Dark is the Moon

by Ian Irvine

  Suddenly Thyllan snapped. “Die like a cur!” he screamed, and threw himself at her.

  Maigraith stood paralyzed for a moment, then she seemed to flicker to one side. As Thyllan went stumbling past, his sword spearing a long strip out of the tabletop, she smacked him contemptuously on the backside. This time all but one of his officers joined the laughter.

  Now even Thyllan’s uncouth guard began to realize that something was wrong, as Thyllan tried a new attack, a different way. But he had spent the best of his strength; she countered him with only a tightening of the lips. He stood before her, panting, beginning to feel fear.

  Forcing a smile, she stepped toward him. For an instant he seemed mesmerized, then he leapt backwards, crying: “Kill her! Kill her with arrows.”

  One of two archers at the door drew back his short bow. Maigraith turned her gaze on him, her carmine eyes crossed with indigo, and the man let fly his arrow into the ceiling. The other, a short, handsome fellow with curly brown hair, dropped his bow and put his foot on it. The diversion had not achieved the result Thyllan wanted, but it had made time for him. A knife appeared in his other hand. He flung it at her throat.

  Maigraith swayed away but not quickly enough. The knife went deep into her shoulder, striking the bone and wedging there, a silver spike rising out of red petals. The pain was intense, piercing. Even her training was not enough to ignore it. She gasped, losing control.

  Thyllan sprang at her, trying to spear her in the belly with his long sword. Maigraith threw herself to her left. The blade carved along her side, crimson following its path, then Thyllan slammed into her, knocking her off her feet. She fell flat on her back, sending a spray of bloody droplets across the floor. Grinning in triumph, he raised the sword in both hands to skewer her to the boards.

  Maigraith’s whole body was shrieking with pain and her left arm was useless. But after all, this was what her regimen had been for, all the years that she had been doing it. She had absolute control over the rest of her body, and her mind too. And she was working on his, whispering into his mind. Don’t strike yet. She’s a cunning one. Make sure of her. She drew her knees up into her belly. Come close, my enemy. Closer!

  The sword hesitated for a fraction of a second. Putting on a weak little whimper Maigraith rolled back onto her shoulders, and as Thyllan loomed over her she kicked upwards with both feet. They struck him between his legs so hard that something went crack. Thyllan was jerked off the ground, falling backwards with a shriek that hurt her ears.

  Maigraith pushed herself up. Her shoulder felt hideous but her will was stronger. Once more she smiled, showing no pain, and went after him. The fury so concentrated her will that he withered. Now he had no doubt that she had power, and it bettered his.

  Thyllan crouched down, clutching his violated organs. “Berenet!” he screeched.

  Who was Berenet? The memory was gone. Then, recalling Vanhe’s warning, she saw that the dandy with the mustachioes was not in his seat. Where was he?

  He came out from under the table behind her, sprang and put his knife to her throat. Maigraith choked. She had failed after all. Thurkad was doomed.

  “Shall I do it?” cried Berenet, his perfumed breath all over her.

  “Hold her,” panted Thyllan from the floor. He glanced at his officers. Some looked openly contemptuous. “I must do the deed with my own knife.”

  Lurching to his feet, Thyllan took two pained steps toward her, then froze.

  Something went Thunk! like a butcher’s cleaver. The knife flew from Berenet’s hand. Blood speckled her throat. Berenet stood up on his toes, staring at his hand. His thumb was missing. A razor-tipped arrow had come out of nowhere, taking the digit clean off. He could not comprehend how the mutilation had come about.

  No time to work out why, or who. Maigraith locked Thyllan’s eyes with her own. “Take back your knife,” she whispered.

  Fury almost tied him in a knot, but he was beaten. His hand reached out and with one convulsive jerk he pulled the knife from her shoulder, tearing the flesh open. Blood flooded her cream blouse from shoulder to wrist; another stream ran down her side. The knife hand quivered. Behind her Vanhe gasped, sure that Thyllan would slash her across the throat in his rage. For a moment even Maigraith thought that he might break her hold, but she clenched her will even tighter, his hand fell to his side and the knife cried out against the floor.

