The Night Holds the Moon

by Roberts, Parke; Thompson, Colleen

  Caldan pulled her tightly to him. By all the vain and foolish gods of every nation, he did care for her, against all law and instinct. "The she-bear guards her little cub, and even the snow lion will turn away." He chuckled in her ear. "I would like that, to stay here.

  "But what will you crown me with? I will not wear the heavy crown of Sheldwinn; it would have been the final blow for Heratinn, and I have destroyed it. So, council me, Elzin. Your approval is crown enough for me, but do you think the people require a symbol?"

  Elzin nodded slowly. "Maybe not a crown, but something." She must improvise, she told herself, and her mind moved quickly to obey. "I know, Caldan. The necklace. I'll wear it to the ceremony, and then I'll give it to you."

  She took his hand in hers and stood. "Come to bed before you fall asleep right here."

  "I am so tired I could sleep on brambles, although I would not turn down a pillow, if someone were to offer one."

  Elzin smiled and took his hand again. "My pillows are the softest in all Lhant," she promised, and she began to lead him toward her bedchamber.

  He hesitated. "No, not your own bed. That would be too much to ask of you."

  "I wouldn't mind, but if you'd rather, I have soft pillows in other rooms as well." She brought him to one, a quiet place with a bed so huge it nearly filled the room and a great, thick tome lying open on the floor.

  "Sometimes I read in here," she admitted. "Heritinn finds books for me. Most of them are boring, but a few are quite romantic." She looked around the room and smiled at the richly woven gold and scarlet walls. "This seems a place for romance." She kissed him on the cheek and laid one hand on her abdomen, where she had felt her baby stir. "Perhaps another time, Caldan, when you're not so tired and I'm not so big."

  He removed his jacket and folded it neatly, laying it on the foot of the bed. "Better too tired than too old. Gods! I would hate to think that! But at least you will not be big forever; it hardly seems fair that I grow no younger." Elzin laughed and he sat on the edge of the bed and looked up at her. "Thank you, Elzin."

  She bent and kissed his forehead. "Sleep well today, Caldan."

  "And tonight, too, I am afraid. I am going to sleep like the dead."

  Something about his claim made Elzin's skin prickle. "No one will bother you," she promised.

  A few minutes later she returned--just to be certain that he was comfortable, she assured herself, conveying an armload of blankets in her defense.

  Caldan had already fallen asleep on his side, on top the covers. His boots stood side by side on the floor near his jacket, and Elzin smiled with an odd mixture of disappointment and affection to see that he slept in the rest of his clothes. He was shy, she thought. Perhaps that was why she loved him, why she was for the first time content, because in his own fashion he was so many men.

  The man who had turned Lhant on its ear slept with child-like abandon. With one outstretched arm, he pillowed his head; his other elbow was bent so that his hand lay only inches away from his chin. He was very still, even the spaces between the rise and fall of his chest were strangely long, and she found herself watching, just to be certain that he drew the next breath, and the next.

  At last, somewhat guiltily, Elzin covered the highlander with one of the blankets while his black coursers watched her from the floor, long noses over satin paws. The naked blade of Caldan's sword gleamed dully at her from its place on the bed, its hilt within easy reach. It looked old. Was this the sword that he had used to kill Brendiss? It seemed clean and unblemished; how could something perform such an awful act and remain unmarked?

  Caldan had never mentioned how he felt about the removal of the scar that he had received in that duel, so long ago that she would have been but a baby then. Men were peculiar about things like scars, they treated them like medals of bravery. Had she been wrong to take that from him? Or was he, like she, simply glad of one less reminder of the past and what he had done in it?

  How swiftly things had moved! She had only been Saire for months, and in the morning she would have already crowned two kings. Elzin, daughter of Miller Linden. What stories she would have to tell her children, and their children, and, perhaps, even their children. A lifetime of stories for this child that she carried, and for the others that would come later--Caldan's and hers.

  o0o

  Castandra opened wide the door at their knock, suspecting nothing. Nothing until she saw them, lined up behind their Superior; ten solid and sober young men, austere and attentive as a row of rooks before an empty scaffold. Bewildered, she stared at them wordlessly.

