Shadow Moon

by Chris Claremont

  Meanwhile, Thorn snaked his way through the press of people and into the corridor beyond. Along the way, he snatched himself a Royal surcoat and a silver serving tray, carrying it as though he was on the most important of errands.

  The corridor itself was so wide six big men could walk abreast with room to spare, yet so crowded he had to struggle to make any headway. To his left were a line of broad, basket-handled archways leading straightaway or down ramps or flights of steps to various storerooms. Along the piers that separated each opening were crates of every size, piled higher than actually looked safe. In appearance, the scene most resembled the ultimate moving day, only not everything was packed and too many people had too many notions where the pieces were supposed to go. Confrontations abounded, men bumping bellies and trying their best to top each other’s bellows—no mean feat considering the background din—with arms gesticulating wildly and faces turning red as rich wine.

  “Don’t tell me t’ put it there, y’ great, thumpin’ pillock,” he heard from one such encounter as he made his way with crablike determination as much sideways as forward through the thicket of legs.

  “Can’t have it blockin’ road, can we?” came the equally forthright reply.

  “Use yer eyes then, see f’r bloody self”—Islander brogue, a match for Maulroon’s, thickening with anger with almost every word—“there’s no more bloody room! It’ll have t’ go somewhere else.”

  “It can’t. You’ll simply have to find a way to make it fit. I don’t want to hear anymore, I don’t care. We’re expecting ambassadors from the Thirteen Realms, there hasn’t been a conclave like this in recorded memory, His Majesty wants it done right. Our responsibility, our job, and there’s the end to it.”

  “Damn bloody daft is what I call it!”

  “Fine. You go tell him. I’ll send condolences to your next of kin.”

  “A poxy curse—”

  “Don’t say that!” The steward’s cry topped every other voice in earshot, bouncing off walls and ceiling as the hall fell suddenly, eerily still. The man himself looked a bit abashed, as though he hadn’t suspected he could make such a noise. “For mercy’s sake,” he continued, more quietly but with not a whit less passion. His voice was actually shaking, and as the import of his words sank home, the other man’s face turned ashen.

  “This goes for you all,” the steward said, addressing everyone present. “Words have meaning. Curses have power, especially when there are those present who might, on a whim, choose to indulge them. I beg you, these next few days, with all the thirteen realms here present, be careful. In what you say, in what you think!”

  “Be a blessing when this circus finally closes,” came from nearby in the crowd. Thorn couldn’t quite see from where, or who was speaking.

  “We should live so long,” grumbled a brownie. Only later did Thorn realize that hadn’t been meant as a gibe.

  He threaded his way through one of the right-hand arches to find himself in a kitchen, the likes of which he’d never seen. It stretched the whole width of this wing of the palace, a phalanx of stone hearths, each with its attendant chopping blocks and preparation tables. Between the arches opposite, set against their pillared supports, were equally impressive sinks, fed by pipes that ran down the walls from the ceiling to provide both hot and cold running water. There were racks for pots and pans, others for cutlery, others still for the makings of the feast. In one corner, the carcass of a cow was being swiftly and efficiently reduced to its component cuts, while another was occupied by a crowd of children—barely in their teens—plucking all manner of fowl. Beyond another portal was another chamber, impressive in its own right, devoted to nothing but the cleaning of all the implements. There was constant movement between the two, as scullery lads rushed implements out to be washed and returned them cleaned to where they were needed.

  At first glance, the chaos without seemed replicated in full measure within, but a second look gave the lie to that impression. Thorn felt as though he was watching some tremendous human machine; there was a purpose to every action, whether it was turning a haunch of meat on a rotisserie spit or checking off the raw ingredients for tonight’s feast of welcome. The staff moved with the precision of a drill team; separate tables had distinct responsibilities, as did each person working at the tables, a different section of the room for every dish and every course. One handled soup, another fowl, three varieties of meat (domestic red meat, wild red meat, domestic white), two of fish (fin and shell), salads and vegetables in abundance, plus all the attendant sauces and dressings and garnishes. The air was rich with heady scents of basil and coriander, pepper and hickory, cinnamon and chocolate. Plus appetizers and desserts and from yet another whole separate chamber, crate after crate of wine. Meats were being roasted and broiled, grilled and sautéed, fowls emerged from the oven with dark, crackling skin, while long copper pans filled with wine and fragrant herbs were set on the hob to poach fish. At the head of the room, on a long trestle table, were facsimiles of each of the planned dishes for the banquet, so the staff would have a template for their presentation, and the senior chefs—and ultimately Cook herself—an ideal to measure the actual servings against.

  Thorn had never seen such a tumult and part of him yearned desperately for a seat at the tables upstairs, to taste even a portion of this feast. He was so enrapt by the sights and sounds and smells of the kitchen, he quite forgot that he was an intruder. In the hall he was one lost soul among a multitude; nobody noticed him because nobody truly knew what the hell was going on or who should be doing what. Here, because of his ignorance, he stood out.

  And was as quickly marked for it.

  “What’s this, then?” challenged a female voice, and he yipped as fingers pinched his ear tighter than any vise.