  Maigraith’s face was the color of plaster, but she must complete it. With bloody hand she tore the medals and general’s blazon from his breast and ground them underfoot. In his pain and humiliation, his face was almost as white as her own.

  “Take up your sword and break it. Submit to me, on your knees.”

  Her voice was harsh with strain. Even now he struggled, then suddenly Thyllan was done. Stumbling over to the dropped sword, he lifted it high and smashed it sideways against a column. It snapped off cleanly at the hilt. At her gesture he went down on one knee and held up the pieces to her, cringing, holding them up like a shield as if he expected her to strike him down. It was agony for him. She was making a terrible enemy if he ever rose again. She took no pleasure in it, only wanting it to be over.

  Maigraith scanned the room. The contempt of Thyllan’s officers was evident. “Who among you dares to take his place?”

  No one answered. They were mere soldiers, for all their rank, and none had the courage to pit his wits against her.

  “Go!” she said softly to Thyllan, still holding the broken sword. “Never return to Thurkad or your life is forfeit.”

  He hobbled down the room and out the door. The shocked officers and guards turned to follow but she called to them, her voice ringing and echoing off the hard walls.

  “Put down your weapons! The war is over. Thyllan is broken; neither Warlord nor Magister ever more. Any who serves him is outlaw. Swear to serve me; or if you still follow him, go weaponless.” She looked them in the eye, each one.

  Most knelt to give her their oath. Some did so willingly, in awe and respect; others out of fear or opportunism. But one or two put their weapons on the floor and went out quietly, including One-Thumb Berenet. Now it took every measure of her will to stay on her feet, though that no longer mattered. The job was done. Even had she fallen unconscious none would have thought the worse of her.

  “Come forward,” she said to the curly-haired archer who had saved her. “Who are you, and why did you betray your general?”

  “I am Torgsted,” he said, giving her a warming smile. “I am on secret duty. I never swore to Thyllan.”

  “Will you swear to me, Torgsted?” She gasped—the pain! He sprang to support her.

  “Would that I could, my lady, but I am Mendark’s man.”

  “Then go and do his work. Though we are at odds, I give you my protection until he returns.”

  Torgsted bowed and withdrew. She walked slowly back to the head of the table. Vanhe made no effort to aid her. Hennia the Zain, who had been up and down like a jack-in-the-box as the battle swayed first one way and then the other, was slumped in her chair. The whole room was stunned at the unimaginable reversal.

  “Your puppet walks by itself,” Maigraith said to her marshal.

  Vanhe sprang to attention. “Do the officers pledge their loyalty?” he roared. “Does the Council show its support? Does the Assembly subordinate itself to Maigraith?”

  They rose as one. “Maigraith!” they cried, and the whole room saluted her.

  “There will be an election for Magister. I propose that Maigraith be elected. Do any gainsay me?”

  Maigraith shook her head. “Nay, do not propose me. The office is not vacant, no matter what claims Thyllan has made. Mendark still holds that honor and can be removed only by death. Does this Council agree? Hennia, what say you? Do you pledge your loyalty, now that the end is known?”

  Looking sick, Hennia did so. The times had undone her. Pathologically unable to commit to one side, the constant reversals were driving her mad.

  The matter
was agreed, attested with signatures, and copies distributed.

  “Nor propose me for the Assembly neither,” said Maigraith. “I hold no office willingly, but Yggur’s I will maintain until he returns, or otherwise.”

  The meeting was closed. The room gave her an ovation, then Vanhe called for an honor guard, who escorted Maigraith back to her chamber. Vanhe himself saw to her wounds, and his attendants to her bathing and dressing. Then she fell into bed, her self-assurance draining away. She should have done better, sooner.

  “Poor Bindy,” she said. “Why could I not have saved him?”

  “He died like a good little soldier,” said Vanhe. “That was his fate.”

  “What kind of times do we live in that children must be soldiers?” she raged uselessly, knowing Vanhe could never understand.

  Vanhe was well pleased. The desperate gamble had succeeded beyond any expectation. Even now his people were spreading the tale through the city and couriers galloping to the quarters of the empire.

  “You could not have done better save by ridding us of Thyllan. He will always be our enemy, for he has no capacity to serve, only to lead, pathetic failure that he is.” He turned to go.