  "Your Highness, my name is Benantinn. I am captain of your Royal Elite Guard."

  "My what?" wondered the sorceress aloud. Royal Elite Guard? What was he talking about? Could Heratinn have sent them? Why?

  Your Highness?

  "Your father sent us."

  "But only the king may send--" The sorceress reeled and gripped the door with white-knuckled desperation, as a drowning sailor might clutch a bit of wreckage.

  "Yes, Your Highness," Benantinn agreed, "only the king."

  o0o

  "Where is he?" the sorceress demanded to know.

  Elzin's glow abruptly vanished.

  "Your father is asleep," she told Castandra.

  Castandra balled her hands into tight, tiny fists. "Saire Elzin," she said, with clench-toothed politeness, "this is important. Please show me where he is."

  "What?" asked the Saire. Why was Castandra still here? When the sorceress repeated her request, less civilly this time, the Saire stared back at her.

  "I'm busy. Go away. He asked not to be disturbed." What she needed more than anything was a bucket of cold water and some time to think.

  That was the end of the girl's reserve. "He didn't mean me, you ninny!" But much to Elzin's surprise, it came out a more of a wail than shout, and the sorceress burst into tears. "You don't even know what is going on, do you, you great, gravid dullard?"

  Reluctantly, Elzin turned her full attention to Castandra. Her voice was gentler now. "Of course I know. Maybe I can explain. But I can't let you see him now. I'm sorry."

  "Stop it, Elzin! You don't understand--if he is king, then Heratinn must be dead!"

  A sudden look of understanding crossed Elzin's features. She grabbed Castandra's arm. "No! No, that's not true. Heratinn's alive. Caldan wouldn't let them kill him."

  "What do you mean, he wouldn't let them? It is the only way! He must! He—he--" The sorceress dropped into a chair and put her hands on her temples. "Oh, I don't understand what he does at all anymore," she moaned. "Is Heratinn truly alive? Please tell me it is so."

  Elzin tried to think back to what Caldan had told her, and past the troubling episode with her necklace. Her necklace. Tomorrow she would give it to Caldan. Why had she promised such a thing?

  "Elzin?" asked Castandra. "Please--answer me!"

  The blonde returned her attention to her persistent visitor once more. "He's alive. But he won't stay that way if he makes trouble. I don't want Heratinn to die. Maybe you can help me."

  "Of course I will. We must think quickly--tell me everything you know."

  o0o

  Elzin sat staring out a window at the dimly glowing east. Dawn already. There had been so much to think of, so many things to ponder, that she had never even realized how late it had grown.

  Between her fingers she wove the chain of her medallion. The cool silver helped to soothe the burning of her hand.

  Last night she had found the necklace, before the door behind which Caldan slept. She feared it had been dropped there by some servant who sought to steal it, but the moment she had grasped it, she knew that was not so.

  It had seared her hand. The coin fell face up, and, glaring, Sheldwinn's visage had turned to her. Behind him, a castle burned.

  Elzin jumped at the sudden pressure on her shoulders.

  "Your pardon," said Caldan, "I never meant to startle you."

  She craned her neck to look. Rest had dr
opped years from him, and his calm self-assurance had returned.

  "You would make a poor owl, Elzin," he told her, walking around her chair to sit on his heels and take her hand.

  She winced as he touched the burns, and the necklace slithered to the floor with a sharp, metallic click. The room darkened.

  "I guess you're right."

  "Your hand. What has happened to it?"

  "Clumsy me. I was so tired I grabbed the wrong end of a kettle." The lie slipped from her tongue as easily as the necklace had slipped from her grasp, still, he looked at her oddly, as if he knew. Elzin stooped quickly to retrieve the necklace so he would not see her blush.

  "You--you look much better," she stammered. "I believe you're getting younger after all."

