Brocar, god
of Light and Fire, fights the Dark Lady Death for survival during the four
long Holy Nights around the winter Solstice. The new year begins on the Day
of Change after the longest night. Music, feasting, and merriment celebrate
Brocar’s victory and the return of Light. That night an Elakanden Princess
recites, by rote, prayers in the ancient religious tongue, which priests deem too difficult for women to master. But 14-year-old Princess Licia loves
scholarship...
Throughout Elakand, all
lights and all fires were extinguished at sunset on the fourth Holy Night, save
for one candle on each altar. Priests locked themselves in their sanctuaries
to guard these last sparks from the Dark Lady Death’s wrath on this night of Her strength. Folk
everywhere, high and low, huddled together in their beds, praying to endure the longest night.
As the servants extinguished
the palace lights, Princess Licia’s dread grew. The Dark Lady wanted something
from her. Her room seemed fearfully dark and very cold as she and her ladies
groped, giggling and exclaiming while they donned their warmest night shifts and
caps.
With sighs and a thud Lady
Alys lowered her stout body to kneel beside the bed, and Lady Philida muffled groans about arthritic knees and cold floors. A rustle of fabric meant
Lady Catina. They fumbled for one another’s hands.
“Brocar, protect us through
this long night,” Licia prayed. “Forgive us our weaknesses and our temptations.
May Thy light burn bright in our hearts, and guide our steps safely through the
dark. Keep us safe. Keep us pure—”
Catina turned a giggle into a
sneeze.
“Keep death and madness from
us, and grant us Thy peace.” Licia disengaged her fingers and made the sacred
sign. Movements indicated that the others did the same.
The bed shook and creaked
while they crawled under layers of sleeping furs. Licia snuggled between her
ladies, relishing their warmth. Only the tip of her nose was cold. Half dozing,
lulled by their rhythmic breathing, she heard a distant whisper, “My power
shall manifest and none shall prevail against Me!” Thunder rumbled. “All
who abjure Me shall know My wrath.” Her limbs jerked and a fiery cloud of
fear roiled through the dark as she dropped into the pit of sleep.
)o(
All Elakand rose and greeted
the first light with a hymn of thanks for surviving the long night, joy at
Brocar’s victory, and light returning to the world. Donning warm clothes, the palace
inhabitants gathered in the great hall and attempted to keep the cold at bay. Tables were laid with spiced breads and cakes, cold meats, pitchers of ale and
mulled wine. While the court ate, Countess Elisse’s troubadours took turns
reciting heroic verse to the accompaniment of their round-backed kitarras. Then
the courtiers danced to keep warm as musicians played flutes, vielles, harps,
and shawms with the ratta-ta of tambours.
)o(
The last daylight filtered
through the slit window of the small, stuffy robing room near the sanctuary
choir. Queen Margari directed a confusion of ladies who fastened Licia’s shoes,
tucked her hair into a white silk, pearl-bordered bordered cap, pinned her brooch—a
little higher, no, more to the left— laced
her sleeves, arranged her sapphire silk train and silver-embroidered robes,
hung a sapphire on a silver chain around her neck...
King Rollard kept
advising her to “Keep your hands still. Let your gaze wander about the
sanctuary. Notice each face but don’t dwell on it. Speak slowly. Enunciate
clearly—”
Maid Machel, released from
her order of Handmaidens for the occasion, stood apart with her hands in the
sleeves of her grey hooded robe. “Forget about the people. They will only
confuse you. Think of Brocar. Hold a prayer to Him in your heart. Breathe
deeply—”
Licia was almost in tears.
Her feet hurt, her head ached, and her robes must weigh as much as armor. She could scarcely breathe at all, much less “deeply” for the knots tangling her stomach. If they’d all just ... just be quiet and leave her
alone! It was bad enough she had to go out there and speak without this
fussing. Her brother Stefan stood leaning against the wall,
grinning and making flippant remarks.
“The High Priest is lighting
the first fires.” An acolyte’s head was outlined in the
glow from the nave.
