"The Septry? What ails you, uncle?" the apprentice asked, his brow furrowing with a touch of youthful concern.
Old Carlyle bowed low, a nervous, flickering smile dancing across his weathered face. "I twisted my foot on the ridge, young master. A soldier on the road told me the Brothers here have a touch for mending. I thought to seek their mercy."
"Ah. Enter the manor gates and keep to the right. Look for the hall marked with the Seven-Pointed Sun. You can't miss it." The boy pointed the way with an easy shrug, as if miracles were as common as rain in this valley.
Carlyle offered a final stuttering thanks and approached the manor. In all his decades under House Goodbrook, he had rarely stepped behind a castle's walls. Every year, the tax-men came to the village to bleed them; unless the harvest was so bountiful the Lord's own wains overflowed, a peasant's cart was never welcome inside. He lingered at the gatehouse until he saw other smallfolk, dressed in rags no better than his own, passing through unmolested.
Taking a deep breath, he stepped into the courtyard.
The Septry was a sturdy building of dressed stone. A golden-haired boy, no more than ten, was sweeping the steps. Carlyle removed his tattered cap. "I come from Five Willows, lad. I seek the Brother who heals. My foot... it burns like a coal."
"Brother Roland is in council with Captain Locke," the boy said, leaning his broom against the wall. "Wait on the bench. I'll fetch him."
Inside, the Septry was sparse but clean. Faded tapestries hung from the walls, and the air held the scent of mountain incense and old cedar. At the far end stood a simple altar with a stone-carved star—a Sun held within the Seven Points.
A man in a washed-out gray robe emerged. He was lean and ancient, his face a map of the same hardships Carlyle had known, but his eyes held a terrifyingly steady peace.
"Brother, may the Seven shield you," Roland said softly. "Show me the wound."
Carlyle pulled off his wooden-soled shoe. The foot was a purple ruin of swelling. Roland didn't flinch at the grime; he pressed his fingers into the flesh. Carlyle hissed, sweat beading on his lip.
"The bone is whole, but the sinew is frayed," Roland noted. He looked at Carlyle's threadbare tunic. "To mend this with Grace requires a tithe. Three copper stars. Do you have them?"
"Three stars?" Carlyle's heart sank. That was twenty pounds of beets—nearly a third of his journey's profit. "Mercy, Brother. I am a faithful man... is there no kindness for the poor?"
Roland sighed. "The Light is a gift, but it is not without cost to the soul who channels it. However... I see you have little. Give me two stars, and you shall serve the Sun for one night. Clean the pews and tend the lamps. You may leave at dawn."
Carlyle agreed. He couldn't walk home on this foot anyway.
The boy brought a basin of water. After Carlyle had washed away the mud of the road, Roland suspended his hands over the swelling. He closed his eyes and whispered: "Great Anshe, Source of the Seven, Giver of Life... look upon this follower. Let the Light mend what the world has broken."
A pale golden glow bloomed from the monk's palms. Carlyle felt a sudden, sharp itch, followed by a cool wave of relief. He watched, breathless, as the purple lump smoothed into healthy skin.
"Walk," Roland commanded.
Carlyle stepped down. The pain was gone. It was as if he had never struck the stone. He fell to his knees, trying to kiss the monk's hem. "A saint! The gods have sent a saint!"
"I am but a servant," Roland said, pulling him up. "There is only one Lightbringer, and his name is Aldric. Now, you spoke of your wife's cough?"
"Yes, Karina... she has been racked with it for moons."
"I have no draughts to give," Roland said. "The Light works best through the hands. Bring her here tomorrow. If the road is short, the Sun will find her."
As twilight fell, the Septry filled with people. First came the soldiers in their black wool, looking weary but disciplined. Then came the smallfolk—men with scythes, women with babes. They spoke in low tones, but as they crossed the threshold, a hush fell over them that Carlyle had never felt in his own village.
Brother Roland took the pulpit. He spoke of a "Path of Light" that Carlyle struggled to grasp. He said that Anshe was the Sun, the source from which the Seven were merely reflections. He spoke of life being a gift of the Sun, and because of that, every soul was born equal.
"No man is born high, and no man is born low," Roland's voice rang through the hall. "A Lord who takes your grain but leaves your children to the wolves is no Lord—he is a thief in a silk surcoat. A merchant who sells rot is a servant of the Dark. Under the Light, all trade is equal, and all protection is a debt of honor."
Carlyle felt a cold shiver. This is treason, he thought, wanting to cover his ears. If Lord Goodbrook heard this, he'd hang the lot of us.
But then the crowd rose. They didn't sing a tavern ditty. They sang a low, booming hymn that made the very stones of the floor vibrate:
"Arise, ye prisoners of starvation! Arise, ye wretched of the earth! For justice in our hearts is burning, and the Sun shall bring our rebirth!"
The melody followed Carlyle all through the night as he scrubbed the stones.
He left at dawn, two large potatoes tucked into his tunic—a gift from the monk. He pushed his cart toward Five Willows with a lightness in his step he hadn't known in years. He would bring Karina. He would sell the rest of the beets.
There are no saviors, no kings, no gods... he hummed the strange tune. He hoped the Fisher lords wouldn't hear the monks' words, for their sake.
He reached his village as the sun was still high. He pushed open his door, a smile on his face. "Karina! You won't believe the magic I saw—"
The hut was silent. No cough greeted him.
He ran to the bed of straw. Karina lay there, her face a mask of waxen pallor. Her breath was a shallow, wet rattle. Carlyle reached out to lift her, and his hand came away wet. He thought it was water from the damp thatch.
It was blood.
"What..." He turned her over, pulling back her thin shift. Her back was a ruin of raw, jagged furrows. The skin had been flayed into ribbons. "Who? Why?"
The door creaked. His neighbor Duke slipped inside, locking the bar. "You're back? Seven save you, Carlyle."
"Duke! What happened to her?"
"The tax-man came yesterday," Duke whispered, his voice trembling. "You weren't here. Karina couldn't work the fields, so they went to your patch. They saw it was half-dug. When they found out you'd taken the crop to the Fisher lands, they dragged her to the square. Twenty lashes for 'defying a Lord's decree,' and another twenty for your 'treason' in fleeing."
Carlyle stared at his friend, his mind fracturing. "But my son... my son is a soldier for Lord Goodbrook. The Lord promised our taxes were mended!"
Duke shrugged, pity in his eyes. "The Lord likely forgot to tell the collector. Carlyle... she's fading. Best prepare the shroud."
"No!" Carlyle roared. He scooped his wife's frail body into his arms. "The Septry! The Brother said he could mend her!"
"You'll be killed!" Duke cried, grabbing his arm. "The road is barred! No one goes to the Fisher lands!"
"Let go!"
Carlyle broke free. He settled Karina into the cart—she weighed no more than the beets he had sold. Spurred by a manic, desperate strength, he pushed. The moon rose, painting a silver path on the trail over Big-Foot Mountain.
"Carlyle?" Karina's voice was a ghost in the dark. "Is that the Starflower River?"
"Yes, love," Carlyle sobbed, his feet pounding the dirt. "Where we first met."
"Are we going home? I see my father... he's waiting for us."
"Yes. Home. Mother and Father are waiting. Stew in the pot, Karina. Just hold on."
"That's... good."
Her head slumped. Carlyle didn't look. He couldn't look. He hit the ridge of the Fisher lands, the road rising steep. He tripped on a stone, the cart upending. He didn't let go of the handle, his head striking the hard earth as he tumbled into the dark.
When he woke, he was lying on the cool stone floor of the Septry. Brother Roland was looking down at him, his face as still as a tomb.
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