The Night Holds the Moon

by Roberts, Parke; Thompson, Colleen

  "Tarrg's left ball the saddle! I'll get up myself."

  "Wait." He grabbed the halter rope of his own gelding. "I will give you your leg up, but you must wait for me or your father will have both our heads."

  But she did not wait, and within a heartbeat, Castandra and the grey mare were swallowed up by the mist as completely as if they had never existed at all.

  o0o

  The mare plunged through the cold fog, fighting for her head. Slick with condensation, the reins slithered through Castandra's hands. Lost in the swirling grey, each alone except for the other, fear conducted like a current between horse and rider. Nothing escaped the clammy blanket of moisture; it smothered sight; it smothered reason; it smothered the frantic tattoo of hoofbeats and the hoarse call of a slender throat. When the shadowy figure rose up before them, Tempest could take no more. The mare twisted away from the apparition, wrenching her body so awkwardly she fell to her knees. Squealing with terror, the grey lurched to all fours and bucked away, riderless.

  Chapter Fourteen

  All will learn death's name.

  Peasant,

  Prince,

  Must cede its reign.

  All flesh will bear its stain.

  Dust and

  Ash

  Removed from pain.

  --funeral dirge of Lhant

  As if for burial, the field lay still and silent beneath a shroud of grey. As he had each morning, Superior Gage walked the perimeter of the guarded field with Count Val Torska. They moved too quiet in the silver fog, too aware of the strangeness of this seventh day, of Saire without its Flute. After today, what would happen? But neither man spoke of it, not now, not in the eerie predawn grey.

  One of the guards gave away his nervousness by starting at a bird's call. It cooed from its roost in a nearby, hazy tree, and its soft voice awakened all its fellows. The other guard, Jenir, approached the birds, anxious to assign himself a task, however small.

  "By all the gods!" he half-whispered, and his exclamation brought the other men at once.

  The dew-damp tree was host to many doves, each bird pale as starlight. As the men stood looking, more doves drew themselves apart from the mist to perch upon the tree's barren branches.

  "Elzin's doves?" asked Gage.

  "Listen." Beyond, the strains of a sweeter, richer song struggled to be heard above the cooing of the birds.

  "Yes," said the superior. He stepped farther from the tree, eager to separate the faint, pure notes from the other sounds. "Where does it come from?"

  Standing still, they listened. Directionless, mysterious, the song played very far away, yet somehow all around them. They strained their ears for more, but the music ended, leaving only the cooing of the doves in the uneasy, swirling mist.

  Still four men stood like statues, afraid to break the spell. The sun rose now; droplets of fog caught its feeble rays like the crystals of Fethzann's saddle. The doves cooed, loudly, incessantly, drowning out all other sound. The sun rose higher. They waited, breathless, certain that there must be more.

  Caldan was first to see. Black and black and black, three shapes against the shining mist; two smaller flanked a greater.

  Val Torska took one step forward, then another. Shagril stared at the count, mystified by his strange expression.

  "Break ward," the lord said softly. "Break ward, and come."

  The two smaller shapes abandoned the third to hurtle toward them, and suddenly Shagril recognized them for what they were, the count's twin coursers. They fairly flew the distance between themselves and their master, who knelt to meet them. Though soundless as shadows, their bodies were eloquent, and they nearly bowled the slender noble over in their exuberance.

  No doubt now who the other must be. Awestruck and hesitant, the three elite approached her in a cluster as she continued to walk slowly toward them. Through them. For she did not appear to see them, and not knowing what else to do, they parted before her and followed after.

  Step by measured step, on an unseen path as straight as sunlight, the Saire continued, and when she stopped it was beside the count. Awareness slowly wrote its way across her blank expression; she smiled down at him where he knelt beside his dogs. She had struggled back to see this, to see him, and through it all the hounds had led her. Time and time again they returned for her, drew her on when she thought that her will must surely fail, that she would never see Caldan again, and that the terrible mist would claim her at last.

  "They would not break their ward," she told him hoarsely.

