7.3 Blinding Radiance

General Summary

Day 73

Late in the evening, in the safety of my comfortable bedroom, I slip into the dreaming and call out for Lyssa. When she appears, we fold each other into a hug that feels as real as Mistress did. Amidst the flurry of our words, I do manage to warn her of the Storm approaching. I hope she takes the severity seriously...she may be the Lady of Storms now but this one is not one that she will be able to tame.   Having seen dwarves in Brighton, I’m eager to know more about how they organize themselves outside of human bondage. She tells me that there are four castes of dwarves: The ruling class, the scholars and mystics, the skilled tradespeople, and the chattel. Even amongst themselves, the lowest caste are no better than slaves and are frequently sold as slaves to humans.   In the Valley, where they have shed the caste system, they are still organized into guilds and led by a council of master craftsmen. Some guilds have been easier to win over than others - the smiths and miners and others whose arts are more familiar to war. Others, such as the architects and jewelers feel more complacent and have been harder to win over.   Lyssa tells me she thinks they need to meet more elves, to see that there are more of us who will stand with them. As a people, they are slow to trust and very stubborn, and with only one elf to speak for us, it is slow progress. They do respect positions that are earned from hard work and effort, not from a birthright, which seems at odds with their caste system to me. Regardless, it has earned Lyssa some respect amongst them and I’m sure it will be the same for me if I ever make my way to the Valley.   I tell Lyssa where I am, in the hopes that someone will be able to show her the distance on a map. And she tells me how to enter the Valley safely, should I make my way there. Like Mistress, our duties call us to separate corners of the land but there is inevitability in our reunion.  

Day 74

We slept in separate rooms but in the morning, I rouse everyone and usher them into my room for breakfast. We are discussing what the day will bring when Nienne joins us, casting a brief eye on Bran’s shirtless form, much to my amusement.   She recommends that Alder and I dress as nobles for a tour of the city, while Bran and Hella explore the slums. She assures me that no one will look at us askance if she is with us. I am skeptical but defer to her expertise.   A few hours later, adorned in human finery, we set out in a carriage to head towards a cafe and see some sights along the way. Our journey takes us through the Temple Square, which has a temple to each major human deity (there are so many).

• The Candlemaker: A massive, garishly lit monstrosity of a structure.
• The Sentinel: A military-looking structure hung with banners of noble houses. Nienne tells us that the banners are of noble patrons who are thus under the protection of the temple’s guards.
• The Fisherman: A reasonably humble wooden building, and Nienne tells us he is fairly politically irrelevant this far inland but the shore temples are much more grand.
• The Weaver: A rich-looking front that hides humbler buildings and orphanages behind it.
• The Duellists: Nienne’s preferred deities, of course.

  Over tea at the cafe, where the human attendants seem very polite, Nienne tells us a bit more about the culture of Brighton.   Many many disagreements here are settled with duels, but only with thin-bladed swords. It is considered rude to use any other weapon. Common folk outside the walls aren’t even allowed to have any weapons except for knives, under the guise that these are tools and not weapons.   As if on cue, a duel breaks out down the street and we watch as a bright green fae tidily cuts a human’s shirts to shreds before drawing first blood and pocketing the man’s coin purse. People around them break into applause, as though they are watching a performance.   Nienne tells me that there are free dwarves and fae in the city but fae never stay for long. They are travellers and traders, and always return to their home within a year. After tea, she shows me to a dwarven goldsmith’s shop where the proprietor takes a break from his work to speak with us. When I tell him I prefer practical to ornamental, he shows me a slim sword carved with runes.  

These tell the story of Drogan, who fought a thousand duels to protect his people. Facing his people’s enemy, he challenged their commander to a duel. The commander sent forth a lieutenant instead, and Drogan slew him. Again, Drogan challenged him and again, the commander sent someone in his stead. After a thousand lower soldiers lay dead, finally the commander took up his own sword, and Drogan slew him as well. Only when his people had safely passed behind the stout walls of their hom did Drogan take a minute to rest, and there he died.

