Voyage of the Shadowmoon

by Sean McMullen

  “How did such a fate befall Velander?” she asked with genuine compassion.

  Laron shook his head, as if wondering how much to tell her.

  “She was a brilliant young priestess, with the rest of a great and wonderful life stretched before her, overflowing with promise. Then she did something very foolish, a magical experiment. She was killed. I—I found an echo of her spirit, after all others had accepted her death. I performed a casting. It was somewhat foolish, but then I am inclined to be somewhat foolish.”

  “But why? She was dead.”

  “Should your lover or your child die, would you not weep over the corpse? If bereaved, would you not save a loved one’s portrait, ring, poetry, cloak, or lock of hair? People visit the graves of the dead, leaving flowers, candles, and even wine. All of this keeps the dead from fading entirely.”

  “Such acts are for the benefit of the living, not the dead,” replied Senterri.

  “Indeed? But is a fire truly dead when it has faded and cooled to a few lumps of charcoal and a spark?”

  “No.”

  “Take that last spark away, use it to light a candle. Is the fire dead?”

  “It is … no longer the same.”

  “Take that candle, use it to make those lumps of charcoal burn again. Did the fire ever die? The grate is the same, as are the coals. So is the flame. The fire is just a process, just like life. Velander’s spark lingered in a calm, dark place for a very long time. By the time I found it, she was so weak that I could not bring her back to life … but I could bring her back.”

  “Yes, you used that expression before,” Senterri said thoughtfully.

  “I—Yes, so I did. You listened to what I said. That was very nice of you; most people don’t take me very seriously.”

  Senterri tried to think it all through, but it was too hard. The metaphor Laron had used was not a good one, but it was hard to refute.

  “So, she is, ah, not quite alive?”

  “No, but there are countless people alive who do not deserve to be thus.”

  “She kills. That cannot be good or just.”

  “So does a soldier, or a king. The difference is that along with the bad, they often kill the good, the innocent, the generous, and the kind, because their wars are seldom about justice. Velander always kills the brutal, objectionable, cruel, greedy, and vaguely horrible—except for the occasional accident, anyway. She contributes more to the common good than most of us could. Had I alone confronted your late slaver master, his client, and their bodyguards with just a battle-ax, had I slain them in defense of your honor, would you have found it unseemly?”

  Senterri was afraid of the only answer that she could have given. The thought of a handsome young hero standing astride the body of D’Alik with a bloody ax still seemed wonderful to her mind. The thought of the superhumanly strong Velander ripping out the slaver’s throat filled her with horror, even though the vampyre had freed her.

  “I … have not thanked Velander,” Senterri admitted reluctantly, ashamed at her breach of good manners. “Do you think she will feel hurt?”

  Laron shrugged. “Less than you or I would, but yes. The vampyre still remembers Velander’s life, speaks with Velander’s voice, and probably even thinks as Velander once did. When she is not hungry, at any rate. Velander tends to be rather focused when she is hungry.”

  “Is there hope for her?”

  “Only one vampyre has been brought back to life in all of history, and the mechanism that was used to do it has been destroyed.”

  “And yet you remain Velander’s companion, even though anyone else would shun her.”

  “Well, it seems the honorable thing to do. I try to follow the path of honor and chivalry, even though I seldom have company. She tries to care about me. Sometimes, when I am looking really doleful, Velander will sit beside me and hold my hand, and tell me I should find a nice girl.”

  “You should.”

  “And what girl would tolerate Velander, sleeping in a coffin, smelling of blood, and ripping out the throats of objectionable neighbors?”

  “Well, yes, it could be valid grounds for divorce,” Senterri conceded.

  “What will you do now that you are free?” Laron asked cheerily, trying to lighten the mood of the conversation.

  “Oh, go home, I suppose.”

  “Where is home?”

  “Sargol.”

  “Really? Lovely place. I was there three years ago.”

  “But meantime I may stay in Gladenfalle for a while. I have a relative there, he will be glad to see me.”