  “Vanhe,” she cried. “Will you go to Bindy’s mother?”

  “That is one of my sadder duties,” he said.

  “And provide her with a pension, or employment.”

  “Of course. She will be taken care of.”

  She closed her eyes, feeling aftersickness coming on her strongly. It would be worse than ever this time.

  Two days she tossed in her delirium, prey to terrible dreams and bouts of sickness, but on the morning of the third Maigraith woke to find herself better again, though weak and her shoulder very sore. The last time she had slept so long was after Faelamor took her out of Fiz Gorgo.

  Vanhe appeared as soon as he heard that she was awake. “You were magnificent!” he said, the smile almost creasing his bullet head in half. “I’m sorry I doubted you. The tale has gone right through the city and won you a million friends, for all that you are a gangia, a foreigner. Thyllan has never been liked here save by renegades and opportunists.”

  Maigraith gave a wan smile. “Then my work is done.”

  “It’s just started! My army is solidly behind you and the Fourth will swear to you tomorrow, if you can walk far enough to review them. Thyllan’s forces are already breaking up—we’ll have no trouble from them now. But outside Thurkad little has changed and the Ghâshâd may even come down with more fury, to counter you before too many flock to your banner.”

  “They don’t want to counter me,” said Maigraith. “They want to take me to Shazmak, to make up for their previous failing.”

  “They’ll have trouble getting through my guard!” said Vanhe. He unrolled a map. “Now we must look to the empire, Maigraith. No matter how miraculous the rumors, to the rest of lagador you are just a hope that is far away. Bannador suffers cruelly.”

  “Poor Karan,” said Maigraith. “She loved her land dearly. I often wonder what happened to her. Well, you gave me power and I plan to use it. Put it about in Bannador that Karan Fyrn is my particular friend, and if necessary I will lead an army to liberate her country.”

  He looked startled. “An… interesting strategy,” Vanhe said. His voice went cold. “Though of course such campaigns require careful thought, not mere whimsy.”

  He reminds me of my place, Maigraith realized. I am to be a puppet after all. Suddenly feeling too weak to resist, she fell back on the pillows.

  “What more do you demand of me?” she whispered.

  “For the time: only to rest, gather your strength, learn the art of command and listen to our spies and advisers. We have much work ahead of us: pushing back the Ghâshâd, countering their deceits, rooting out their spies, re-establishing our own. But we are skilled at that. What we don’t know is what they will do next. How will they proceed? How can we counter them? These are avenues for you to consider.”

  “And Thyllan?”

  “He’s fled with a handful of retainers, One-Thumb among them. Thyllan is sorely humiliated, but a man of much persuasion. A pity you allowed him to live.”

  Nothing is ever good enough, she thought. Just like Faelamor. “Death is your trade, not mine,” she said sharply.

  “So it is, and I apply myself to it. Meanwhile there is a great deal for you to do if we are to wage war, in Bannador or anywhere else.”

  Maigraith said nothing. She would go to war if she had to, though what could be more terrifying than to have command of an army, to know that the lives of hundreds, even of thousands, rested on her whim? Worse still, that any mistake would be measured in lives. She did not have the strength to think about that.

  4

  * * *

  THE VAST ABYSS

  It was a glorious spring day in Katazza, the mountainous island that once lorded it over the Sea of Perion, as Kandor had made the sea his backyard and commanded all the lands around in commerce and in might. But the jewel of Perion was no more, dried up and gone long ago, leaving an abyss choked with slabs and bergs of salt, with vicious shards of congealed lava and boiling sulphur springs—the Dry Sea! The surrounding countries were desert. Kandor’s empire was gone to dust. His unparalleled fortress city had lain empty for a thousand years, yet its astounding towers, built of plaited cables of stone faced in white and lapis, stood unchanged. The Dry Sea was the most watchful guardian of all.

  Orange sunlight streamed in through the open embrasures, catching every mote in the air like a speck of purest gold. A lovely afternoon breeze stirred the motes to a playful dance, a careless rapture. But inside the highest chamber of the Great Tower the company were spent. The conflict with Rulke had hurt them terribly, despite their apparent victory. The burst of elation that came when they all strove together, and seemed to overpower him, was gone. Rulke’s foretelling and his arrogant disappearance had put paid to that.