  Caldan looked up at her with gratitude and wonder, and she reached out to put a finger over his lips. Because there was no need for words between them. Because she wanted to touch him, to know that he was real. And as she reached out, the black reached in, and she collapsed like a deer under a hunter's arrow.

  Her action galvanized them all. One of the guard swung aboard his horse and raced away to tell the prince. The rest pressed in closer, shouting questions. But it was Val Torska who caught her neatly.

  "Gods!" he exclaimed. "She is as cold as ice! Someone ride for the inn; have them heat water. She must be warmed--quickly!" Jenir took the other horse and dashed away.

  As the councilor carried the Saire to the inn, Shagril removed his cloak. He tucked it about Elzin, and where his hand brushed her, he felt the chill radiating from her skin, even through the dense fabric of her robe.

  The count guessed his unspoken thoughts.

  "She lives," he assured the Superior. "And see how she grips the Flute. The rest of her feels as boneless as a jellyfish."

  Halfway to the inn, Prince Heratinn joined them, book open as he scratched away furiously, pausing only to ask questions or to dip his pen into the bottle of ink that his manservant dutifully held out for him.

  The innkeeper had already set large pots of water to boil in anticipation of breakfast, and these were quickly sacrificed to heat a bath for the Saire. By the time the councilor crossed the threshold, a tub in Elzin's room was filled and yet more pots depended from every hook and grate to heat more water. While Miska and Tacha warded the door, Olkor himself guarded the tub. 'No more than warm,' he had commanded, so grimly not even the elite dared to argue. When the three shut the door of the Saire's room after their master and Kezwann, even the young twins wore looks so stern they dissuaded all others from entering.

  The scorched and blackened Saireflute finally slipped from Elzin's fingers and clattered to the floor. Where Elzin's hand had gripped was left a stark and glittering band. Both count and handmaid stepped prudently around the instrument.

  While Val Torska supported the Saire, Kezwann removed her robe so that they could immerse her. The water turned Elzin's white shift translucent; it clung to each fold and curve like a second skin. The highlander pretended not to notice, concentrating instead on massaging the Saire's cool limbs.

  By degrees, her lips lost their blue tinge, and her ashen skin turned rosy. She slitted her eyes like a lounging cat.

  "Oh, Caldan," she purred throatily. "How delicious!"

  Kezwann could not contain a little laugh. "Oh, forgive me, My Lord. I can see she is delirious--" When she noticed Elzin's was not the only face to gain more color, the handmaid laughed harder. "My Lord, my apologies--"

  "No apologies, Kezwann. It pleases me to hear laughter. We have had little cause for any this week passed." He chucked Elzin under the chin. "As for you, Great Lady, I believe that you are no more delirious than I. Have mercy on an old man and stop this mischief at once."

  She closed her eyes once more. "Why? I'm having the time of my life."

  "Saire Elzin, it occurs to me that you are ever having the time of your life."

  "We might all do well to take a lesson from her," Kezwann declared.

  "Well, I know someone that surely would," said the blonde. "A little to the left, Count Val Torska." Elzin clumsily shifted her body in the water; suddenly, violently, the shivering began. "What's ha-happening to me?" she asked through chattering teet
h. "S-so c-cold!"

  "Your body recovers. You grow warmer."

  "I d-don't feel warmer."

  "Patience. All things have stages."

  Much subdued, Elzin allowed the two to continue their ministrations in silence. When, at last, her trembling subsided, Caldan asked her softly. "Great Lady, do you know a week has passed since the fire of your last Playing? Where did you go?"

  "I… I was…" Elzin turned her head away, circling herself with her arms. Slowly, slowly, she rocked back and forth, as cold tears splashed like rain and were lost in the waves she had made in her own private sea.

  "No," she moaned at last. "No, I can't… it won't… I can't tell you. Never ask me that again!" She balled her hands into fists, pressing them to her temples as if to force out whatever image caused her so much anguish. "No!" she wailed. "Please, Caldan, no! Never ask me again!"

  "Shhh. No, never again. I swear it." He lifted her from the bath and she clung to him, sobbing, as he carried her to bed.

