The Night Holds the Moon

by Roberts, Parke; Thompson, Colleen

  If only she could be certain of what the instrument might do.

  The words! She could command the Flute! Elzin parted her lips, but the phrases she had hoarded once again slipped away. Unable to call so much as a simple dove, the blonde screwed her eyes shut and muttered a curse. A phrase blazed across her mind like a meteor. Before she forgot, she uttered it.

  "Knithem mai," said Elzin softly, and her eyes widened in horror. But she knew she could not stop. Her unwilling arms brought the Flute to her lips. She held back her breath, knowing how little she could delay the inevitable. The world swam as a blurry wash of colors through her tears, but still she found Caldan, tall and nearly all in black, waiting for her where she had left him, waiting so that she could find him, this one last time…

  The Flute compelled and she obeyed, but she played the three notes only once.

  Nothing happened. Surprised, she tentatively played on. Thank Telriss, she had not called it after all! Perhaps the words were wrong. But the Saireflute's song was low and somber. It vibrated in her bones, gone cold and heavy, and weighed on her flesh, dense as steel.

  The roar, when it came, was like thunder condensed. Where Elzin once stood rose a tower of flame. A heated blast threw the guards nearest her to the ground where they quickly crawled away.

  o0o

  Far back from the obelisk of fire, though still the closest to its dreadful heat, Caldan attempted to judge the height of the burning column. It reached into the clouds and beyond. He could see nothing within the fire and nothing when it was extinguished in a few short seconds. Both Elzin and the Flute were gone.

  While the rest of the Saire's audience waited expectantly, the count, the elite guard, and Kezwann all moved with trepidation to where the pillar of flame had stood. The earth had fused and still smoked--not so much as a melted scrap of metal remained. An elite trod gingerly down into the rectangle with a boot and quickly jumped back off. Kezwann began to cry.

  "What happened?" Gage marveled aloud.

  "I cannot say," Caldan answered. "But we must act as if nothing unusual occurred. Perhaps she will return, as she did when she became the snow lion."

  "And what," asked Superior Gage darkly, "if she does not?"

  o0o

  Castandra watched those gathered about the charred spot, satisfied to see the guard recoil from the heat. So, the glorious bauble did something useful after all. Perhaps it objected to being used on a day other than Saire, as Elzin had to call the doves. It might have discovered the Saire's bastard, or Elzin's strange words could have offended it somehow. Whatever the cause, Castandra was delighted that the hussy was gone--gone forever, she hoped. It took her several moments to realize that the Saireflute, too, had vanished. And the consequences of that wiped the smug look from her face more swiftly than her father's glance.

  The crowd murmured around her, impatient for the Saire to return and continue the performance. Her father signaled for Olkor, and the valet left her side to join him.

  Abruptly, her father's gathering broke up. Four of the Royal Elite stayed, each at a corner of the blackened rectangle. The rest began to meander back; Olkor took Kezwann's arm. When he reached her, her father took Castandra's. "Remain calm," he told her. She did, and the others did, and it seemed to work, for after only some uncertain grumblings and curious glances, the crowd, too, dispersed to home and work.

  o0o

  Back at his room, Count Val Torska composed a careful message to the Queen, describing the Saire's disappearance. He spared no detail, but he did not speculate on her fate and avoided any hint that he feared she might be dead. Using one of the homing pigeons that Her Majesty had provided, he sent the sealed note on its way by starlight. The pigeon winked out of sight as abruptly as if it had been snatched from the sky.

  What if, as Superior Gage feared, the Saire did not return? The foreign powers that had called upon the Fangs and Claws of Shiath would have their way after all. Would they actually move? Was it possible that Buktoz plotted an invasion of Lhant?

  Were it to be true, he doubted he would live to see Lhant fall to a foreign power. No, blame would have to be laid for the Saireflute's disappearance. By the time the first ships landed, the Queen would have already dispensed her brute version of justice, and he would be her most likely target. While he had no intention of dying by one of her depraved methods, neither had any of her other victims, and he did not flatter himself to think that he would be spared her sadistic attentions. If he were so careless as to fall alive into her clutches.