  Now aftersickness resulting from their profligacy with the Secret Art was exacting its toll. Only Shand had any life in him, but he felt like plunging out the window. Rulke was free! What use anything anymore?

  Karan and Llian were gone, lost somewhere in the gate, and the gate was dead as stone. Only Tensor could remake it, but the once-noble Aachim lay a twisted ruin on his stretcher. His face was swollen, his eyes mere slits staring unblinking at the ceiling. Every so often a shudder wracked him from head to foot.

  I let you down Karan, Shand thought miserably. Scanning the room, he realized how badly his companions were suffering. There was work to do. Maybe it would help to keep despair at bay.

  Yggur was stretched out on the floor, long as a pole. Lank black hair hung over his face like a kitchen rag. His complexion was waxen and covered in droplets of sweat, and he sucked in the air as though he could never get enough.

  “Selial needs help more than I do,” he panted, as Shand took his hand.

  She was crouched on the stairs outside the broken door, heaving, trying to rid herself of a failed life. Her eyes were dead. Shand tried to lift her up but she gave a feeble moan and scrunched herself up into an angle of the wall with her arms over her head. Her nerve had broken—she’d not had the courage to stand up against Tensor and the result was all around her. She would never get over it.

  Shand hurried to the next casualty, anxious to complete his work here. A thousand steps below, Malien and Tallia lay abandoned with their injuries. What must they be going through?

  Osseion, huge dark warrior that he was, seemed unharmed. Aftersickness had not touched him, but he looked dazed, as if he just wanted to lie down and sleep.

  Shand bent over Mendark. The Magister pushed him aside, climbing to his feet unaided. He was suffering as much as any of them, but he hid it so well that Shand could hardly tell. Mendark was not down at all.

  “Selial!” he roared. “Bring your healers; attend to Tensor; make a stretcher for Malien. The rest of you, get packing! Be ready to leave in the morning. Osseion, make our ge
ar ready.” Then he moderated the tone of his voice. “Yggur, get up. We need you!”

  Yggur jerked. Failure had sapped him of confidence. He was prey to a vast terror, that Rulke would return more powerful than ever and possess him as he had done before. Yggur would do anything to avoid that. He got up like an old man, yet he obeyed the summons: hesitant; much shaken; much reduced. Part of his memory was gone, from that time before he stepped into the gate at Thurkad to when Mendark reached into his mind and did something.

  “What happened to me?” Yggur asked, shaking his head in a futile attempt to clear it.

  “When Rulke possessed you an age ago, he must have left a hold in your mind that has festered there ever since, weakening you and making you fear him.”

  “I have had terrible dreams,” said Yggur, still shaking.

  “They’re gone now,” Mendark said soothingly. “I broke the hold.”

  Yggur looked puzzled.

  Shand watched this exchange in silence, wondering. The previous roles of Mendark and Yggur had been reversed. Yggur was down but Mendark exultant. The conflict seemed to have burned out of him all self-doubt resulting from the year’s failures.

  Shand was too exhausted to worry about it. Plagued by his own shortcomings, he threw himself into his work. It did not help—the morbid thoughts about Karan were as strong as before.

  “I’m going to see to Malien and Tallia,” he muttered.

  The rest of the company followed. Several floors below they met Tallia coming up. A broad bandage was bound around her forehead, crimping in her long black hair. Her dark skin looked drained.

  “What happened?” she asked.

  “When the Aachim blasted their way in you were knocked down by a piece of stone.”

  “I meant, up there.”

  Shand explained. “How is Malien?” he asked.

  “Sick and sore, but in surprisingly good spirits.”

  Many stairs later, they entered the ruined chamber that had been Tensor’s workroom. It was an odd-shaped space, having the form of a nine-leaved clover, with a carved stone fireplace in each of the bays. The hearth of one of the fireplaces was now a circular hole that led into darkness. Down all the way to the rift, presumably, for the Great Tower had been built over that fuming fissure—one of the most powerful places in all Santhenar to work the Secret Art. Tensor’s pavilion, the fateful gate, was a pile of rubble. They set him down beside it.