by Sharon Lee
The thought burned her: she been taught a Moonhawk strong and pure, celibate. But Moonhawk had had a lover . . .
She’d touched his words, too, then! And could power but go to power? Surely Moonhawk’s lover—
“Lute,” she called outloud then. “Lute! Lend me your power! Lute, by the Goddess—”
She heard a noise and returned to her chant, her demand still echoing up the walls toward the open windows—
They came quickly: dozens of them, including the entire Inner Circle. They came brandishing open-flamed torches and with silver and stone headdresses. They came with eleven of the fourteen living Names among them, and with spell-proof outworld rope they pulled her from her perch, bruising her breasts and legs. They chanted back, and with two Sisters on each arm and three on each leg they held her face down on the stone floor to stop her voice, and they took the finest of knives and slashed at her hair, cutting and hacking at it till it fell everywhere around her.
“How dare you!” screamed one of the Inner Circle when the hacking was done. “How dare you! To call on a charlatan within the Goddess’ own hold? What use can some mere male trickster be to you, fool? Heresy in the Temple itself! In the morning you will recant!”
“No!” shouted the girl, bruising her lips on the floor. “Not while Moonhawk lives! While Moonhawk lives, so does Lute, and he is a Name!”
“You will be stoned for that!” said another of the Circle, tracing stars in the air, and then patterns that glowed bright red. “False Moonhawk! Recant, give up your magic, or it will be taken!”
Within her, the voice, distant, cool. “These fools forget the well they drink from—Never recant! If they take my Name you have yours, Priscilla, never forget! When they take Sintia’s blessing you’ll be as invisible to them . . . We are angry, Priscilla!”
Within, Priscilla felt heat, and the nearest to her shrank away from the power there.
“I’ll not recant!”
Another voice, perhaps the Mother herself, said quietly, “Let it begin then—”
The woman holding her left arm began to twist it, and nearby a sword rattled.
From where she lay she could see her dark hair scattered about the floor and feet, and the glitter of high-level magics on everything. Her cheek hurt.
“I was always concerned of this one—” said someone as she was kicked.
She managed to see the woman who spoke: an older woman, politically secure—
“Will you stone Moonhawk, Ignela Rala y Duedes? You whose names are also Renata Dulavier Francotta and—”
“Stop!” said the woman, using the power of Command, the same command that Moonhawk and Priscilla had killed a woman with. “Stop!”
“—Sylvette Anna Ringwald? It isn’t required. Moonhawk is walking away from your ken for now, leaving your necessity behind for this generation. Remember that she is in every Temple, and will know how you deal!”
They beat her then, with rods of metal and gems, and each touch was an agony, as if her soul were being drained, and they twisted her arms and spoke Commands and Spells.
When they twisted her arm again she screamed, and when they twisted further, she screamed again, calling out for Moonhawk and Lute. For a moment she felt as if Lute were at the door, drawing sword—
“No!” came the word in Priscilla’s head. “He can’t stand against so many Names yet! He stirs, though, girl—he stirs! I must find him—live your life. You will not be forgot!”
Within Priscilla there was a sigh, and a relaxation of will: Moonhawk could not save her, Lute would not save her. And Moonhawk was elsewhere now.
A jubilant cry sprang from a close-eyed woman in the back of the room: “Gone, Sisters, the false Moonhawk is gone!”
THEY LEFT HER after awhile, in the darkness, having exhausted an amazing amount of magical energy on her. They took with them the wooden bench, and they burnt her hair where it lay, that she’d not have influence over any holder of it, should her false magic return.
She lay naked on the stones, and cried. She was going to die now, or very soon, and badly. The bruises and scrapes ached at her soul. What had she gotten in this life? What right had any of them—all she’d really wanted was to live a good life, in Balance, to honor the Goddess, to live well. What could she do now—
The noises she’d heard before came closer now. Rats? Bats?
There was a clatter. And another. The sound of wings. More clatter. Something fell on her thigh, jerking her sharply awake. She reached—
And found a thing about the size of her thumb, dimpled and light . . . a frenal nut! As she cast around she found more; there was a rain of them now. She’d wanted food, and here was food, of a sort. If she could just have enough strength to face them once more—
There was a louder flutter, and a keening. A large bird swooped past her head, settled in on the stone floor. She could hear it walking, could almost make out its form in the night.
The bird’s head bobbed and it dropped an offering—a harvest plum. As it jumped into the air she saw its markings in the distant light: a hawk it was . . .
IN THE MORNING Priscilla Delacroix y Mendoza was declared dead by her mother, in open court. It was a minor thing. Being a civil matter, its transmission to the world was delayed by a more important announcement.
This more important announcement went first to the rest of the Names who Lived, who meditated upon it for some hours before declaring officially to the Temple that Moonhawk was dead. Thence to the underlings went the news by those who would take the message to other Temples in the City, with the true and proper story: young Moonhawk had turned back the theft of all that was Holy and returned to the Temple a key to Balance. In so doing, her mission for the Mother in this life was fulfilled, and she had returned to the fold.
In the Temple basement a lone guard stared down at the prisoner a long time before nudging her awake with his foot. He’d considered—but no, not in the Temple, and not with that damn bird staring down at him from the empty lamp holder.