  “Sorry, miss,” he gabbled. “Meant no harm, miss. Just trying to help, I was.”

  “Who’s your master?” She started to frog-march him back toward the hall.

  “Minh!” A call from the far end of the kitchen. “What’s the problem?” An even more formidable woman, starched skirts hardly wilted in the ferocious heat, sleeves properly buttoned, bodice laced, hair wound into a crown as respectable as it was convenient. She wore a full apron that covered her from collarbone to ankle, and as she approached—with free-ranging and commanding strides that would do a warrior proud—she patted excess flour off her hands. The apron strings were wound round her back, tied in front, and a pair of dish towels were tucked through them; she used one to wipe her hands clean.

  “No problem, Cook,” was the reply, emphasized by another sharp tug on Thorn’s ear. “Just disposing of someone who was where he ought not be.”

  “Reasonably dressed, reasonably clean,” Cook noted, and Thorn wondered what vision his Cloak was presenting to her. Ideally, what she wanted most to see. “He’ll do.”

  “Beg pardon,” from Thorn and Minh together.

  “It’s late.” Cook was already striding away. “Bring him.” Which Minh did, more enthusiastically than before. “We’re so backed up and shorthanded down here, the entire day’s schedule’s a lost cause. Bad enough His Majesty has to wait on supper, we’ve just had another complaint from Herself.”

  “Blessed fates have mercy.”

  “Precisely. But I won’t hold my breath.”

  “Beg pardon?” Thorn tried to interject.

  “Cart’s there,” Cook said to him, the best he was going to get by way of reply or explanation. Even as she spoke he realized her mind had leaped ahead to the next crisis and the one beyond. She wasn’t interested in anything he had to say or do save carry out her commands.

  “Through that door,” she continued, with a point in the appropriate direction. “Down the hall, up the lift. Apologies for this being a cold sup. If she lays hand on you, youngster, I’ll make it good.”

  She thought he was a boy, another of the ubiquitous serving pages. Good. Chances were she wouldn’t n
otice him missing till she took a second look toward her precious cart. Given the natural pandemonium of the kitchen, heaven knew when that would be.

  “Who’s it for?” he asked.

  “The Sacred Princess Elora, of course.”

  The cart was a struggle. It stood as tall as he did and weighed far more, with three trays laden near to overflowing. Food for a family, but a table setting for one. A glance told him the quality of workmanship of the service, a touch its provenance; each piece was unique, individually forged and shaped and painted. Nothing was used twice, not for a meal, not for a day.

  Torchères at intervals lit the passage, set in polished sconces that spread their light around to eliminate any hint of shadow. It was a fair walk; new construction as well, the tower clearly the most recent addition to the palace. The flagstone beneath his feet had been intentionally sanded smooth, the seams filled in so that the floor formed one smooth plain from start to finish, and the trolley wheels oiled so that they rolled with neither squeak nor stutter. Likewise, every element of the load had been carefully packed and padded. Made sense. The china was so fine, the crystal so delicate, a harsh look might shatter it. Thorn allowed himself a small smile, realizing that in all likelihood the King himself probably didn’t eat off such plate. Then he thought of the serviceable pewter that he was used to, and his smile broadened to a proper grin.

  He emerged into a modest antechamber, bare of furnishings, brick all around, with only one other door, big enough for a Daikini standing tall, obligingly open. There were vent holes high up in the curved, cathedral ceiling, too small for him (though not for the brownies) and well out of his reach. No other exits, no openings of any kind.

  He stepped through the other doorway, because that was clearly what was expected of him.

  The entire room began to rise.

  “A lift,” he murmured delightedly, once he’d put aside his initial startlement. “Brilliant.”

  “So glad you think so,” groused Franjean.

  “She lives in a tower, my friend. I was wondering how we were supposed to carry this load up to her.”

  He fished in his pouch for a comb, took a few swipes through his tangled russet hair to restore some small semblance of order, then quickly gathered it together behind his head in a thick plait. Brush went away, back into the pouch, replaced by a tooled silver pin, which he quickly fastened into place. Unfortunately, the clothes he could do nothing about; in that regard, Elora Danan would have to take him as he was.

  “Heaven forfend,” Franjean again, “the ‘Sacred Princess’ might deign to come down.”

  “Must be steps, though,” offered Rool, “something to use in case this breaks.”

  “Probably another lift as well,” Thorn agreed. “That offers direct access to the palace. For Elora herself. One for Royals, one for staff.”

  “Pretty damn tall, this place.” Rool again. “We’ve been climbing at a fair decent pace and we haven’t yet arrived.”

  Thorn was about to answer when he was slapped hard by a wave of bitter chill. Not the cold of wind and weather; years walking the wildlands, plus the judicious application of his powers, had inured him to those extremes. This struck beyond the flesh, a breath of foulness to coat his soul in rime ice.

  He laid hand flat against the wall, but sensed nothing untoward. They were still rising, and with every moment the sensation grew more distant.

  “Bugger this,” growled Rool. “Franjean’s right, Drumheller. I say we go, and quickly.”

  The brownies stood back-to-back, weapons in hand, as they had in the cell.

