"Cho-ath!" exclaimed Isva, as her sibling giggled herself into hiccoughs, "Boneless as a worm. You focus better than anybody." She got up herself, then pulled her sister to her feet. "Come on, we'd better run."
"Wait! Touch!"
"Lisha . . ." Still, Isva hoisted her sister to the level of Elzin's chin. Lisha's eyes sidled away shyly as she reached out to pat Elzin's hair.
"Like the moon," the child crooned softly.
"You'll get both our moons swatted if you don't hurry."
They raced off after the others, Lisha giggling breathlessly as her sister pulled her along behind.
Watching them go, Elzin slipped the bracelet the children had given her over her right hand. Against her bare wrist, the polished wood glowed like claret in clear glass.
"Mastwood," said Shagril.
"Were you a sailor once, Superior Gage?"
"No, Great Lady. I recognize the wood from the great altar in Shador's temple."
"It's so pretty. The wood, I mean. It's holy, isn't it, to Shador? Don't they burn little ships--?"
"Great Lady, with all due respect, I think the mysteries of men--"
"May I?" Heratinn interrupted.
"I guess so." Elzin frowned at her elite and slipped the circlet from her wrist.
"Difficult to believe how much such a simple thing has shaped our island's history."
"That must be some bracelet," said the Saire with a smirk.
"I mean mastwood."
"Oh, you don't mean to tell me that all those things they say about it are true. That it's magic, that the ocean parts to let it pass, and that ships made out of it are unsinkable?"
"Nothing quite that supernatural," said the prince, "although since salt water won't saturate it and barnacles won't cling to it, I can guess how such stories came about. And while cases are documented of mastwood hulls thrown upon the rocks to rebound without a leak, no ship has been proven indestructible."
"But the mastwood tree grows only on Lhant," said Elzin as if by rote, "for only Lhant is favored by Shador. That is why we rule the seas. And that's why you say the wood 'has shaped our island's history'--right?"
"The tree," corrected Heratinn as he returned her bracelet, "grows only in Tarska. And it has been the cause of far more than our preeminence at sea."
"Oh, no--no more tales of that moldy, old war, please. To hear you and Caldan one would think that the thing took place just last week. You could probably tell me the name of the eldest son of King Sheldwinn's dog boy, but do you remember the name of the first girl you kissed?"
"That's hardly an event of historical significance."
"For you or for her?" Elzin grinned as he flushed. "Practice makes perfect, Prince Heratinn. If you get your nose out of the past long enough, you just might find that the present can be pretty exciting."
Chuckling to herself, she walked away, fingers stroking the satiny surface of the mastwood circlet. She lifted the band to her cheek and a fragrance, very faint, reached up like a ghostly hand to caress her senses.
Oh, but the touch of it was warm. Warm as the blood of a lover's heart, and sweeter than any spices.
o0o
"Come, all of you."
Heratinn thought he recognized the speaker as Vitask, although he did so mainly by the saddlepacks still slung over one broad shoulder. "We will sit and talk while food and your tents are prepared."
There were no benches or tables. Many had already gathered in a circle, where they sat upon thin leather pillows. A man with his hair drawn back in a single, long horse's tail pressed a cushion into Heratinn's hands. "Sit in what ever place pleases you," he invited.
"What ever place pleases you, Your Highness," Twentysails instructed coolly.
The prince trod on the elite superior's left toe. "Not now, Petril."
The man with the horse's tail regarded them blandly and offered a cushion to Twentysails as well.
Heratinn chose a spot at a right angle from the Saire and set a bottle of ink beside his knee. "I'd hate to think I rode all the way into Tarska and came away able to describe nothing but my elite's backs," he said irritably.
"Your Highness's safety--," his superior countered.
"And I want those hands off the hilts of your blades. By Shador, Petril, it's a wonder they don't attack us for the insult."
"But, Your Highness--"
"Superior Twentysails."
"Yes, Your Highness."