“Get up, you,” he said, kicking at her a little harder. “Get out!” He threw her a rough and ragged shift, a castaway from the alms box.
“If you ain’t out by next chant, you’re up for trespassing in the Temple! Can’t trust any of you Nameless.”
She was full of pains and aches, but overriding that was an emptiness that was like a drug that dulled her senses. Things weren’t as sharp; she could not summon warmth—
Priscilla reached out, unwillingly accepting the new because the past was totally gone; she put the shift on, and stood slowly. She was cold, but here was a little bit of food, and—
The man was staring pointedly at her breasts. She put her head high, felt the ache in the back of her neck, suddenly feeling the weight of his words.
Nameless. Dead. A nothing—No longer Moonhawk. No right to be bare-breasted in public. No right to call the Goddess Mother . . .
Awkwardly, unnaturally, she buttoned the shift across her bruised and chaffed breasts, felt its hem rub on the raw bruises on her thighs.
There was an explosion of wings behind her, and the bird that had been poised there flew out the door and to the left.
“Out, damn you!” snapped the guard. “Look at this mess we gotta clean up! By the Goddess’ good foot, get out!”
Numbly, she gathered together a few more of the nuts. Food. A little bit of food.
The man pushed at her roughly.
“Get out! You’re not wanted. You’re dead!”
She ran then, ran out the door and to the left, ignoring the open door to the right that led upramp into the beggars courtyard.
“I’m not,” she said to the wall as she climbed the stairs. “I’m not dead.”
She stopped at the door to MaidenHall, waiting for the tingle of acceptance at the crossboard in the stone floor—
There was none.
There was nothing. No quiet gong sounding the advent of a maiden, no warning brangle of alarm bells, no roar of tarfire fr
om the pot over the door
Nothing.
She stepped through then and touched the naming stone with a bare foot.
Nothing again. Moonhawk’s name was not intoned by the four guard coyotes, long-frozen by spell, nor did they raise hackles and charge. She was there, Nameless.
Moonhawk’s words came back to her: too much training had gone before for her to continue without some ceremony.
“Priscilla,” she said meekly.
Again nothing happened. No repetition, no echo, no—
She realized then she was a thief in Temple!
She ran with trepidation, furtively, until she found the locker that had been hers briefly but that had always been Moonhawk’s.
To stop a thief one uses locks. So had the wise women of Sintia done, and the sight of that silver-bright lock sent shivers of fear and indignation through Priscilla. What could she do now? She’d certainly starve, unable to get at what should be hers. And how dare they assume she stoop to stealing—
Incongruously, she laughed, and it was a true laugh despite everything, one that took in all the ironies—
She felt the sound of added laughter, distantly heard within her a voice new and thrilling—a male voice!
“You’ve a chance to survive then, haven’t you? It isn’t always easy, but girl, look! It’s only a silver lock, all curled about with magic signs that’d burn the hands off any believer still shackled to their cow-eyed vision—”
Priscilla recoiled at that description—felt the distant voice pause—
“—Can’t argue with you now, dammit. She needs help for this trick of hers and I—Priscilla, get a pin or a nail.”
The voice felt different, even more distant—but Priscilla took one of Delana-who-was-Oatflower’s favorite stainless steel pins from her unkempt locker top and found herself in front of Moonhawk’s locker, lock held precisely thus—
Her hands pulled on the lock expertly as the pin searched within; she felt her muscles respond to minute ridges the pin struck, felt her wrist twist this way while the other hand pulled that way and the pin slammed home and—
Twang—
“Done. Luck be with you girl, ’cause we can’t go beyond the door with you. Never give in!”
Priscilla pulled the lock off the clasp and hurriedly began stuffing the locker contents into a cloth sack: shoes, a belt, work trousers, a few old copper and aluminum coins—
She left to the Temple and its minions the costly clothes, the makeups, the gold armbands and necklets, signs of power, while happily grabbing up the tight-wrapped soya bar she’d left negligently behind the week before. She covered her newly-shorn head with an old blue kerchief that had been a dusting rag for Moonhawk’s ceremonies. What else?
Her gaze fell again to the bright-wrought things, eyes full of the greed of necessity. Dare she?
An odd song tickled at the back of her head, though she couldn’t catch the words. Still—When she moved on she held her right hand tight to seven silver bracelets.
She turned toward the door, found she still held the silver lock in her left hand, under the twisted top of the cloth bag. Her impulse was to toss it away—
Silver! She looked at the magic symbols, shrugged her shoulders, and dropped the lock into the bag.
“Good girl!” came distant approval. “Silver travels well! Go as far as you can!”
She hobbled out as best she could then, the grief chants of the Temple covering the sound of her ungainly escape.
Across Sintia’ the Priestesses waited for the proper hour, and then covered the carved Temple figures of Moonhawk in green cloth, signifying her return to the Goddess, this time.
No one dares mention that the eyes in the statues continued to glow, despite the funereal announcement.
No one dares mention to the Inmost Circle that Moonhawk still lives.
* * *
So ends the 55th tale of Lute and Moonhawk.