  “Oh, splendid, perhaps I can help you find him. What is his name?”

  “Prince Patrelias, he lives in the palace.”

  It took some moments for her words to sink in.

  “But, but, he is the ruler of the city and surrounds,” Laron quavered. Senterri shrugged. “It’s a living.”

  The cart rumbled on through the rain and the gathering gloom of evening as Laron tried to think of something to say. He failed. Senterri straightened her clothing and tightened her lacings. She and Velander had similar figures and were about the same height, so the fit was good.

  “I want to look my best when we arrive,” she explained, when it became clear that Laron was probably incapable of taking any sort of initiative, verbal or otherwise.

  “Oh, but you always look your best, Your Majesty—or is it Your Highness? Which one is for a ruling monarch? I always get them confused.”

  “It’s ‘Highness,’ actually,” she said as she sat with her hands clasped between her knees. “Laron, what would you like as your reward? What is the worth of a princess?”

  “Don’t be silly, no reward required,” he laughed halfheartedly. “I live cheaply, and Velander’s food is free, although it does struggle a bit and sometimes has cross relatives. I mean, you washed the sacks, cleaned the ax-blade, and were nice to Velander. Not many people are nice to Velander, and I am sure she appreciated it. And you kissed me. How many boys can say they were kissed by a princess? Not that I shall, of course. Nobody would believe me, and if they did, I would probably be hung for, er, being lower class or something.”

  “Laron, it is you who is being silly. I could shower you with gold, make you a mighty noble …” She paused, thought carefully, then made a quick but important decision. “I might even sleep with you if you asked me nicely.”

  “I—Oh.”

  Laron managed to say no more. Senterri suddenly realized that a reply did not exist for the sort of offer she had just made—to a person like Laron, anyway.

  “Don’t hurt my feelings, Laron, what is your pleasure?” she continued now, trying to make it easier for him.

  Laron frowned as he thought, then shook his head and laughed to himself.

  “What is funny?” Senterri asked anxiously, feeling a little vulnerable about rejection after what she had just offered to him.

  “Your High—”

  “Just ‘Senterri,’ if you don’t mind.”

  “Senterri, I already have my reward. I helped to rescue you, I defeated two guards while Velander … Well, she always goes for the plump ones, but—Oh, sorry. Look, I freed you, I made you happy, that is my reward. I’ve not made a woman happy since … Well, there were a couple of women in Diomeda that I would rather not think about, mostly, but—”

  Suddenly Senterri burst out laughing, elbowed Laron in the ribs, then put her arms around his neck and kissed him greedily, and with considerable passion.

  “Then that is for you to think about as much as you like,” she explained.

  “You are like house afire, getting along?” came Velander’s voice from behind them.

  Gladenfalle was built on one side of a chasm, through which the Leir River flowed. The docks were cut into the rock of the chasm’s west wall, and an array of immense cranes moved both cargoes and people from the city to the piers. Spanning the chasm at the city’s level was a wide, arched bridge, and it was at the east side of this that Laron stopped
the wagon.

  “Velander and I shall walk behind with our packs,” said Laron. “We have papers that name us as wandering scholars, in search of enlightenment. If you distract the guards with being a princess, we can sneak past during the fuss.”

  “My friends, this is really not the sort of parting you deserve,” said Senterri.

  “Maybe not, but it is what we need,” Laron insisted.

  “Remember plate,” prompted Velander.

  “Ah yes. Highness—that is, Senterri, may I request a small favor?” asked Laron.

  “If I can do it, it shall be done,” said Senterri at once.

  Laron held out a his hand. From it Senterri took a small package, which was tied with string but not sealed.

  “Please, have this delivered to the Metrologan Elder, in Scalticar, if you please,” asked Laron.

  “Is that all?”

  “Yes. We dare not go there. The story is long, and this is not the time or place to be telling it. Now, let us enter Gladenfalle—you in triumph, we two as quietly as possible.”