Heratinn's pen scratched away uninterrupted. The Tarskans seemed to have a hundred questions for the Saire and not one for their prince. He was relieved, and yet surprised. Caldan had always pleaded so eloquently, if unsuccessfully, against the ever-greater taxes the council placed upon his people. And he could now see why. The highlanders appeared to possess almost nothing. Throughout the rest of Lhant, even the most impoverished bondsman had his cot and a small square of his liege-lord's land on which to grow staples. These people had nothing more than the tanned hides of their tents between them and the harsh mountain winter.
So, he had expected the Tarskans--quite understandably--to appeal to him to speak on their behalf. But they asked nothing. In fact, with the exception of the offer of the cushions and a place to sit, the highlanders ignored him and the elite completely.
It was the Saire who held their undivided attention, as she regaled them with tales of her journey and Playings. He wondered at their preoccupation with her, and then realized, of course--of all those who had come, whose power would they most respect? The elite? No, they had met elite before, more than these, and left not one breathing. Their prince, then? Hardly. The Tarskans had killed a king, once; the youngest son of their Queen would not give them pause. But the Saire, the woman who held the power that eight centuries before had snatched from them certain victory and changed it to utter defeat--of course they were fascinated with her. For eight hundred years, her power had held them subdued.
Or, perhaps, only at bay.
o0o
"A peacock would be ashamed to preen as much as she does," grumbled Castandra to her hounds. Her angry strides carried her quickly to the edge of the camp, where she never-minded her skirts and nimbly climbed up to curl in the low crotch of a tree. She had come to fume alone, but alone she was not, for below, balanced on a narrow rock, perched another young woman, with hair so close-cropped it barely met the curve of her long, thin neck. From the soles of her feet to the angle of her jaw, the woman's taut body was molded in doeskin the shade of a moonless night. It left no doubt as to what she was. Or rather, what she had become.
Augment. Castandra shivered. She knows the night.
Something--her posture, perhaps, or the sharp, aggressive thrust of the chin--struck a chord of memory. Another moment's closer study, and Castandra realized with dismay that her memory was true.
"Tavari?"
The woman's head shot up and swiveled to pinpoint the direction of her voice. She opened her eyes, and a smile broke out on the sharp angles of her narrow face.
"Casti!" She stood and held out her arms. The sorceress dropped from her bough and ran to take the augment's hands, squeezing them tightly as she peered into her face, into eyes gone black and void and darker than the deepest empty well.
"Oh, Tavari… what have you done?"
"Oh my, Casti," she answered primly in Kyr, "gone so long you've forgotten?"
"Nightwender…" Dayblind.
But she must have spoken her thoughts aloud, for Tavari thrust out one narrow hip and canted her head to one side.
"Fish-feathers! I can't see much in this cursed sun, that's all." She displayed even white teeth in a predatory grin, "But the night, Casti--the night is mine!"
"The back of your father's hand will be yours," the countess retorted, also slipping into Kyr.
"My father would not dare to strike me. I am none of his now, only Ymarr's to correct or to not."
"What if they see you?"
"Oh, Tarrg's tits, like lowlanders might look that closely. You know they have
eyes only for mastwood or gold." She tugged on Castandra's sleeve. "And spare me that bitterroot glare, it frosts my fine doeskin. Hah! But what's this?" She rubbed the material of Castandra's sleeve between strong fingers. "Not deerskin, I'd say. Let's find some place private and dark, and I'll have a look at you."
o0o
"So, Koashahn yields his tent to the lowlanders. Hah. There is only one thing I would ever give to a lowlander," said Tavari as she untied the flap. It fell to her feet with a crack, flinging the tent into darkness. "Ah, that's better!"
The nightwender frowned, then reached up to tug at a lock of Castandra's hair. "Tarrg's left ball, girl! What happened to you? Have they invented a magical dye in the lowlands?"
"No, just the same capricious Flute."
Tavari leaned forward eagerly. "What did it do to everyone else? Turn their hair white?"
"Nothing," she replied with a shrug. "It simply returned mine to black, that was all. Tavari, the change… are you… has it made you… happy?"
"Happy? Can Tarrg stack twenty lowlanders on his prick? Always I have wanted to be this way. Oh, there were grumblings. Waste of good breeding stock, the bloodlines, and all that. Great Tarrg could fart the stars from the sky and not make so much stink."
