Dark Moon Daughter

by J. Edward Neill

  “Yes Orum?” Reya halted.

  “What of dinner? What is planned?”

  “Your favorite, Sire. Fish and seaweed.”

  Her jest made him smile. “Excellent! And any guests?”

  “None that I know of. Shall I invite Lady Gennai or Mistress Rashay? They both took a liking to you. When was it they were here? Last summer, I think?”

  “Ha!” Orumna shooed her away. “No, neither of those. They were too young, too skinny, and much too haughty. No, I think I shall dine with you three tonight.”

  “Orum dear,” Reya wore a look of motherly concern, “should you dine so often with your servants? You are the King, and we…”

  “…shall do as I say.” He raised his cup to them with a smile. “What better guests than you, my lovelies? Let the rest of Thillria squawk. Orumna sups with who he wishes.”

  Reya and her lasses spun toward the kitchen, but again she stopped short. “Orum dear, you reminded me of something. We do expect one guest. Not for lunch though. Not till supper. A gentleman from the south, near Shivershore. I regret to say I do not recall his name.”

  “Oh?” he huffed. “A guest without a name? What does he want? Not trying to sell me his daughter, is he? You know how pale and skinny those Shiver girls are.”

  “He’s a merchant, I think,” chirped young Tinali. “That’s what I heard.”

  “Yes,” Reya agreed with her daughter. “The fellow has contributed much to your Grace, as in gold for Aeth’s coffers. I believe that is why he was granted audience.”

  Orumna shrugged. In his halls, one guest was the same as another. They all have advice for how I should run my country. “Well enough,” he grunted. “See him to dinner. Until then, bring me my books and leave me be.”

  As ever, Orumna’s books did not keep him awake for long. A few hours after Harra delivered the old, musty tomes, Tinali entered the hall and found the King fast asleep, face planted cheek-first atop the royal table. He snored so loudly his chair creaked with each long, heaving breath. His drool dripped upon the tablecloth, while his hands, cradling a huge weather-worn tome, rattled like leaves upon an old oak.

  The King dozed, and the rest of the day passed without event. Come late afternoon, the warmth fled from castle Aeth, replaced by a chilly seaborne breeze sliding through the shutters like ghosts. A soft rain settled over the city beyond the castle, compelling Orumna’s servants to close every window, walling off his hall just as he liked it.

  Orumna awoke with a start. He jerked upright in his chair, groggy-headed and uncomfortable, rubbing his eyes as though expecting every seat at his table to be occupied with plaintive guests. He soon calmed, for nothing dreadful awaited him. His books were stacked neatly upon the floor, a favor from Tinali. His cup was full of cool water, and a plate of cakes, bread, and spiced apples set before him. The hall was quiet, and though the windows behind his throne were frosted from the cold, the great room was warm. Three braziers were lit, six hearths blazed, and some two-hundred candles glowed, shining like stars within the room’s iron chandeliers.

  Not long after he woke, young Tinali burst out of the kitchen door. The lass was striking in her semblance to Reya. Her cheeks were round and dimpled, her hair long and black, and her smiles enough catch the stares of all his guards. She and three servant girls approached, giggling as they set the table, placing dull silver spoons and chipped porcelain wares before him. His belly rumbled in anticipation of dinner. He was not concerned about how it was served or what utensils he used to eat it, so long as it sated him.

  “Tinali.” He yawned and smacked his lips. “Should you set a second place? Aren’t we expecting a guest?”

  Tinali conjured a slender smile. “Yes milord. It is just that, well…we thought with all the rain he might not come.”

  “Rain? Again?” he groused. “All the same, arrange a second setting. If he does not come, one of you may join me. You or your mother, mayhap. If your family were highborn, Tin-Tin, I swear I’d marry you both.”

  Blushing, Tinali retreated to the kitchen. She reappeared in short order, silverware and plates in hand, and she arranged the guest’s setting on the opposite end of the long table. “There, all ready.” She backed away. “Is there anything else?”

  He yawned like a lion. His limbs felt heavy, his eyes dry and tired. “Bring the setting closer.” He patted the table just one chair to his right. “Your mother always tells me I keep our guests too far away. I should prove her wrong tonight. And when you’re done, see that the guards take their places. One can never be too careful with these Shiverfolk, not that I expect this one to actually come.”

  “Yes m’lord. Of course.” Tinali nodded.

  With a bat of her lashes and a swish of her green skirt, Tinali did as he asked. The rest of the servant girls slipped back toward the kitchen, and he slumped in his chair. In the girls’ absence, he grew restless. He ached from his awkward, daylong nap. His back felt as stiff as a board, and the bones in his legs nettling him. He had no real interest in the night’s guest, especially not with the pain throttling his skull. He hoped no one would come, that dinner would fill him to bursting, and that, like all other nights, he could retire to his bedchamber and doze the darkness away.