“We’ll be ready in a moment,”
King Rollard replied.
The acolyte withdrew. By the faint light outside the door, the members of the
royal party lined up. The first fires ought to bring
hope and joy, but the ruddy glow recalled to Licia her dreams of fire and fear.
“Ready for your monkey act?”
Stefan kissed her cheek.
She glanced at him,
surprised. Generally her piety bored him. “I ... I think so. I have to be.”
The king started into the nave. To the left of the first arch stood a pile
of dead branches and twigs. To the right, charcoal glowed in a brazier. Each person picked up a branch, made Brocar’s sign, and cast it onto
the coals. Flames leaped and sank as the dry wood burned.
In front of the altar, High
Priest Osgaron, in golden robes and four-peaked orange hat, watched.
Behind him, sacerdotes, priests, and acolytes sang a hymn. King Rollard and
Queen Margari led Licia around the rail and guided her up the four steps.
Leaving her standing by the altar, they found their chairs. Attendants seated themselves behind the royal family.
Licia’s stomach spasmed and
she stared straight ahead to avoid seeing the golden casket that held the
True Scroll. The whole sanctuary seemed to pulse as people crowded in, casting branches into the braziers. Fires sprang alive until the whole vast
chamber glowed with light and warmth, dissipating the Dark Lady’s cold.
Then Osgaron stepped behind the altar and opened the enormous Book of Wisdom.
Licia’s breath came and went
in shallow gasps while his ringing bass proclaimed Brocar’s blessings on the
new year. The sanctuary seemed to spin and dissolve in a red and black haze.
Fearing to faint, she closed her eyes and whispered, “Brocar, help me!”
The room was silent. Had she
missed her moment? No. Osgaron had just finished his reading. She took a step
forward and put out a hand to steady herself on the altar. As her fingers
touched the cool, smooth marble, a thrill vibrated through her. Her head
exploded in a million colors of light. Her tension vanished, and each person
stood out with extraordinary clarity.
“Anamalé iterané sofalo—”
rang through the arches, reverberated from the flagged floor to the high roof.
Light stretched from her body to embrace a grieving widow, a proud mother, a
restless child, an old man with illness eating his bones, a young couple
glowing with passion ...
A sharp tug at her robes.
Dreadful silence boomed and echoed. In blank terror Licia looked down at High
Priest Osgaron’s fingers grasping her skirt. She looked up at his contorted
features. “Silence! How dare you?” he hissed.
Beyond the altar rail, her
mother and father looked worried. Maid Machel was very pale.
“Leave immediately!” Osgaron
commanded under his breath.
What had she done? The world
spun and heaved. Her knees almost gave way as she stumbled back to the
antechamber to huddle, shivering and sobbing, on a bench.
Her family surrounded her; the attendants were ordered away. The door thudded shut, cutting off High
Priest Osgaron’s ritual. Voices battered her.
“Yesterday you could scarcely
whisper and tonight, you babble on, making a spectacle of yourself,” Queen
Margari pronounced with icy precision.
“You know Osgaron is a
stickler for form.” Armies trembled when King Rollard frowned like that. “What
did you think you were doing?”
“But ... what happened? I don’t...”
She looked from one to the other while tremors shuddered through her body.
“You spoke your Holy Night
prayers quite well,” Maid Machel explained patiently, “then you continued
on with Brocar only knows what.”
“I don’t remember,” she
whispered, scanning the corners for help. Stefan stood, flipping the end of his
scarlet belt, trying to look unconcerned. Bertran was here! She focused on him.
“Oh, Frater Bertran, I failed!”
“You did not fail, Princess.
I doubt that anyone noticed, except High Priest Osgaron—and these people here.”
He bowed to each in turn.
“The High Priest is furious.”
The queen’s glance demolished him.
Bertran inclined his head.
“But she was speaking in the ancient tongue, Majesty, and only His Holiness,
the Chief Sacerdote, and I understood.”
The ancient tongue! “What did
I say?”
The tutor looked puzzled.