Pilot of Korval
Dutiful Passage en route to Venture
Standard Year 1339
MASTER PILOT VEN’DUCCI sighed and folded his hands on the practice board. By these signs, Er Thom knew himself to be in desperate straits.
“I had heard from Captain yos’Galan,” the Master said quietly, “that you had achieved a level of skill equal to that of a second class pilot. Perhaps I misunderstood?”
Er Thom inclined his head respectfully. “In fact, sir, I have achieved my second class license.”
The Master’s eyebrows rose, as if in astonishment. “Have you, indeed? Show it, of your kindness.”
Now he was in for it in truth. A short series of keystrokes from the board at which they sat, and Master ven’Ducci could transform the treasured second class license into a mere third class—or into no license at all. Such was the power of a master pilot.
Still, it would reflect poorly on his melant’i—and on the melant’i of the captain, his mother—if he were seen to either flinch or hesitate in the face of this order. Er Thom neither flinched nor hesitated, but pulled the card from its slot in the practice board and held it out to his instructor in fingers that were, amazingly, steady.
Master ven’Ducci received the license gravely and subjected it to a leisurely, frowning study, as if he had never seen such a thing before. Er Thom folded his hands forcibly in his lap and set his tongue between his teeth, lest he be tempted to blurt out any of the defenses of his own skill that were rising in his throat.
Halflings defended before they were attacked, and he, Er Thom yos’Galan, was not a halfling. He was a pilot of Korval. Specifically, he was a second class pilot of Korval, the license fairly earned on the same day that Daav his foster-brother, boon comrade and fiercest competitor, received his provisional second class.
Master ven’Ducci finished his inspection and laid the license on the edge of the board.
“How came you by this?”
Er Thom took a careful breath, and met the man’s eyes with what he hoped was grave calm.
“I came by it at Solcintra Pilot’s Hall, on Banim-Seconday in the first relumma of the current year.” He had more than one cause to remember the day well, though very nearly a full Standard Year had passed. Er Thom licked his lips, hands stringently folded upon his knee.
“Testing that day established me as a second class pilot. Master Hopanik signed the license herself.”
“‘Testing that day’,” Master ven’Ducci repeated. “Yes, I see.”
Er Thom felt his face heat, his fingers tightening convulsively. He would be calm, he told himself sternly. He would.
Master ven’Ducci picked up Er Thom’s license and held it in his palm as if weighing it for merit.
“It is sometimes the case,” he said, in the mode of instructor to student, “that the exhilaration of the test itself will call forth heightened response from a candidate. The results of such testings are not invalid so much as misleading. It may well be, young sir, that your proper rating at this time is second class provisional. It is certainly true that your results at these boards, over the time we have been working together, fall significantly short of the results one is accustomed to receive from solid second class pilots.”
Er Thom bit his tongue, refusing to beg. If he was a failure, if he lost his license this moment and spent the rest of his life balancing cargo holds, he was yet the son of Chi yos’Phelium—of Petrella yos’Galan. He would not shame his Line.
“So.” Master ven’Ducci glanced at the license and slid it into the pocket of his vest. Er Thom’s stomach twisted, but he sat still, and, gods willing, showed no distress.
“I will consider the proper course to chart from this circumstance,” the master pilot said. “Attend me here tomorrow at the usual hour.”
“Yes, Master.” Somehow, Er Thom managed to stand, to make his bow and walk, calmly, from the inner bridge.
He was scheduled for dinner this hour and his mother, the captain, had made it plain during his first few days’ service that she rated moody,
self-indulgent boys who skipped meals just slightly lower than Port panhandlers too lazy to apply themselves to a job.
Er Thom swallowed and deliberately turned his back on the hall that would eventually lead him to the cafeteria. He could not possibly eat. He swallowed again, blinking back tears.
His license. He was a second class pilot! The tests had not been in error! If only—if only he could speak to Daav! If only his foster mother, Daav’s true-mother and twin sister to Er Thom’s mother the Captain—if only Chi yos’Phelium were here. But, of course, she wasn’t. He had neither seen nor spoken with her since the day he had won the license.
He had always known that his true-mother would one day claim him to serve on Dutiful Passage and learn his life-roles of captain and trader, just as he had always known that Daav would someday leave home to attend Scout Academy. He had simply been caught . . . unprepared . . . when “one day” became “this day,” and he was suddenly swept into his mother’s orbit, away from everything that was usual and comforting; his one cold joy the new license in his pocket, which proved him a pilot of Korval.
It was no inconsiderable thing to be a pilot of Korval. Indeed, he had learned that it was no small thing to be cabin boy on the clan’s flagship, true-son and heir of Captain and Master Trader yos’Galan. The child of generations of space-goers, Er Thom had adjusted easily to his duties and to ship-life. He had adjusted less easily to the absence of his fosterbrother, who had been within his arm’s reach for the sum of both their lives. Er Thom’s earliest memory was of gazing into his brother’s face, watching the black eyes watch him in return.
“Good shift to you, young sir.”
Er Thom gasped, jolted out of his misery by the quiet greeting, and hastily bowed—junior to senior—to Mechanic First Class Bor Gen pin’Ethil.