  Yet, he did not wish to flee. The more he debated it, the more convinced he became. Baronet Standard had been an expert in foreign affairs. Through his shipping business, the baronet had been able to place spies and gather international intelligence beyond anything that he himself might aspire to. Standard had tried to share with him that information, before Gold had interfered. If only they had met somewhere else! Leave it to Gold to already be skulking about in the dustiest vaults of the wine cellar (currying favor by finding the Queen some rare vintage, no doubt) when he’d left Dagger and Arrow behind to watch at the entrance. Only Gold’s anxious mouth breathing had alerted them. Standard and he had split up and fled. Neither of them had guessed Gold's ears to be so sharp. Had he, too, spoken there in the vaults, Caldan might have shared Standard's fate.

  Standard had been convinced that someone plotted an invasion of Lhant, although he had never gotten the chance to reveal the suspect nation. What if the baronet had been right all along? The councilor gripped the rough sill of the unshuttered window. The Kyr suffered enough under the rule of the lowlanders of their own island, how much more would they suffer under the rule of outlanders?

  Perhaps now would be the time to make his move. Perhaps it might yet be possible to restore order and to prepare Lhant, even without the Saire. And in the likelihood that it was not, better to die in the attempt.

  Elzin. How could you go, when Lhant and I need you so very much? He reached out of habit for the comfort of his hounds' soft coats and again felt the sharp bite of their absence. Their loss, and the loss of Elzin, reminded him of his own mortality--he, who should know better than most that no one was immortal.

  Such dismal thoughts! Well, if he did indeed have so little time left, all the more reason not to waste it. He sent for Superior Gage.

  o0o

  Shagril Gage, Superior of the Saire's Royal Elite Guard, hesitated before the crude pine door, pondering the cruel twist of fate that brought him to this moment. When awarded the post of commanding the Saire's bodyguard, he had felt as if nothing was beyond his grasp. Promotions, honor, perhaps, in time, the command of the Royal Elite Guard itself. And now, instead, he stared at a warped and splintered door, and savored his last few moments of freedom.

  In eight hundred years, no Saire had died but gently in her bed, within the castle walls. None, but the one whose safety had been entrusted to himself and his command. Not only the Saire had been lost; no, the Saireflute, too, was gone. He tried to imagine Lhant without its symbol of invincibility; he could not.

  The Queen would be enraged. Someone must bear the blame, and Shagril knew who that someone must be. He would return to Sheldwinn castle in chains, a scapegoat to turn the Queen's fury from the count. Such was the way of the world; those with position and power used those below to protect themselves. The best he could hope to do was to meet his fate with dignity.

  When Count Val Torska's valet opened the door for him, he was surprised to find the noble's daughter in the room as well. Their manservant excused himself, and the count barred the door firmly after him.

  "Wine?" Val Torska offered.

  Shagril looked at the bottle longingly, but shook his head. He would need all of his self-control in these next few minutes.

  "Very well. Castandra?"

  The sorceress cast her spell.

  "Sit down, please," said the count.

  "I'll stand, thank you."

  The noble studied him gravely for a moment, then se
ttled into a straight-backed wooden chair and looked up at Shagril.

  "I am certain that you know what I have called you here to discuss. The Queen will be furious if Saire and Saireflute have been lost. Someone will have to pay."

  "I understand, My Lord."

  "Good. I will send you and your command directly on to Castle Hawkshold in Tarska, using the pretext that I have had a dream of the Saire's return. We will make it very public that I gave you orders that you had no choice but to obey. If the Saireflute is destroyed, this will buy you and your men time to discern the disposition of Her Majesty. To escape, if need be.

  "I will give you a note bearing my seal. Show it to any of my people and they will see to your safety."

  Shagril stared at the noble, then groped for a chair, which he dropped into woodenly. "My safety? I don't understand."

  "Superior Gage, who did you take me for? Duke Gold? Did you sincerely believe that I would throw you to the wolves and race off like some frightened rabbit?"

  "My Lord, I don’t know what to think!"

  "Never mind; it does not matter. I have already sent a message to the Queen. After she receives it, I suspect her emissaries will leave swiftly and ride hard. When they arrive, I will be here waiting for them."