  “No—I mean, Laron, or Velander, one question more. During the weeks and months past I have learned a lot. I was a princess, then a slave. I—I saw there is little separating the two. I can easily be both, yet neither of you could ever be slaves.”

  “Is true,” said Velander.

  “Please come to the point, Your Highness, it’s seriously damp out here,” said Laron.

  “What difference is there between us?”

  “Attitude,” Velander replied at once.

  “Attitude?” asked Senterri. “What do you mean?”

  “Is answer. Attitude. Must learn for to understand yourself. If not, never understand.”

  “That is true,” agreed Laron. “Velander died to learn that. Now, please, off you go, and try not to crash.”

  “Velander, Laron, once again, and with both of my hearts, thank you.”

  The guardpost beside the city gates grew slowly more distinct through the curtains of rain, and the great walls and towers of Gladenfalle loomed immense before Senterri.

  “Halt and declare,” called someone from under an awning.

  Senterri drew back the reins and locked the brake-bar down.

  “Senterri Millarien, to visit my uncle,” Senterri called back through the rain.

  Laughter greeted her words.

  “Hey, that’s a good one—now pull the other one, it yodels,” cried the guard, walking out into the rain and holding up a lantern. “Now, who—?”

  Suddenly the guard stared, then fished about for his Sargolan coin. Every guard and militiaman in the realm had been issued with a Sargolan coin bearing Senterri’s likeness. He held the coin up to the light, then stared at Senterri’s smiling face again.

  “Sergeant!” howled the guard.

  Moments later all six guardsmen of the post were kneeling in the rain beside the wagon.

  “Your Highness, we had word that a slaver had ravished you,” said the sergeant in charge of the shift.

  “Untrue,” said Senterri. “I escaped the slaver, with no more than my dignity harmed.”

  “Uh, well, where is he now, Your Highness? We need to avenge your dishonor.”

  “He is dead.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Well, reasonably so,” Senterri replied softly. “I cut off his head. He seemed to find that rather hard to cope with.”

  With that, Senterri dropped D’Alik’s head to the cobblestones before them. The guardsmen gazed at it in wonder, then admiration.

  “Will you be long?” called Laron from behind the waggon.

  “Shut up!” the sergeant called back.

  “If you would take me to my uncle, please,” said Senterri. “I have to stop my father and brothers from attacking the Toreans in Diomeda. They had nothing to do with my abduction.”

  “We’re only poor students,” called Laron.

  “The palace awaits your arrival, Your Highness,” declared the sergeant. “Your uncle will be overjoyed, and his city is yours to—”

  “It’s awfully wet back here,” called Laron.

  “Let them past,” ordered Senterri with a little wave of her hand. “After what I have been through in the months past, I would wish misery on nobody else. Then please have someone guide me to the palace.”

  Laron and Velander were waved into Gladenfalle without inspection, a search, or even the demand for a bribe. They trudged past the cart and through the city gates, the rain streaming from their oilskin capes. Senterri turned back to the sergeant, who was reciting Gladenfalle’s traditional welcome to foreign nobility, but when he had finished and she looked for her two rescuers again, they were gone. Only the horse and wagon remained as proof they ever existed.

  Senterri enjoyed her uncle’s hospitality for the next month, until a small flotilla of military racing shells came up the river and tied up at the docks cut into the face of the cliff, far below the city. Presently Prince Stavez and Dolvienne were carried up in one of the crane carriages, and a lavish feast was organized to celebrate their reunion with Senterri. The visitors stayed for a week, but when the time came to depart, Senterri had an unexpected announcement.

  “You are not returning?” exclaimed her brother, unable to believe his own ears. “But—but the entire empire awaits you.”

  “Just thank them and say I am free, safe, and happy,” said Senterri.

  “We went to so much trouble and expense to get you back.”

  “And failed. I struck off my captor’s head unaided, and got here for free. You have the head in a jar of vinegar, to present to Father with my compliments. Not much, as souvenirs go, but what can you do when traveling light?”

  “Your face almost launched a thousand ships.”