“You added a few phrases. It was actually quite appropriate.” He squared his
stance, clasped his hands behind his back, and raised his eyes: “‘Kani’esé
ogret obriméo anagret: lo’anéo sajio montati actien.’ It means, ‘Take heed,
oh My people, to this, My servant, who manifests My healing wisdom this day.’
You pronounced it superbly—a tribute to my teaching.”
Licia shook her head. “I
don’t remember.”
“What do you remember?” King
Rollard, thumbs in his belt, stood square in front of her.
“I was afraid, so I prayed
for strength.” She stared at the floor. “When I started to speak, I suddenly
felt calm. Then my mind went blank, and next thing I knew High Priest Osgaron
stopped me. Please believe me, I didn’t mean to spoil the prayers.”
“You did not spoil them. I
was standing amid the crowd,” Bertran said. “People were restless, shifting
about, but when you began to speak, they grew silent. Many wept openly.”
“Really—it wasn’t as bad as
all that!” Stefan looked around and tried to laugh. “Everyone’s taking this too
seriously. It’s just another ceremony, after all.”
Poor Stefan, Licia thought, he hates ceremonies.
“But it is important!”
Maid Machel protested. “Brocar gave His light and fire to the world on Holy
Night, and the people need to hear the ancient prayers. Licia must have been
over-drilled in the sacred tongue or she would not have been capable of such travesty.”
“Did you teach her this,
Frater Bertran?” the king demanded.
The tutor looked stricken.
“No, Sire, I did not. Your daughter is a fine scholar, and she was curious
about the sacred texts, so I explained them to her, perhaps more fully than I
ought.”
Rollard aimed his finger at
the tutor. “The fact that Princess Licia cannot remember what she said is cause
for grave concern, Frater. We can only pray that her studies have not harmed
her or opened her to the Mother of Madness. You are not speak to
my daughter again until I have discussed this with the High Priest.”
A knife cut Licia’s heart.
“Father, it was not Bertran’s fault! It was my own—” Brocar! She dared not
explain. The room spun again, her arms flailed, and she fainted.
)o(
Licia awoke the next morning recovered from her ordeal. Sunlight streamed into her room through
leaded glass, and she looked forward to the new day.
Bertran, she remembered, poor
Bertran—accused unjustly for her presumption. She rolled over and lay thinking.
What had happened last night? Had the Dark Lady become strong enough to
touch her, even as Brocar’s victory was celebrated? Or had anxiety and guilt
provoked her imagination? Whatever the reason, Bertran must not suffer because of her.
She called for her ladies,
had them dress her in the claret gown—the one everybody said became her—and
cover her dark hair with a white cap embroidered with red winter berries. She
pinched her cheeks to give them color and, putting on a cheerful face, she descended
to the great hall. Tables were laden with sugared spice breads and sauced
meats. Servants poured goblets of hot mulled wine and tankards of ale for the
company, who stood about chatting while they broke their fast.
After speaking her prayers last night, Licia found all traces of her former shyness gone. She greeted
all and sundry confidently. Courtiers and guests expressed pleasure at her
recovery from "an attack of nerves" and praised her moving
and meaningful recitation. Aging courtiers, who had witnessed Holy Night rites
since childhood, had moisture in their eyes.
Queen Margari called her
daughter aside. “I am glad to see you have regained your composure, Licia. It
seems that your little mistake need not cause a scandal."
“And Frater Bertran? What of
him?” Licia asked in a low voice.
“Your father, Stefan, and I
are meeting with Osgaron to discuss the matter.”
Licia was pointedly excluded.
)o(
At the meeting, it came out
that Frater Bertran had carelessly left passages from the Books of Wisdom in
the ancient tongue where Princess Licia could pour over them. High Priest Osgaron
ruled: “Princess Licia does not deserve a thoughtless a tutor, Frater Bertran. You will
spend five years among the White Brothers in the north Karaskan Ice Fields. The
silence and purity of the eternal snows provide an excellent discipline for the
soul and a restraint on immoderate enthusiasms and incautious judgments.”
