As the water warmed and then boiled, and without a break in his intonation, Vasen removed from his belt pouch a pebble taken from the river in the abbey’s valley. He dropped it into the warm water while he, his fellow Dawnswords, and the pilgrims all continued their imprecation. The stone began to glow, a pale rosy light that diffused through the water. Vasen lifted the lanyard with his holy symbol from around his neck and lowered the rose into the glowing water while his prayers finalized the ritual. The glow intensified, the water shining brighter than the fire. For a moment, the rose looked not tarnished silver but red with life.
“It’s ready,” he said, and all fell silent except the thrum of the rain and the roll of distant thunder. He replaced his holy symbol over his neck and picked up the cup. Despite sitting in the heat of the fire, it was cool to the touch. He carried the glowing liquid to Noll, lifted the boy into a sitting position, and held the cup to his lips.
“You must drink,” Vasen said.
Noll’s bleary eyes sought focus and his hands fumbled for the cup. Vasen held it, too, wincing at the heat of the boy’s flesh when their hands touched. Noll drank.
“All of it,” Vasen said.
“Do it, sweet boy,” said Elora.
Noll’s head moved in what might have been a nod. A prolonged coughing spell prevented him from drinking for a time, but when it ended, he gulped what remained in the cup. Vasen lowered him to the ground, covered him with his blankets. The boy shivered, coughed more, the black foam still flecking his lips.
Vasen looked at Elora, her eyes stricken. “Now we must wait,” he said.
She looked at her son, at Vasen. “I believe Amaunator will save him. I do.”
Vasen touched her shoulder. “Your faith will help. Rest now. There’s nothing more to be done.”
She reached for his hand, did not blanch when shadows snaked from his skin to caress her flesh. “Thank you, Dawnsword. I’m sorry for. . before.”
Many pilgrims echoed her words or patted him on the back. Fatigue from carrying Noll, from carrying the pilgrims’ hopes, settled on him. His legs felt like foreign things, detached from his body. He staggered and Orsin and Byrne were both there to steady him.
“You should eat,” Orsin said.
“And rest,” added Byrne.
“Rest first,” Vasen said. “Watch the boy.”
“Aye,” said Byrne.
The rain had gotten through the flap of Vasen’s pack, making his bedroll damp. He did not care. He did not bother to unroll it, just tucked it under his head along the wall and lay flat on his back on the cave floor, staring up at the smoke and shadow-stained ceiling, listening to the rain, the soft murmur of conversation. The pilgrims were talking about him, he knew.
Exhaustion overtook him in moments. The last thing he heard before falling asleep was the sound of Noll’s coughing. For the first time in a long time, he did not dream of Erevis Cale.
Elden sat on his favorite chair in the sanctum of the abbey. He felt like a king on a throne, like the ones in stories. The others had made it his chair because he could see what they could not. He did not fully understand how he saw, but he did. And because he did, everyone treated him as if he were special. And maybe he was, although he didn’t feel special.
He reached down to the floor beside his chair and felt for Browny’s soft fur. The dog exhaled happily as Elden scratched his ears. The feel of fur under his fingers calmed Elden. He smiled when Browny licked his hand.
Pretty orange and pink and purple ribbons hung from the walls. Elden knew they were colors favored by Amaunator, the god of the abbey, but Elden liked them because they were pretty, because they reminded him of sunbeams.
He had not seen the sun in a long time. He missed it, but he’d long ago accepted that his life was a service to the light, even though he lived it in darkness. He did not understand exactly why, but he knew people came from all over to see him, because he could see. They looked so hopeful when they met him, lit with a light of their own. He liked that. He made them feel hope. And hope made them glow like the sun.
A tall bronze statue of Amaunator stood on the tiled floor in the center of the circular sanctum. The god had that same look of hope on his bearded face. He held a large, orange crystal globe in his open palm. It would have caught the light entering through the glass dome built into the ceiling, had there been any light to catch. But the sky remained as it ever was-dark, swirling with shadows. The dome in the ceiling, too, was a symbol of hope. Elden had hoped to see the unfiltered sun pour through it during his lifetime, but he doubted it now. Sometimes, if Elden asked, one of the priests would use magic to light the god’s globe. He loved the globe when it was lit, shimmering, shiny. So shiny. It called to mind the spheres that jugglers used when entertaining children. Elden loved jugglers. He still carried a set of spheres that he’d been given as a boy, although it had been so long ago he could not remember who’d given them to him. A dark man, he thought. With only one eye.
That had been a good day.
But it had also been about the time that Papa had died. He had not seen it. Uncle Regg had told him about it afterward.
He stared at the statue, floating through memories a hundred years old and wondering why Amaunator had chosen him to see things. He had never asked to be gifted, had not even known such gifts to be possible. Soon after Papa had died, Elden had dreamed of a blazing sun, a sun no longer visible in the Sembian sky. He’d heard his father’s voice in his head.
“Stare at the sun, Elden. And don’t look away.”
“It will blind me, Papa.
“I promise that it won’t. It’s all right.”
So Elden had stared and had not looked away.
His eyes stung, though he hadn’t been blinded. “It hurts, Papa.”
“I know. I’m sorry, son. That’s enough. Look away now. You were very brave.”
“Where are you, Papa? Unka Regg said you died.”
A long pause, then, “I did die, Elden. But it’s all right. I’m all right.”
Elden had not understood how Papa could be both dead and all right. Tears formed in his stinging eyes.
“Please come home, Papa. Me miss you.”
“I am home, son. And you will be, too, one day. Listen to me now. When you awaken you will see things. Don’t be afraid. Tell Regg and Jiriis and the others what you see. They’ll listen to you and they’ll know what to do. Be a light to them.”
Elden did not understand the words, not completely, but that sometimes happened when people spoke to him. “All right, Papa. Papa?”
“Yes, Elden?”
“Please don’t go.”
“I must, son. I’m sorry. I know it makes you sad. I’m sad, too. Be strong.”
“All right, Papa.” But it wasn’t all right.
“Elden, I love you very much. I’ll be waiting for you.”
Sobs finally broke through, shook Elden. “Me love you, too, Papa.”
He’d never heard his father’s voice again, and when he had awakened, his face tear-streaked, he had been able to see things others could not. Strange things. Frightening things. At first, he remembered the things he’d seen. He did not like that. Over time, he no longer remembered but he still saw. Others told him that he did, that he spoke to them even although he didn’t remember. They said he was touched by the light, gifted with prophecy. Regg, Jiriis, and the others had listened to him, just as Papa had said. He had led them to the valley, where they had built the abbey and become a light in darkness.
He leaned back in his chair, his eyes on the statue. The face of Amaunator looked serious under his beard, the deep-set eyes staring out at some distant point from under the domed helm. Elden wondered what the god was looking at. He wondered if Papa was with Amaunator.