  "Elzin… I expect you to have your mysteries. I would not pry." She opened her mouth to protest, but he laid one finger over her lips. "Hush. It does not matter. Listen. I cannot take your necklace. Some things are not ours to give."

  "Thank you," she said softly. "I'll find something else."

  "I trust your judgement. But this symbol. Make it something small. The responsibility is weight enough."

  o0o

  Heratinn stared wide-eyed in disbelief and let his head sink into crossed arms on a bare, wooden table. "Why, in Shador's name, did you come here after what you've done?"

  He shrugged off the gentle hand upon his shoulder and stood to confront her. "Don't bring your pity here after you've put your lover on the throne! You betrayed me, Elzin! He couldn't have done it without your support. You helped him plan this all, didn't you? You treacherous bitch, I thought you were my friend!"

  Nothing registered in her expression but shock. Her knees buckled, and she might have fallen had he not grasped her arms.

  "No! No, Heratinn! You're wrong! I didn't know! They didn't tell me anything 'til it was over!"

  "And then, to show your contempt for Caldan's methods, you put him on the throne? Are you lying or just stupid?" Abruptly, he released her and turned away. "Get out, Elzin! You've brought me grief enough."

  He heard her drop onto his wobbly bench and sob against the table like a child.

  "Just tell me why, Elzin."

  "Heratinn, I had to make him king. There was no other way. You had already been --"

  "Usurped."

  "Yes, that's the word. Making Caldan king was the only way to save Lhant from Buktoz. The only way to save us all. I didn't know what else to do. I didn't know!"

  He marked her pain as another in the long tally of the Tarskan's crimes.

  "Somehow it makes it better," he admitted, "to know that you, at least, did not betray me. Don't cry, Elzin. Please don't."

  She leaned against him and whispered softly, so the elite that watched from beside the door would not hear. "Heratinn, you must be good. Caldan wants to help, but if you make trouble, the others will kill you."

  "I doubt my death would bother our new king." He was certain Val Torska kept him alive only to please her. He must love her dearly, to take such a risk. Love her, or fear her displeasure.

  "Please, Heratinn! I couldn't bear it if anything happened to you. And what about Castandra? Last night, she was frantic. She loves you, Heratinn!"

  "Elzin! I'm not one of my mother's pugs, to roll over on command and never bare a tooth. I'm a king of Lhant. I can't forget that."

  "Then don't!" she whispered fiercely. "Don't forget you're a king of Lhant and a descendant of Sheldwinn. The last descendant of Sheldwinn, if you don't behave yourself. You can be stupid and proud and selfish and get yourself killed and hurt us all, or you can do your duty, survive this thing, and father fifteen kids like you ought to. Don't be an ass, Heratinn! If you fight, you'll end it all forever. There will never be another Sheldwinn king."

  Gods. She had scored a direct strike at his conscience. He had to concede defeat.

  She left him alone soon after, but not for long. An hour later, a guard delivered a gift from her, a single, aged pug. Waddling happily toward the fire, the old dog seemed to grin, and that was when Heratinn noticed. The creature had no teeth.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Land beneath sky,

  Bounty tempered by season

  Wife beneath husband,

  Virtue bounded by strength

  Such is the way of nature,

  Such is the way of love

  --Wedding Rite, Temple of Shador

  He wastes no time, our new king, thought the Commander of the Royal Army. Hommil had only just come from the coronation to watch the first group of his outward-bound troops ride away.

  Always a plan with that one. A plan for securing men, provisions, and equipment without enraging the public, a plan for quickly getting these necessities where they were needed, a plan for training the new recruits, even as they marched their way towards Sheldwinn. He had been amazed at the organization, the careful attention to detail designed to get the most from every hour and each available man. If farm boys and fishermen could be made into soldiers in the few months that they had left, the Tarskan would do so.

  Even with the uneasy price of Heratinn's life, they had made the right decision, thought Hommil. Caldan was a strong and capable king, and a familiar and welcome sight to the troops. The enlisted men trusted him, the officers respected him; for the highlander, they would do their best. Heratinn had never shown an interest in any of the military arts; it had made the men apprehensive to think that their lives were in the hands of someone so inexperienced, and their mistrust increased with every day Heratinn had permitted the council to delay.