  Struggling to regain his composure, Shagril reached for a glass and the bottle of Talvni. The conception of honor was said to be as alien to the highlanders as table manners to a sow, yet this lord of Tarska disdained to do what any other "honorable" southern noble would surely have done in his position. Instead of calling for the sacrifice which might have protected himself, Val Torska was, at the cost of his own life, offering him a chance at escape. Gratitude welled up in Shagril Gage. Gratitude, and something else. Shame. Would he be the rabbit now?

  Val Torska placed a folded piece of parchment in the superior's unfeeling hand. "This is your letter of safe conduct. Show it to no one who is not Tarskan."

  Shagril stared at the precise, yet elegant, script and the seal, still warm, from the count's ring. With a sigh, he ripped the note in half. "And when they come, I, too, will be waiting for the emissaries of the Queen."

  "Shagril," Val Torska said gently, "you need to prove nothing to me. Your conduct has always been beyond reproach. Do you know what it may mean if you stay here?"

  "I do." A nightmare vision came unbidden to his mind. Baronet Standard, thrown into a cauldron of boiling oil. He remembered the scream, thankfully short. The way Standard's skin crisped and darkened; how his skull had burst with the pressure of his boiling brains. The smell, like fried pork, that had lingered in the ballroom for weeks.

  Shagril drained his glass against the awful memory. Nine days to prepare. With luck, he could save himself from being taken alive.

  "Very well," said Caldan, "there is yet still time. If you change your mind, remember there is no disgrace in what I offer."

  The elite superior carefully positioned his empty glass over the torn parchment, then stood.

  "My Lord, I will never forget what you have offered this day. There is no more honorable or courageous man in Lhant, and I would no more consider abandoning you than the world would consider leaving behind the sun."

  o0o

  After he had gone, Castandra pulled the wax from her ears. "Quite eloquent for a military man," she hinted.

  "Do not fish for answers that you should have yourself," he said.

  "What did you offer him? The wax had not softened yet; I did not hear." Her father shook his head, and she bit her lip, stalling for time. "A way out? You offered to send him away with me to Tarska," she guessed triumphantly.

  "Excellent! Not quite, but very close. No, you ride for Tarska with Olkor and the girls. Tomorrow."

  "Don't be ridiculous. 'I would no more consider abandoning you than the world would consider leaving behind the sun.'" She tossed her head and grinned.

  He frowned back. "Castandra, this is no game. The Queen will make examples of us all. The Saireflute's loss will make her uneasy; she will not spare the men she would need to send to Tarska to recover you. You will be safe there."

  "And so would you."

  "Think, girl! If I run home as well, the Queen may feel she has no choice but to act. You she can let slip through her fingers."

  "So what will you do?" Her voice cracked with frustration. "Allow her to haul you to Sheldwinn as an example? Father, she will kill you. She will do it in the most horrific way imaginable. The woman is mad."

  "Yes, she is. But, the Saireflute might yet be found."

  "Tarrg's wolves take the Saireflute! I will stay here with you."

  "You," said her father coldly, "will do as I say."

  Castandra wrung her hands in mortification. She had pressed him too far, and now he would dismiss her. "Forgive me, Father. Of course I will obey. But, please, need I go so soon? What if the Saireflute is found? I will look like a coward! And if I leave so soon after its disappearance, won't people be alarmed?"

  Val Torska permitted himself a slow, proud smile. "Such a cunning young vixen." He stood and took her hands. "We are very close to home; you may stay until the morning of Saire."

  o0o

  Jenir marked the time by naming constellations as they set: Lingfran, the Celestial Serpent; Morrelle the Goat; Shador, god of men and water; Venwinn the Bell. He tried to distract himself by recalling the tales of each. All in vain. He could not forget, not even for a moment, the rush of flame that took Saire Elzin.

  He tried to reconstruct the scene more to his liking. In the young guard's version, he always saw the fire as it approached her from the sky. He always snatched the Great Lady and pulled her from harm's way. Sometimes he died nobly in her rescue; other times, he lived to reap a rich reward. But they were all just dreams. He had been beside the Saire. There had been no time, no warning, just a sudden tower of flame where once the Saire had stood.