  “It’s not any Demon,” he told them, belatedly noting he’d drawn a blade of his own.

  “A rookery,” he said. He returned his knife to its sheath, then cast propriety to the winds and poured a goblet of water from Elora’s decanter. It was flavored with lemon, which managed to make it taste both tart and sweet. He took a hearty swallow, passed it on to the brownies, then spoke aloud what all three of them knew. “Night Herons.”

  “Hellsteeth,” hissed Rool.

  “Demons in the catacombs,” was Franjean’s contribution, “Night Herons in the tower, a wonderful home the Sacred Princess has made for herself.”

  “She’s not yet thirteen, Franjean,” Thorn snapped, “and considering what happened to her first home, it’s not as if she had much choice in the matter.” Or, he couldn’t help adding, with a sudden, bitter, wholly unexpected rage that shook him to his core, more so than had the encounter with the herons, friends to stand by her during those awful times. One, in particular.

  I had grief enough of my own, he told himself. Explanation perhaps, but no longer acceptable as an excuse. She was better off without me.

  So he’d believed, all these years. Now he wasn’t so sure.

  Herons were for the air what Death Dogs were on foot. The appearance of something living wrapped around a core of rot. They possessed a dark majesty, sable with scarlet accents, so that when they stooped to the attack—with a speed and ferocity that put the eagles’ to shame—it was as though a spear of blood was plunging from the sky. Far worse, though, was the inescapable sense of intelligence made evident by every move and manner. Hounds served because they were born to the role, herons because they chose to. It…amused them. When they killed, it was as much for pleasure as need. And while they consumed the flesh of their victims, often while the prey still lived, it was the sheer terror of those moments, the agony both physical and emotional, that gave them true sustenance. Beneath the glittering facade, bursting with pride and wealth, Angwyn had a rotten core.

  The lift stopped. A door was opened.

  The view was intended to take the breath away. He’d seen better and, at the moment, had more important concerns, brushing past the waiting servants and crossing to the balcony. Peering over the edge told him nothing. The top of the tower belled outward from the stalk, as though a plate were balanced atop a stick, with a diameter so wide it cut off his line of sight to the stretch immediately below, where he was sure the rookery lay. Probably nothing to see anyway, since herons, true to their name, were nocturnal.

  “What is happening here?” he breathed. Death Dogs, Maizan, Night Herons—he found, to his surprise, that he didn’t include the reputed Demon of the dungeon in this litany; whatever malevolence it represented, he suspected it had faded long before Daikini even came to this place, much less founded the current dynasty. The others, though, they were fresh and hungry forces, predators all, and he knew without needing proof that their presence in Angwyn—especially on the eve of Elora’s Ascension—was no coincidence.

  “The King should know of this,” he continued, and felt his face go still as he considered the implications. “But he does, and doesn’t care. But what about all the embassies? There are those among the Domains for whom the mere presence of a Heron is anathema, why haven’t they reacted? And the Maizan as well. If the taint of Shadow on them is plain to me, why not to anyone else?” The memory of Tir Asleen touched him, and all the great powers assembled there a dozen years ago, not one of whom could sense what was coming.

  He heard footsteps.

  Last time he’d seen her, she’d barely learned to walk, yet these were as recognizable as his own. She’d smelled like a baby, too, mostly sour milk. Yet a single breath, the ghost of a scent as she approached stirred the air between them, and he knew it was her. He heard the clack of her heels on the tilework, the shush-swish of her clothes.

  He didn’t know what to say, even less what to do; he had nowhere to run.

  And so, he turned. He couldn’t help the shy and hopeful smile, or the words that popped out of his mouth.

  “Elora Danan,” he said.

  “You call this food.” She sneered. She had a plate from the trolley. “You call this a decent meal!”

  Then she threw it at him.

  The brownies had better reflexes. They ducked, he didn’t, partly because
he couldn’t believe what was happening. Fortunately, the plate only held cold meats, so there wasn’t much of a mess.

  Elora wasted no time rectifying that situation. She’d hauled the trolley after her and immediately grabbed for the condiment jars. He slapped aside some relish, wincing at the crash of crystal on stone; part of an artisan’s life and soul had gone into the creation of that vessel, it deserved a better fate.

  Of course, by then, he was decorated with a fair-sized helping of mustard. She had a good arm, matching strength with surprisingly precise accuracy, and he couldn’t help the thought that she showed the skill of long practice, and realized at the same time that this explained the comparative absence of the servants he’d seen when he first emerged from the lift. This was his first brush with what for them must be a far more regular occurrence.

  The brownies took full advantage of the situation to make some mischief. He caught both Rool and Franjean out of the corner of each eye, gleefully heaving goo back the way it came, placing Elora in a sudden, unexpectedly fierce cross fire that set her back on her heels in confusion.

  Thorn gratefully made a break for cover, only to discover that the impromptu food fight had made the floor murderously treacherous. He uttered a gooselike squawk as first feet went flying and then the rest of him, depositing him with a thump right beside the cart. Elora responded by upending a silver tureen of cold soup over his head. He had a moment to appreciate the taste—which was delicious—before she dropped the bowl itself on top of him.