  "Kezwann, you must undress the Great Lady. See to it she is dried, then to bed with both of you. Press close beside her beneath the covers. Your body heat will warm her."

  "Yes, My Lord," she said, bending to fumble with the laces of her shoes. Eight black paws crossed her field of vision, close behind the councilor's boots. She straightened, then covered her mouth in fear.

  "Telriss preserve me!"

  Caldan turned.

  "They were dead," she said behind one hand, pointing with the other at the coursers. "They were dead! I saw them!"

  He caressed both glossy heads behind the ears, his expression unfathomable. "They returned with the Saire," he told her simply, and then he and the hounds were gone.

  o0o

  On tiptoe, skirts lifted, Castandra negotiated the underbrush surrounding the edge of the field, muttering curses about tender, bare feet and the sharp thorns and hard sticks that attracted them. With barely half the distance covered, even her immense cache of Tavari's profanities had already been repeated to monotony. No matter. Castandra began to coin her own.

  Omen and Talisman canted their elegant heads, to this side, then that, as if to they wondered why she did not spare her feet and simply cross the field. Embarrassed to be caught unhorsed, Castandra cursed the blinding fog that might have hidden her, but which had instead dissolved like breath on a looking glass the moment Elzin had slumped into her father's arms.

  Elzin. It was the Saire she had to thank for frightening her horse and leaving her sprawled on the forest floor. The Flute's return had surely saved the entire company from a horrible fate, but why did she have to return with it?

  Gods! The way that Elzin had gazed at her father. But far, far worse, the way that he had looked at her.

  Her sire had toyed with the Queen's affections for some time, but Castandra never feared that he might feel anything other than revulsion for the regent, or that he would ever touch her. He used Hulgmal, nothing more. Castandra had supposed the same for Elzin, until her argument with the Saire some weeks before.

  Yet, how could he possibly care for the creature--a lowlander who doubtless could not name her own grandparents, much less the sire of the child she now bore. Her father would be amok if he took her. Could he be willing to risk death for the likes of that?

  Worse still, while the nightwender needed more than suspicion to act, the Queen knew no such restrictions. When Her Majesty heard about Elzin and her sire--and she would, the Saire would see to that with her antics--the Queen's outrage might well exceed her gratitude for the Flute's return.

  Castandra heard Olkor before she spotted him, riding the way that she had come and leading her mare. The sorceress waved him down. As he jogged his horse to meet her, she pulled at the twigs and dead leaves caught up in her long, long braid.

  He helped her aboard her still unsaddled mare. Castandra sighed down at his grim expression.

  "I suppose you will have to tell him."

  "Mistress, I tell your father everything. You should, too. Would you have him ride the dark horse blindfolded?"

  "I wish," she replied, "we were both home, and to the lowlander’s underworld with their Queens and their Saires and the need for dark horses."

  o0o

  "Why, Shagril Gage!"

  The elite stiffened to attention. "I beg your pardon, Great Lady. It will not happen again."

  Elzin grinned to herself and then to Kezwann. "I think I'd like you better if it did. Even Saires need hugging now and then. Besides, I never realized before how well black sets off the color scarlet. Maybe I'll have a dress made."

  Superior Gage fumbled for the doorlatch and his dignity. "I have duties to attend, Saire Elzin; if you will excuse me."

  She guffawed as he bowed his way out. "I should go away more often, Kezwann. That's the most pleasant time I've had with him ever. Now, about… breakfast? Lunch? Dinner? Bother the hour, let's make it all three--I'm starving! That little bit of broth wouldn't have nourished a sparrow."

  "By the hallowed amber moon, Great Lady! After all you have been through this day, you're still wild as a colt in the corn. Look, the sun's barely set--dinner will be on or just over. Shall I bring something to you?"

  "No, I'd like to get out of here. Who knows? Perhaps other tall men in black will be passing out hugs in the common room. How's my hair? Curse this ratty place! It should at least have polished tin! How can I tell if my hair's right?"