  Hommil, too, liked and respected the man that he had risked his life to put upon the throne. He had been wary for a while that he might be shut out in favor of the noble, articulate Shendiss, so much like Caldan. With his barrel-chest and bowed legs, Hommil knew that he did not cut an imposing figure. Words came hard to him, and when they did they were few and monosyllabic. He was an easy man to overlook, but the Tarskan took pains to seek his council, and Hommil was pleased to see some of his ideas implemented on the great war maps that they had labored over in secret before Heratinn's overthrow.

  The king's relationship with the Saire only cemented his acceptance by the military. Except to curse their officers and their food, soldiers typically had little use for gods. Ah, but let battle loom close and suddenly every rank and file discovered religion. Caldan had the favor of the gods, the troops claimed--or at least the closest thing to it with the favor of Saire Elzin.

  Hommil snorted to himself. How quickly the men had forgotten how many of them had known the favor of Saire Elzin themselves, not so very long ago! But, he was not inclined to remind them. He had never seen morale higher.

  Nor bloodlust. Soldier or civilian, he was certain that no one had forgotten the vision of the Saireflute, the death or enslavement of relative or spouse. Unconsciously, Hommil put his hand to his middle. At first, he had not known the solid sailor with the bow-legged swagger that he had become under the Great Lady's spell. And then he had. Gedzal had given him a bastard son: a fine strong son, a son to be proud of, a man grown and bosun on the Steadfast. A son that he had never met. And now never would. Hommil, too, had his vision that he would never forget. The hot and slippery feel of his son's entrails, spilling as he tried to hold them back from the gaping wound in his belly.

  They would fight under Caldan, all right. But the ones that they would fight for were the Saire and the loved and the lost her magic had shown them.

  There was only one pit in the blade--that pup, Heratinn. Caldan was a fool to keep him alive, no matter how much he liked the boy. For certain, the young bookworm had no love left for the Tarskan; he would move against him at the first opportunity. As long as Heratinn lived, the lords could use him to summon the populace to their standards in his name.

  Hommil shrugged. The king was a sensible man. He would come around before it was too late. Too bad the Great Lady was partial to the boy. Dangerous, how a woman could affect a man's better judgeme
nt like that. Dangerous.

  o0o

  "Will you hear a proposition?"

  Since becoming king, Caldan had changed little, noted Heratinn. He eschewed his guards and kept to simple clothing, dark and neatly tailored. The only thing Heratinn noticed that he had not seen before was the gold ring that the Saire had presented to Caldan to mark his coronation.

  No, there was more; some transformation far more subtle. Caldan looked as if he had grown younger. He seemed refreshed, alert, even more confident than he had been before.

  "I will listen," answered Heratinn.

  "Good. Heratinn, at this critical time the people of Lhant must have no misgivings about its leadership. I have both the military and the Saire behind me, support sufficient to enable me to oppose over eight centuries of unbroken rule and more than a millennium of prejudice. Still, my task would be easier were you to cooperate with me."

  "You must be joking."

  "No," the Tarskan replied, unperturbed. "I offer limited movement about the castle. In exchange I require your oath that you will refuse participation in any revolt against myself or my house."

  Heratinn calmly took a seat and considered Caldan's words. More than eight centuries of unbroken rule. Unbroken, until him.

  "You ask too much," he answered. "I cannot swear that oath."

  "There it is--your best and worst trait. You are dogmatically honorable, Heratinn. Your honor, your oath to uphold the laws of Lhant prevented you from dissolving the Council of Lords, although you could surely see such was the best for both yourself and the isle.

  "Personally, I do not care much for honor. I will not kill or die or toss aside a nation for a five-letter word. Honor is best kept like a lizard keeps its tail--until the first enemy grabs hold of it. You would be wise to do the same, but I can tell from your expression that you find the idea appalling. You have a distressingly open face, Heratinn.