  Not a moment too soon, supper arrived. He sat up in his chair, licking his teeth and clutching his fork as though it might flee. Reya was on hand to dish out the evening’s splendor, and his smile widened as she approached. In her grasp was a great platter heaped with hot, buttered potatoes, a slab of roasted pig, a pile of steaming chicken legs, and a cradle of thick gravy huge enough to lose a fistful of ladles within. She set the platter before him, took one step back, and raised her eyebrow, concerned at the haste with which he heaped his first serving on his plate.

  “Now Orum, you know better than to eat everything,” she said. “Save some, in case your guest should arrive.”

  “Guest? What guest?” he pretended to forget. “Some nameless beggar? Besides, Shiverfolk need little to fill them. They’re all bones and skin…and more bones. I am hungry, and so I eat.”

  “As you wish.” Reya set down the last part of the feast, a chalice brimming with red wine, a rare treat from Aeth’s depleted cellars. “Anything else?”

  “No, no.” He stabbed his fork into the roast, testing its tenderness. “This will do just fine.”

  No man’s appetite rivals Orumna’s, he thought at he sank into his meal. He tore huge chunks of meat with his teeth, gulping them down with swigs of wine. He poured gravy over mountains of potatoes and used the ladle in place of his spoon to scoop great mouthfuls down his gullet. The rest of the room was silent as he feasted. The guards said nothing as he stuffed himself to bursting, while the servants passing through averted their eyes.

  When Reya returned, his platter was thrice cleaned, slick with grease, and piled high with chicken bones. “Reya!” he blustered. “I need more potatoes! And put more wood in the hearths. They’ve died down. It’s bloody freezing in here.”

  “Orum,” she said, “Your guest is here.”

  Striding to the far end of his gloomy hall, Reya opened a door. A stiff, shivering wind cut into the room, gusting past her skirts and slaying several dozen candles. A bone in hand and a mouthful of meat, Orumna ceased chewing and watched as a tall, hooded man in a rain-slicked cloak entered the hall, his face hidden down to his chin.

  “Dramatic, even for a Shiver man,” Orumna grumbled at his guards. “Well…does he have papers?”

  Reya stepped aside. An armored guard strode out of the shadows and stalked toward the cloaked stranger. Orumna took the opportunity to seize another chunk of meat, slather it in gravy, and stuff it in his cheek. He chewed as he watched, only vaguely interested.

  After accosting the tall stranger, the guard unraveled a scroll stripped from the rain-soaked man and scanned its contents. “Seems in order, Sire.” The guard’s voice boomed in the hall. “Your seal is affixed. Says here this man is the Sponsor of Shivershore, whoever that may be
. Says you invited him to discuss the possibility of employment in your service. By writ, he’s promised one night’s room under your roof, and one supper by your side.”

  Orumna sucked the grease from his fingers. He did not remember inviting anyone, least of all a Shivershore man, to Aeth. On another night, he might have sent the stranger right back out into the rain, but his meal had softened his mood, and the wine doubly so. “Just him?” he bellowed. “No retainers or squires? No daughters?”

  “There was one retainer,” answered Reya. “But he preferred to remain outside.”

  “In the rain?” He leaned back in his chair, whose legs groaned beneath his weight. “What’s he to do? Sleep in the stables?”

  “No, Sire.” Reya’s usual humor seemed absent. “In the city. In Denawir.”

  Orumna tossed the last of the bones onto the platter, sparing a brief glance at his sopping wet visitor. It was a rare thing for him to allow guests at supper, rarer still that they arrived alone. Peculiar, he wanted to say, but held his tongue. Since the lass set his place, I may as well humor him.

  Two guards escorted the guest to the King’s table. Orumna looked the man over as he approached. Sponsor of Shivershore, eh? Looks more like a dishrag, wet and moldering. The Sponsor tossed back his hood and slid into his seat two chairs away, a guard at each side. Between pulls of wine, Orumna glowered in the Sponsor’s direction. He decided he liked the idea of a guest even less than before.

  At a glance, the Sponsor cut a striking figure, a Shivershore man to the bone. His hair was ebon, as dark a black as the sea at night and just as shiny. His skin was white with a wintry pallor, and his short black beard neatly groomed. More than anything else, Orumna noted his man’s eyes. Their brightness was most un-Thillrian, their greenness most profound. The King reckoned they looked like the crystalline waters of Denawir’s harbor at midsummer. And maybe that’s Reya was so shy, he mused. She’s smitten with this handsome sod.

  After perusing the Sponsor long enough to make most men uncomfortable, Orumna hunched over his platter in a most unkingly manner. He dismissed Reya with a wave before swallowing a chunk of roast and chasing it with a noisy swig of wine. He hoped his uncouth behavior would unsettle his guest, and keep this visit short.

  “Has he been checked?” he asked at length.

  The guards flanking the Sponsor bade the man rise again. The search was a piece of protocol Orumna rather liked, for all that it makes them uncomfortable. As one guard patted the Sponsor down, the other rifled through the satchel he had carried to the table. The Sponsor neither blinked nor raised a word of protest. He held his arms high and suffered the search without apparent concern, not seeming to mind even when one of the guards dumped his satchel’s contents on the table. Smirking, the guard sifted through the spilled things, finding only a weather-worn book, a glass cylinder with a sheaf of cloth packed inside, and a sealed bottle of wine labeled Shivershore’s Finest.