  Stomach won out over curls, and Elzin toyed with her spoon at the common room's largest table and watched the elite surreptitiously. New faces, some of them--where had they come from? She would have to remember she had been gone a week. The guards spoke softly over their forgotten meals; not a few of them stared at her in open awe.

  The innkeeper bent low over his ample belly as he diffidently pushed each dish before her. Experimentally, Elzin rewarded him with the barest nod of acknowledgement, as she had seen the count's daughter do. The innkeeper trembled with pleasure, and the Saire could scarcely conceal her delight. Let that snotty sorceress find fault with her now!

  The fare was simple, but her hunger seasoned each dish to a delicacy. So great was her appetite that she did not notice Prince Heratinn's arrival until she reached for the rough square of cloth that served as her napkin. Mouth still full, she tried to rise, startled to find him here, before her, and not still at the castle with his books.

  "Please sit, Saire Elzin," he told her. "I am sorry to disturb you at your meal."

  Elzin swallowed hastily and surveyed the remnants of her feast. "Gods, it looks like I've eaten enough to feed the Queen." She clapped both hands to her unruly mouth. "Oh! Oh, but Your Highness, I didn't mean--"

  Heratinn was swift to reassure her. "Do not suppose I grew up within the castle walls without ever hearing such a thing."

  "That's no excuse," the Saire chastised herself. "Oh, sometimes I think it would be better all 'round if I just hired a tailor to sew my mouth shut."

  "I would be very disappointed if you did, since I rode all the way from Castle Sheldwinn just to interview you."

  "Me?"

  "Well, yes. You're quite a different Saire from any other the Flute has chosen." He seated himself tentatively on the opposite side of the table and opened his journal. "If you're not too tired, would you be willing to answer a few questions?"

  "You make me sound so important, how could I refuse?" Chin between her fists, one of which still clutched the makeshift napkin, she grinned up at him expectantly. "Ask away!"

  Despite her enthusiasm, Heratinn hesitated. Count Val Torska had cautioned him against questioning the Saire about her disappearance. Still, now that Elzin felt better, if he handled this correctly… There were so many questions which only the Saire herself could answer.

  He cleared his throat self-consciously. "Great Lady, people often fail to comprehend the incalculable value of history. It's more than tradition, or lists of dates and the names of heroes. Put very simply, the past, if known, can be used to chart the future--
to make it better. That is why events must be chronicled with care, accurately, and as quickly after they transpire as may be."

  "Umm-hmm…" Elzin's hands now supported her head in earnest, and her eyelids drooped. Heratinn spoke faster.

  "You see, time dulls and distorts memories--that is why I try to be where history takes place. So that I can record it before it is changed in the minds of those who make it."

  Elzin gamely tried to stifle a yawn. “It has been a long day."

  "I'll try to be as brief as possible. As I was saying, sometimes people don't understand that they have made history, or they don't understand how important history is."

  Elzin yawned again. "I'm sorry. You were going to ask some questions. About me."

  "Yes. Great Lady, I have been asked to refrain, but, with something so important at stake, I'm afraid I must ask you… certain things."

  "Oh." Elzin drew her elbows slowly off the table. The napkin found its way into both hands; she wrung it like a washrag. "Certain," she repeated weakly, "certain things…?"

  "Please, Great Lady, I sympathize with how distressing this subject must be, but you must understand--"

  "No."

  "--how important--"

  She whimpered and rose; all his carefully thought-out questions and justifications flew from his mind like a covey of startled quail. "Wait!" he blurted. "Please, I have to know. How did you come back?"

  To his surprise, she did wait, although she clutched her shoulders so tightly he thought she must bruise them. "The dogs…" she moaned at last. Her hands groped upward, "… his dogs…", found her head. "They…" She ground both palms into her temples, as if to squeeze out something, perhaps the tears that welled at the corners of her eyes. "I can't feel!" she wailed. Heratinn's chair clattered to the floor as he stepped around the table, but her guard moved more swiftly and the Saire was whisked from his sight, leaving the makeshift napkin to flutter, an abandoned flag of surrender, at his feet.

  o0o

  "They are as they have always been."