The Light Within: A Winter's Tale by Grace Draven Read Free Book Online

 
     
     
     
     
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    Silhara guided Gnat along the path that wound high into the
Dramorins, one hand on the reins, the other on Martise’s back as she rode
reverse in the saddle, huddled against him for warmth.  A line of shaggy,
sure-footed Kurman ponies clopped ahead of them and behind them, their riders
bright splashes of color in the snowy terrain.
    The great firs hemming either side of the pass towered above them
like dark sentinels, their branches bowed in shrouds of snow.  They creaked and
swayed in the wind that sent flurries spinning and dancing through the air
before landing on horses and riders.  The trees blocked the worst of the wind,
but a few stray gusts broke through the shield of foliage and whistled down the
pass, straight as an arrow and just as piercing.
    Martise lifted her head from the shelter offered by Silhara’s heavy
winter cloak and his embrace.  “I thought the plains winds were harsh.  These
cut like knives.”  She formed the words around chattering teeth.  The tip of
her nose was bright red, and she shivered hard in his arms.
    Silhara braced for the inevitable cold shock of her gloved hands
as they skittered up his sides to burrow under his arms.  He joined her in the
shivering.  “Those hands of yours are icier than a wraith’s touch.”
    “That’s because I’m nearly frozen to death.”  She abandoned his
underarms to map paths down his sides towards his breeches lacings.
    He seized one of her wrists.  “Don’t even consider it,” he
warned.  “I don’t want to be pissing ice chips later.”  The thought of his
wife’s cold fingers wrapping around his genitals for warmth made his bollocks
draw up tight.
    Martise tugged, still trying to tuck her hands into his
breeches.  “I can’t get my fingers warm.”
    Silhara lifted her captured hand to his mouth, tugged aside the
glove and blew into the space between palm and covering.  Martise slumped in
his arms and moaned her approval.  He did the same for her other hand before
nestling them back under his arms and giving her a stern warning not to go
anywhere near his groin.
    Swathed in layers of wool, fur and a hooded cloak, Martise hid
her face in Silhara’s chest and laughed.  The sound sent pleasant vibrations
through his torso.  “Better?” he asked.
    “Much.  You have a soft heart.”
    He frowned.  “No need to be insulting.”  He felt her laughter
once more, followed by muffled words.  “What did you say?” he asked.
    She raised her head and frowned back at him.  A tiny snowflake
blew into her eyelashes, and she blinked it away.  “How much farther to the avastra ?”
    He looked beyond her shoulder to the head of the line as it wound
through a col between two of the Dramorin peaks.  “Not far.  There’s a wind gap
coming up that opens onto a ruin and the fire temple itself.  You’ll know we’re
there when you hear the gate bell ring.”
    Every year the nine principal tribes that made up the loosely
knitted Kurman confederation gathered for three days to honor their god Damaza,
Light of the Spirit in a ritual known as Sehad .  For those three days,
the tribes put aside their clan squabbles and territorial disputes and
celebrated the winter fire ritual together in relatively peaceful
camaraderie—if one didn’t count the occasional drunken brawl or impromptu
wrestling challenges in the snow.
    Silhara had attended five sehads since he united with his
father’s people and had been eager to bring Martise to one so she might witness
the lighting of the great bonfire and join him in the festivities afterwards. 
They had much to celebrate, he and his wife.  She was a free woman, complete
and independent in body and soul.  Silhara couldn’t think of a more befitting
way to recognize her emancipation than to attend a ritual for a god known as
Light of the Spirit.
     He heard the first peal of the gate bell before he saw the wind
gap.  He steered Gnat off the main path and