  “Stavez, my brother, nobody is as pretty as that,” Senterri laughed gently. “Back in Sargol, I would be no more than a princess. The idea does not appeal.”

  “No more than a princess?” he exclaimed, but Senterri held up her hand.

  “It is true. Here, I am a symbol to all in the nearby regions where slaves are traded. I am a mere girl, yet I escaped. Others can, and others will. I have organized a refuge estate for slaves who seek sanctuary in this land. Uncle has provided the money, and work has begun already. Then there is other work. I plan to join a philanthropic religious order, and work to make the world a better place.”

  “But you can do all that in Sargol,” began Stavez.

  “Need I spell it out to you, brother of little wit? Were I to return to Sargol, I would be an embarrassment, a stupid little girl who got abducted while having secret dancing lessons. Rumors would flap about like fruit bats in the evening, rumors that I was ridden and ravished by every slaver from here to Diomeda.”

  “But that did not happen!”

  “True, but who would believe it? A princess cannot afford to have that sort of rumor in her past. For a champion of the weak and powerless, however, some tragedy like that is almost mandatory.”

  Prince Stavez was unhappy, but he respected his sister’s decision. It did solve a lot of problems—he had to admit it—and Senterri certainly was a changed woman. She was so radiantly happy, almost serene. Once he had taken his leave, to arrange the return voyage down the Leir, Senterri and Dolvienne were left alone to make their farewells. Senterri took out a small package and opened it. The wrapping itself was a note.

  “Can you deliver this to the Elder of the Metrologan Order in North Scalticar?” Senterri asked.

  “Anything,” replied Dolvienne. “Back in the desert, I rode away in your service, but I failed to get you rescued. That shamed me. This time I am delighted to leave you in happier circumstances, and in this new mission I shall not fail. May I see the note?”

  “Of course. It has no secrets.”

  Dolvienne frowned at the odd script, but could easily follow the Diomedan text. She read aloud.

  “‘Most Excellent Highness Senterri, please have this conveyed to the Learned Terikel, the Elder of the Me
trologans in the North Scalticarian city of Alberin. Give her my compliments, and say this is to remember all that we endured together. Ask her to convey good wishes also to my good friend Roval, and to my former mentor the Learned Wensomer, and to my surviving crewmates. Please explain that a matter of honor forced me to leave without a farewell, and please convey my regrets. Laron.’”

  Dolvienne examined what was enclosed. It was a little brass rectangle with a hole at each corner. At one side was a medicar symbol; at the other, the crest of the Placidian Guild of Navigators, and across the center was, SHADOWMOON.

  “This is all?” she asked.

  “Look under the last fold,” replied Senterri.

  The writing was different, with a more exact and elegant script, but the Diomedan was not as good.

  “‘Worthy Elder Terikel, forgiveness, please, am asking. Yourself, were right. If soulmate, again, yourself needing, if again yourself could liking me, sending word. To yourself, shall come. Loyal priestess of yourself, Velander.”’

  “The words apparently carry far more meaning than we could guess at,” Senterri assured her handmaid.

  Dolvienne took a pace back and gazed approvingly at her princess.

  “You have changed, and for the better,” she declared.

  “It is only a small shift in attitude, but it is the difference between being a slave and being a princess. Will you take the package to Elder Terikel, please?”

  “I live to serve,” declared Dolvienne with an elaborate flourish and a deep bow.

  “I do, too,” responded Senterri. “My thanks to you.”

  Epilogue

  The rain was pouring down on the darkened city as Laron fled through the alleyways with two town bullies in pursuit. In the light from a solitary public lantern he caught sight of a fruit vendor’s handcart parked beside an awning that cascaded water into the street below. He ran for it.

  A shadow dropped from the awning and knocked the second thief to the ground. Laron turned and engaged the other, crossblocking his swagger-stick’s blow, hooking a leg behind his, and pushing the swagger-stick against the man’s throat. The thief toppled backward and struck the back of his head against the cobbles.