom of Trevalden and sighed with high expectation.

  Selen got up and mounted. It was time to resume his journey south and wind down the mountains.

  The vegetation was a mix of deep pine and birch forests and tall grass prairies. The horse had no difficulty following the trail. The journey promised to be more pleasant. Even the freezing wind had turned into a light breeze. Except for the chanting of the birds, the south slope of the Mountains looked deserted. Here and there, Selen could see a farm in a glade. Most looked like they had been abandoned for years. The few people he saw fled at his sight. He spotted ruins of old watchtowers but no trace of a village. It seemed as if no one wanted to live south of the Mountains. Yet, the path got broader and turned from a grassy trail into a muddy road.

  The first refugees appeared in the morning. At first, it was isolated men wearing rags and a bag with their last belongings. They avoided him and moved in utter silence, like ghostly figures. Selen wondered if they would dare to cross the Frozen Mountains, or if they would head west and take the road to the Windy Isles. He interrupted his thoughts when he saw the first families. The lucky ones traveled by cart. The others wandered in groups, sometimes dragging an old, scrawny mule behind. Mothers pulled crying children. They looked starved, worn-out, and dirty. The refugees looked at him with wild eyes. Selen, who had never seen so much misery, watched them go by with utter shock. Moved by compassion, he dismounted from his horse and gave some of his food and water to the poorest families, who mumbled a few words of thanks in return. Yet, as the road went on, and the flow of unfortunate men and women grew larger, Selen became overwhelmed by the number. He understood with genuine sadness that he could never help them all. Some desperate souls even tried to grab at his horse. He felt forced to quicken his mount’s pace.

  Later on the road, Selen saw a cart pulled by an old nag. The couple on the seat didn’t look better than their horse, but at least they looked aware. Selen took the chance to glean some information. “You there,” Selen called. “Where are you from? What happened back there?”

  “How can you not know?” the grumpy, old man answered with reproach in his voice. “You better turn around, young maid. It’s war down there.”

  “War against whom?” Selen continued, trying to block the road for the cart and ignoring the old man’s mistake. “Please, tell me. I came all the way from the other side of the Mountains.”

  “It’s King Agroln. He is sending troops to take over the north. The south is already in flames,” the old man explained. “There are creatures and outlaws going through the villages, burning houses. We have lost everything,” he mumbled, looking down. “You don’t want to see this.” The man shook the reins, and the horse pulled the cart again. Selen watched them disappear around the curve. He kicked his mount.

  He wondered now if it was wise to go south. Still, he did not need to ride much further. The warmth in his heart radiated. Whatever was calling him, he drew nearer with each step. The first drops of rain were falling on his hood when he glanced ahead and saw the top of what looked like a tavern.

  CHAPTER 2

  Louis had left the city of Neolerim, capital of the Iron Marches, two weeks ago by the road leading west. The saddlebags on his horse were packed with food. He had purses filled with money hidden under the saddle and under the blanket. It was his first long journey, but he was determined to reach the north of the kingdom of Trevalden without incident. It had not been as easy as he had planned to travel with all these refugees flocking from the west. Every night for a week, he had slept against the trees in the woods, some hundred yards away from the road. The taverns were crowded with disoriented families, ready to pay a fortune for a bowl of soup and a piece of bread. In every village he had crossed, wounded and beggars agglutinated on the houses’ porches. Still, the worst had been the road itself. Some carts had been pulled over and abandoned where the axle had broken or where the mount had died. It attra
cted scavengers, everything from crows to wild dogs.

  Of course, the inhabitants of Neolerim had been informed of the war in Trevalden. It had been going on for four years now, ever since King Wymar Lambelin had been poisoned. The old king had been the last one of his house. Rumours said it was one of his counselors who had poisoned him. Other rumours said the queen had done it. A long, bloody war for the throne had followed, a conflict that people who lived east, in the Iron Marches, had vaguely heard of. But now that the north of the realm had been struck, refugees poured into the Iron Marches.