  This is a sword for the heroic and foolish, and I think I am neither. He shows me a bracer, similarly carved with runes.  

These tell the story of Corwin, youngest of nine sons and sure to inherit nothing. He set forth into the world to learn new skills, including those of a mystic. When he returned, his house was in disarray - his parents dead and his brothers squabbling over their inheritance. He duelled each of his brothers in turn and won. As the head of his house, he reorganized and set his brothers forth to learn their own skills and gain reputation from their own trades.

  This is a story that is more suitable for me, and Nienne buys the bracer as a gift.   When we return to her home, Bran and Hella join us late in the evening. Bran is unchanged, but the tears in his clothing betray that he has been in fights. Apparently the slums are full of people who will fight over nothing at all (he was sitting in someone else’s spot at a bar and then his refusal to fight over it was taken as an insult), or just for the glory of beating the biggest person around. They are also full of child labour and poor working conditions, to no one’s surprise.   But it is after the sun sets that the day comes to life.   Nienne leads us through the city to the warehouse district once again, and warns us that Nidrae is, rightfully, a bitter and angry man. She warns us that his appearance may shock us. I wonder why Lael said nothing similar.   When we enter the room, we see a man nearly completely covered. He wears gloves, and keeps his hood up. Still, I see the burns on the left side of his face and the eyepatch over his eye. His left ear is missing as well. More than any missing skin or body part though, is the absence of the Empress about him. Not like a human or a dwarf, but like the absolute absence of what should be an elf. For a moment I am appalled - surely Lael would not have dared send me to meet with an oathbreaker?   But Nidrae tells us his story, bitterly, when he sees the humans I travel with. The followers of the Candlemaker and the Fisherman had strung him with fish-hooks, suspended over candle flames, for many days. Whatever ritual they did left him in the sun - unable to reach the shade of the Empress.   He is skeptical at my ability to bring us home, and more skeptical still of our safety from the Collective.   He is hard to speak to. He has none of the instant deference of any of the shade-sheltered elves I have spoken to so far. His very existence is an anomaly to me. How can one be an elf in the blinding radiance of the sun? How could someone have stripped away that very core of what it means to be one of us?   His bitterness and skepticism strikes Alder poorly and he leaps to my defence with descriptions of my lost family, my dead brothers and the people I have left behind, but I silence him. I will not speak of sacrifice to this man who has lost his connection to the shadows. It would be an insult. Ikshafael once asked me if I would be willing to sacrifice the shade to destroy the Ingan, and I was spared having to answer. I still don’t know what my answer would be, but Nidrae wasn’t given a choice.   I don’t begrudge him his bitterness and anger, nor would I look down on him for refusing to help us. Still, he says he is willing to make a trade if we have something worth offering.   Perhaps it is manipulative to offer to do what I can to restore the Empress’ touch to him in exchange for whatever help we need. I would have done this even if he refused to help, even if he had been on the edge of attacking me for the tragedy he has suffered.   Past attempts to purge the light from him have failed, and one even took his eye. He has me promise that if it becomes clear that the life he will lead will be so diminished as to be unbearable, I will end it. This sort of agreement doesn’t feel foreign. I hope someone would do the same for me.   Bran and I work together, with him holding back the furious, blinding light as I sink deep into blood and flesh and try to repair whatever the light has touched. I can hear Nidrae screaming, and I can feel the fire blistering my hands as we try to draw it out of him.   When I pull back from the battle, Nidrae is on the floor in a circle of blood that I had drawn around him, and the light has coalesced into a blinding humanoid figure, poised with a spear. The light pours forth, wiping out any shadow that might shelter us from the radiance.   This light would banish any fish he sought to tangle in nets or hook with spear or rod. No child would sleep safe beneath this blinding light. What sort of gods allowed this to happen?