  “Sire.” The guard hoisted the wine for Orumna to see. “A book, a bottle, and a rag. ‘Tis all he has.”

  He spilled more wine into his gullet. “Leave it be.” He half-stifled a burp. “And let the poor man sit. One of you, go fetch Reya again. We’ll need more supper if this skinny fellow is to eat. Seems I ate all the rest.”

  The guards did as asked, afterward drawing back into the deep shadows at the back of the hall. They held their spears as tightly as men holding a battle’s front line, all the while menacing the Sponsor with their glares. Orumna, tipsy as he was, found the whole thing amusing.

  Reya brought more food, some for the Sponsor and still more for the King. My guest is silent, Orumna thought. He must be hungry. Good. Let him nibble on his while I drown in mine. A glutton, he tried to be, finishing his fourth platter of food. He stuffed his cheeks with soggy bread and slathered roast, though the Sponsor ate nothing.

  “So then, what did you say your name was?” Orumna asked.

  “I did not say.” His guest was polite, too polite for a Shiver man. “To most, I am known as the Sponsor of Shivershore. I invest coin and concern into the making of the south’s finest wine, Shiver Red.”

  “I know this wine.” Orumna tapped his empty bottle with his finger. “I drank a bottle just tonight.”

  “Was it all you hoped it would be?”

  “It was good enough. Another bottle, and perhaps I’d be drunk enough to care about whatever it is you’ve come to say.”

  Unasked for, the Sponsor dragged his chair closer to Orumna’s, close enough that the guards at the back of the room twitched. Only an arm’s length away. The King drew back in his seat, frowning. Does he presume to hold my hand?

  “I do not recall you, Ser Sponsor.” His jowls shook. “And I do not remember inviting you into my hall, especially during this season. I am uncomfortable with you. How did you secure a summons? What is it you want?”

  “Majesty, recall last summer if you will,” said the Sponsor. “You awoke one morn to find a chest of gold and a selection of rare seeds for your garden. Do you remember? These were delivered to you from my tower in Shivershore.”

  “That was you? I remember. What of it?”

  “As my correspondence tried to explain, I gave the gold to expand Aeth’s gardens, and perhaps if you were feeling generous, appeal to you to stock your shelves with Shiver Red. I aim to become Aeth’s largest contributor, its Sponsor, if you will. I have large stakes in Shiver’s vineyards and orchards, and I would open my cellars to Denawir, not for profit but for the joy of spreading the passions of the south to the unsuspecting north, who knows not what they are missing.”

  The Sponsor looked comfortable now, smiling and talking with his hands. Too comfortable, thought the King. As if his charm matters to me.

  “Indeed,” said Orumna, still doubtful.

  “As for the summons,” the Sponsor continued, “Your gentle steward had it delivered to me. His name is Jix, I believe. I requested a tour of your gardens and cellars, and he was kind enough to add dinner with you to my visit.”

  “Ah, Jix.” The name left a sour taste on his tongue. “I must have been wading nose-deep in Red. Forgive my forgetfulness.”

  He lifted his chalice to his lips again, but tasted only emptiness. All the servants had gone, he realized, and all his guards were rapt. The Sponsor leaned back into his chair, settling into his seat as though he had done it a thousand times. Orumna shivered. Reya had stoked the hearths before she had left, but to little avail. The cold penetrated him, and he swore he saw his breath frost the air above his table.

  “You still seem suspicious of me.” The Sponsor’s tone was calm, even soothing. “I cannot say I blame you. I would be the same. After all, who am I to invade Aeth in the rain, dressed as a Shivershore cur? You are Aeth’s lord, Thillria’s sovereign, and I am but a chaplain of vice. I know my place in this world, Majesty. If you ask it, I shall leave. I shall not trouble you again.”

  Between shivers, Orumna came to realize what a miserable host he had been. Too miserable, he thought. Even for me. His rudeness left an ill taste in his mouth, while the memory of his supper manners weighed in his stomach like a stone accidentally swallowed. “No, enough of that.” His neck flushed, his hands sweating despite the cold. “Stay at least a little while. I would hear your offer before I boot you into the rain.”

  “You are certain, my King?”

  “I am.” The words felt odd escaping his tongue. “Now will someone fetch a few logs and drive back this damnable cold?”

  No one answered. Green eyes gleaming, the Sponsor scooted still closer in his chair. He uncorked his bottle of Shiver Red and drained a cupful as if to prove it was no poison. “Never ceases to amaze.” He pushed the bottle to Orumna. “If wine were power, Thillria might rule the world.”

  As many bottles of Red as Orumna had imbibed, the marvels of its taste were all but lost to him. “After the third goblet, they all start to taste the same,” he said while wringing the cold from his hands. “But enough of the wine. Tell me, Spo
nsor, why are you here? You promise wine and flowers, and you leave chests of gold on the steps. Do you have a daughter needing marrying? Do you want an army raised? A few ships built? Every man who comes to Aeth wants something from me. Your only hope is honesty.”