  Louis watched them pass by with pity and reproach. He could not understand why such an amount of people fled instead of joining forces. What were their lives worth outside their kingdom anyway? They would never survive the harsh life in the Iron Marches. Only barren hills and dry, rocky mountains lay ahead. Many refugees were already exhausted by the journey. Half of them were incurably sick, while others had lost their minds.

  He had crossed Trevalden’s border ten days ago. The forest where he was now showed the first signs of spring. With its mild climate, Trevalden was a more pleasant place to live in than the Iron Marches. Louis hastened his mount’s pace.

  The call he had felt inside his chest these last weeks had been the spark he had needed to motivate him to travel west. He would not turn back. This burning in his heart, which had been so warm and comforting in the beginning, had turned into fire. Besides, the world was changing in the west, and he wanted to be a part of it. He could not stand to live in the city any longer. His life as an archivist bored him to death. Maybe this journey would also be an opportunity for him to learn about his past. Four years of intensive work in the city archives never shone the glimpse of a light on his memories. Whatever lay ahead, the journey excited him.

  Around him, the uninterrupted flow of the refugees moved faster. They all hoped to cross the forest before nightfall. Like a migrating flock, the weaker were prey to all that roamed along the path. Louis heard a cry that was unusual among the multitude of whines, like a call of distress. Curious, he pulled his mount around the slope. A cart pulled by an ox stood in a glade. A few yards away from it, a man lay in a pool of blood with arrows stuck in his back. His aggressors, two men in filthy clothes, manhandled a young boy. Louis assumed the dead man had been the father. Without a second thought, Louis dismounted, drew his sword, and approached the men. They were too busy with the child to notice his presence. As he moved closer, he heard their conversation.

  One of the two bandits took the young boy by the wrist. “Now, tell us where his money is, or I’ll open your dear pa to check his guts,” the taller man said.

  The child stood mute with a horrified look on his face.

  “Maybe we should roast him? Isn’t that what your brother used to do, Bran?” The man pushed his dagger closer to the boy’s throat.

  “‘You don’t spoil good merchandise,’ he also used to say. And what I see here is worth some pieces of gold,” Bran replied.

  “And where do you hope to sell it, genius? There are only more of them around,” the tall man objected.

  “I know a few men in a tavern nearby who would not mind some entertainment,” Bran sniggered.

  “As you wish, your—”

  The man’s head bent down when Louis ran his sword through his back. Louis pushed his sword out as Bran turned around. The blow was swift, and the blade cut clean. When Bran’s head touched the ground, the eyes were still frozen with disbelief. The man’s body collapsed on top of it.

  Louis knelt and took the boy by the shoulder. “Are you unhurt?” he asked.

  The boy did not answer. Instead, he grabbed Louis’s long brown hair and cried in silence. Louis bore the child onto his saddle and brought him back to the flow of people. He halted near a group of families passing by.

  ”You there,” he called out to a man who looked to be the oldest, “this boy’s father has been killed. You will help me bury him.”

  Louis’s voice was firm, but he did not shout. The man and his relatives looked at him suspiciously. The women felt concerned by the tears running down the boy’s face, but no one dared to move without the old man’s approval.

  Louis sighed. So much for compassion. “You can keep the man’s cart. Just don’t make me have to force you.” Louis reached for his sword. Should they still refuse to move, he would not hesitate to use it. The threat and the opportunity to loot convinced the men of the group.

  The families followed him into the glade. Louis was pleased to see that they headed to the man and not to the cart. At the site of what had happened, the refugees showed more will to perform the task. Louis dismounted and helped them dig the grave with tools found in the cart. Once the work was done, Louis turned to the child.

  “You will have to stay with the others. It seems they are good people after all,” he said. “Where I go is no place for a child.” Louis put the boy on a cart with other children and kept on moving west.

  “Whatever I am looking for, it’s hidden here,” Louis said and looked at the sign of the Wounded Owl Inn. It was time he arrived. His heart inflamed his lungs. His hands in his gloves were moist, and his vision had blurred a few times.