  Nothing could have survived that inferno. Where it touched the earth, even the soil had been burned away. He knew he waited with the others for a woman who would not return. Not ever. When Count Val Torska came just as the sky began to redden, there was nothing to report. There could be nothing.

  He had known Elzin very well, had been her lover for a while. She truly was a silly girl, and Superior Gage had been right to complain of her behavior and how difficult it made their job. But there was so much more to Elzin. She had lived with boundless enthusiasm. She experienced her pleasures with unabashed delight--food, drink, music… love, he thought with a sad smile. Her childlike exuberance was contagious; she had shown him joy without shame. Were she here, he could never bring her flowers enough to show how much that meant.

  o0o

  Prince Heratinn dismounted, stiff and tired from his long ride. He really would have to get out of the castle more often, as his mother suggested. Maybe he should take Duke Oakfellow up on his offer to teach him falconry. The prince suspected, though, that the high lord councilor's interest ran less to the hunt and more to arranging the marriage of one of his many scrawny daughters. Heratinn's older brother, Prince Stantinn, had once been approached by Oakfellow's intermediaries suggesting such a match. The Prince Royal's response was so offensive that the offer likely would not be repeated.

  Heratinn handed his manservant the reins of his mount, a steady black mare that he favored. From between the packets of mail in his saddlepacks he retrieved his journal. The rough field notes would be later transferred into proper archive form, a task that the prince looked forward to with enthusiasm. He was precise in matters of history, and the thought of this history in particular gave him great pleasure.

  Soon, perhaps within days, he would get to meet Saire Elzin. He had ridden hard to catch up with her party, but not so hard that he did not take time to investigate the places she had played. Back at the Hogshead Inn, the damage she caused as the snow lion was being carefully preserved. Flattered that His Highness had come so far to see it, the innkeeper spent hours showing him every cracked board and scratch mark. It took all
night to record the first-hand accounts of the witnesses. The stories varied wildly, but even as his hand faithfully recorded them, his mind sifted through exaggeration and embellishment to find facts, elements the same in every version. Seabold, the Royal Elite Guard injured by the snow lion, had been an especially valuable source.

  If only someone had been so eager to preserve the flowers Elzin conjured. To his credit, Val Torska had anticipated the fate of the flowers and attempted to forestall it. A contingent of guards was sent for, with locals hired in the interim to watch over the field.

  But the count had underestimated the zeal with which the blossoms would be sought. Bribed to look away as people plucked just one or two, the local watchmen soon found their pockets full and the field noticeably emptied. They fled with their families and new wealth, leaving the field unguarded.

  When at last the help Val Torska sent for arrived, three flowers were all that remained for four trained men to guard. Heratinn drew careful pictures of each bloom: one as white as ermine, one as red as blood, and one a buttery yellow-gold, like sunlight through new leaves.

  Lord Fairfield made him a gift of one of the two flowers his wife had plucked and pressed--before, the lord assured Heratinn, a ban had been placed on the picking of the blooms. Lady Fairfield laughed merrily as her husband passed over the crimson blossom in favor of presenting the Prince with the purple. Having heard of the riotous effects of the perfume, Heratinn had little trouble guessing why. Like the three remaining in the field, the dried petals held no scent, but even pressed, their rich, unbroken colors had not faded.

  And that led him to the most amazing realization of all. Long after the Flute's song had ended, something of its creation remained behind. To Heratinn this was no less remarkable than the destruction of the man who attempted to steal the instrument. Somehow, the Saireflute's power increased.

  All his life, he wished that he had lived in the days of Sheldwinn or Saire Fethzann, fascinating times that he could have chronicled so much more accurately than the biased historians of the day. Besides the sad task of recording his mother's brutal rule, for years Heratinn had written of nothing more exciting than the council's endless tampering with the nearly indecipherable calendar. All fourteen months were named for kings and queens, and each time a new monarch came to power, the months were juggled as the new ruler named a favorite after him or herself. The average citizens of Lhant, poorly educated and unable to keep up with the vagaries of their rulers, either used an outdated version or ignored the calendar entirely.