A smile tugged at the corner of Castandra's lips. "You haven't changed much."
"You have. I'll never forgive you for growing taller than me. By the great, hairy ass of Tarrg, look at you! With your hair turned black, you must make them the perfect picture of a highland princess. And those lowland rags! You'll have frightened the game off for miles. How do you move with all that on?"
"In the lowlands all this is no problem."
"And so much more convenient when you have to take a piss," Tavari added merrily.
Castandra's cheeks flamed.
"I'll bet it makes it a lot more convenient for those lowland boys, too. Just lift, and there you are."
"Tavari!"
"Well, I didn't mean you," said the nightwender, rolling her eyes. "But, don't you worry? I've heard those lowland males are all randy as rabbits."
"The lowland women can match them for lust," replied Castandra, "though their Saire makes them all look frigid."
"Oh, ho! Not one for flute music, I see. Well, I can't do much about her, but I could show you a move or three that would fix any lowland male who might waggle his instrument at you."
"Tavari!" Castandra hissed. "What if we're overheard?"
"So? Shouldn't you know, being thrust in among all those lowland brutes? Tarrg's wolves, Casti--they'd never begrudge you a nightwender's trick! You're far too important. The Red King's daughter--"
"What nonsense is this?" Castandra lashed back. "Why do you provoke me?"
Instantly chagrined, the nightwender grabbed her arm. "No, don't go. Stand and hear me."
Tavari's training must have progressed quickly, for Castandra found she could not have moved had she wanted to.
"I provoke you because I am afraid. Each time I see you, you're more and more like them. You must not be like them, Casti. You must not forget what you are. If you do…"
"I need no nightwender's threats to remind me of what I am," said the sorceress. "Tell me what you mean by this Red King nonsense."
Tavari released her. "I was not to speak of it."
"Too late. Now finish it."
"The Dreamer says it is so."
"And what do you believe?"
The nightwender met her gaze. "As you said: nonsense. It is long past time for the Dreamer; she should go up or die. Her mind wanders to old legends and tales for children. But what I believe doesn't matter. Truth means nothing; perception is all. We're hard pressed, the lowlanders demand more from us with each meeting of the council. The elders look for a deliverer. To extend her life, the Dreamer told them what they wanted to hear."
"Does he know?"
She shook her head. "And you aren't supposed to either. They wait. To tell him, to acknowledge it formally--can you imagine the impact, Casti? The power? What we are could be damaged. They want to be sure."
Castandra sat down on a rolled sleeping mat and put her head in her hands. "What are they thinking? They are going to kill him with their expectations. He schemes constantly; he uses everyone; he takes incredible risks. They push him too far."
"Tarrg give me curly, blond locks!" exclaimed Tavari as she plopped down across from her. "Your father loves it. He uses the lowlanders. He takes what he pleases, an old wolf among silly rabbits."
The sorceress glared at her resentfully. "But he is only one, Tavari. Even a wolf may be overwhelmed if the rabbits number enough."
o0o
They stopped him as he returned from picketing the horses. Caldan knew what they would ask, the rigid lines of their bodies and their determined, stricken features spoke to him more eloquently than any ritual phrase. But they would have to speak the words, as every Kyr parent must be prepared to speak them, or to do for themselves what must be done. And for the latter, few could be so strong.
The councilor sent the rest of the guard to their charges. Yravn stared after them until his mate squeezed his hand. "Chyrask and I…" When he faltered, Chyrask spoke.
"Would you honor our daughter, Lisha?"
Simple, the words of acceptance. "Your trust honors me."
Soon after, he watched them go, still hand in hand. Once spoken, the words were best fulfilled quickly. He would come for Lisha tonight, at the hours when the lowlanders slept their deepest. The time between would be the worst; he would spare her parents the wait if he could, but the risk was too great.
The lowlanders must never know.
o0o
He arrived with the gentlest part of night, while the day beasts still slumbered and even those who lived by dark had since eaten a meal or become one, and now rested for a time or for forever.