  The place was built with white stone, and judging by the thickness of the ivy that grew on the north wall, it had probably stood there for a hundred years. The inn was big, with a long red tile roof and half-timbered walls. Louis looked at the stained-glass windows of different colors. Only rich taverns in cities could afford such luxury. To be so impressive, this place was probably the only resting spot on the main road for miles. He walked towards the porch. Like a moat around a castle, the inn was circled by a stream, which also could have been waste waters. A stone bridge connected the alley to the entrance gate.

  A young lad in dusty outfits approached him. “Should I take care of your horse, my lord?”

  “I’m no lord, but yes, you can,” Louis answered. As he dismounted, his head spun. He closed his eyes a few seconds. “How big is this place?”

  “You have the stables at your right, over there. On the left is the inn. Though, I think the inn is full for the night. There is an inner garden that you can reach from the west side of the main room. This gate is the only entrance,” the lad explained.

  So, that door would be the only exit should he meet someone nasty inside the inn. Louis was not reassured at all. “Thank you. That will be all.” Louis gave the lad a coin, handed him his horse’s bridle, and headed to the inn’s main door across the inner yard.

  As Louis pushed the door, the smell of tobacco and cabbage fried in grease with onions welcomed him. He put a hand on his mouth. The tavern was crowded with all kinds of folk, each more suspicious and shabby looking than the other. The customers’ loud chatting covered the distant sound of a bard’s lute. His eyes narrowed when he stared at the faces. Under his cloak, Louis reached for the pommel of his sword. No eyes crossed his. No one reacted to his presence. Still, it was here, somewhere.

  The heat in his chest was suffocating. He pushed his hood back. The terrible smell made his stomach contract again. In search for some fresh air, he noticed the open door on the other side, the one that led to the inner garden. He took a few unsteady steps towards the doorframe and leaned against it. The cold air of the evening felt wonderful on his face. The garden was full of colorful flowers. This enchanting place was a stark contrast to the main room of the tavern. Someone sat in the alley.

  The pain in his heart stopped. The nausea left him. Could the something he was after be a someone? Louis approached with his hand on his sword. “Whoever you are, turn around and show yourself,” Louis commanded.

  The person in front of him rose slowly and turned, pushing his hood back. The pain Louis had felt in his heart came back stronger than ever, but it was another kind of pain this time. The man had long hair the color of lilacs cascading down his back to his thighs. His face had the most delicate features Louis had ever seen. But above all, it was the man’s eyes that caught his attent
ion. He had eyes of the purest green, expressing the most infinite kindness. Louis was drawn out of his amazement when the man opened his plump, curved mouth.

  “My name is Selen. I’ve been waiting for you,” the man said with a smile and a hint of a blush.

  CHAPTER 3

  The burning in his chest had almost choked Selen. He had found refuge in the garden, among the plants and flowers, where he felt safe. He had sensed the man approach behind his back. It had been too late to think about grabbing a weapon. Now, he felt ridiculous even to have conceived that idea. The man who stood in front of him took his breath away. Heat rose to his cheeks. During all these years, Selen had never seen anyone with such deep blue eyes. He stood mesmerized. To escape the man’s strong gaze, he forced his own eyes to wander to the brown locks of the man’s long hair and to his full lips, a sight that only made him blush more. Was it he who had summoned him here? He tried to fight his embarrassment and spoke.

  “My name is Selen. I’ve been waiting for you.” It was the first thing that came to his mind. He knew at once that his words sounded foolish. He should have said something more neutral, or asked the man’s name. He bit his lip and waited.

  There was a moment of silence. “I’m Louis,” the man finally answered. “Who are you? And why did you call me here?”

  “I never called you here. You called me,” Selen said, startled.

  “I don’t understand,” Louis said, looking disconcerted. “I came all the way from the Iron Marches because something pulled me here, and I see no one else in this garden.”

  “And I came from the Frozen Mountains,” Selen replied, “but there is nothing here. Except you.”

  “There must be more to it. I think we should talk and sort it out,” Louis proposed. “Should we sit in the tavern? I don’t want to stay exposed here in case it’s some kind of trap.” He looked around.