Caldan scratched politely at the flap of the tent.
Yravn pulled it back immediately. Although most families had doubled up to provide tents for the lowlanders, Yravn and Chyrask had been left alone. Isva stayed at another's tent. Siblings sensed too much, sometimes; it was best to send them away. Lisha looked up, smiling as her mother combed her hair. Her cheeks crinkled her eyes into bright quarter-moons.
"Hai, Caldan. Mother and Father said you would come. They said you would tell me a story."
"They told you the truth," he said, and sat on his heels before her.
Lisha squirmed with anticipation. "Cho-ath! Isva will be jealous--she says that you tell the best stories! Tell me the one about the Red King and the griffin. I like that one best."
"That one may not be told here, with lowlanders about. You and I must go away from the camp, to a secret place."
Lisha clutched her mother's tunic. "Please, can I go? Caldan will watch out for me. Please?"
Chyrask squeezed her eyes shut and hugged her daughter tightly. "Yes. Yes, you may go. You must be very, very good though, and do anything that Caldan asks of you."
"I will!" She wriggled free of her mother and threw her thin arms about Caldan's neck. "I'm ready!"
He stood with her and carried her to Yravn. Her father kissed her forehead gently. "Good-bye, little one."
"Why are you sad?" she asked, suddenly troubled. "Do you want to come, too?"
He stroked her hair and, for her sake, put on his best smile. "No, this is your time and your story."
"Are you ready?" the councilor asked.
"Yes!" she said firmly, tightening her grip about his neck.
"Now, you must be very quiet while we move through the camp; the lowlanders must not awaken. Can you be a mouse?"
Lisha nodded her head solemnly, donning her most mouse-like expression, and her father blew out the lamp.
Outside the tent, the fires burning before the tents of the Saire and the prince gave the only man-made light. Although certain that the guards could see little beyond the circle of each blaze, he was careful to place the tent between himself and them. Very quietly they moved
, he and his hounds, and silent Lisha was no burden at all in his arms.
Away from the camp they climbed, following a swollen mountain stream as it grumbled and elbowed its way to the Elder. The air was moist and tangy with pine, rich with damp earth, and night had put on her finest jeweled cloak, fastened with a brooch of sickle moon. He turned from the stream, still climbing, until its voice became a low mutter, easy to speak above. He folded his cloak and sat upon it, his back to the trunk of an aged pine, and Lisha on his lap.
"The time for mice has passed; would it please you to become Lisha once more?"
Lisha wasted no time. "Is this your secret place?"
The councilor considered for a moment. "Yes, for tonight, that is so."
"Look at all the stars. Did it look like this, in the Wyrmfangs, when the Red King rode away on the griffin?"
He chuckled. "So young, for such guile." She giggled and snuggled closer. "Where shall I start?"
"Start after the fight; I hate that part."
So he told her of how the Red King, blinded by the Saireflute, on foot and alone, made his way back to Tarska so that his people would know the fate of their men. How afterward he searched for solace in the wildest part of the mountains, and of the unicorn that found him there. For Lisha, he gave the unicorn hooves of silver, eyes of blue flame and horn and coat of a white beyond snow. The merest touch of the beast's horn returned the Red King's sight, but it could not give him peace, and so he went on.
On, to where the spires of the island's tallest mountains pierced the clouds. As he journeyed through their vapor, he encountered the Mist Folk that dwelled there. They took him as a curiosity to their lord, and The Lord of the Mist Folk set him a challenge. They would each tell one tale. If the Red King told the better story, the Lord of the Mist Folk would set him free, but, if the tale of the Lord of the Mist Folk's was judged better, then the Kyr would yield the span of his mortal life. The Lord of the Mist Folk told of The Father of All Dragons, who lived in the ice caverns of the Wyrmfangs' highest peak, far, far beyond the reach of men, and who knew all things and was immortal. The Red King told them a tale of a mortal man, who led his people into a woeful battle, who had been blinded by a flute and healed by a unicorn, who was found by Mist Folk and sent on his way to seek The Father of All Dragons.
The Night Holds the Moon Page 20