The Night Holds the Moon

by Roberts, Parke; Thompson, Colleen

  They had already laid the wood for the pyre, which would have certainly seemed morbid to lowlander sensibilities, but Chahiri had insisted on such practical measures. She would not have her comrades spend an extra minute in the hateful lowlands on her account. They placed her there and prepared to go.

  Chahiri was the only highland casualty, although a number of them had been wounded and Hatchann, the youngest woman, had been injured badly enough that her mate rode double with her to help her keep her seat. The horses had been less fortunate; they had lost three: Nimble, Chahiri's war horse, whose dying throes had hastened her rider's death, and two of the others, including Ihar's powerful sorrel, who, hamstrung, had been put down.

  "They will not eat the horses, will they?" Ihar asked, as he watched the blood of his best mount soak into the sandy soil.

  "No," said Caldan.

  "Wasteful. They are savages." The elder glared at Val Torska, as if daring him to dispute his condemnation.

  "So they are," agreed the king. "So they are." In the fading light of dusk, he and Ihar cut and wrapped some of the meat from the red mare for the journey. "Take Char. She is a good night horse."

  "I will."

  They returned to where the rest waited by Chahiri's body. He embraced each in turn as they started off, but Ihar, the last to go, hesitated for a moment, then gestured at the great pile of wood and its one occupant.

  "They do not do this?"

  "It is their custom to bury their dead in the earth or the sea. They save burning for criminals."

  Ihar laughed grimly. "Good custom. Served us well eight-hundred years ago."

  "It did."

  "Caldan. We have decided that when the time comes, you should not come up to work on your crew. It would endanger your position for you to leave here."

  "Yes, Ihar."

  High up on Char's broad back, the older man placed one hand on Caldan's shoulder. "You should not give in so much to grief."

  'How can I not?' Caldan wanted to rail. Chahiri did not snatch that nonsense about the Red King out of the air. I wondered how it was that I had come to have such influence, and now I know. You despair; you degenerate before my eyes, and if I were not so sad myself, I would certainly be furious with you all. I have to grieve not for just one woman, but for an entire nation gone pathetic.

  Instead, he continued to stare where Chahiri's body lay. "Go, Ihar," he said coldly. "You make the others wait."

  Caldan ignited the pyre immediately, so that his people as they rode away would know that the law had been served; Kyr did not leave a body of their own in the lowlands to be examined. The dry wood caught quickly. It soon blazed upward, creating a breeze which lifted the king's hair and sent sparks spiraling into the night to be extinguished like contrary, wandering meteors.

  His dogs settled at his feet as he stood and watched the flames consume the woman that he had known since childhood, the woman he had always thought would one day be his mate. Even as children, he and Chahiri had been sure that they would be together. And yet, a succession of things had come between them. First, an ocean. Then, Lyrvahn. His plots. Elzin. And now, the final barrier. This last and insurmountable one.

  The roar of the fire was almost enough to drown out the sounds of the victory parties, still going riotously on at his back, as they no doubt would go on throughout the night. It was a strange counterpoint to the almost overwhelming sensation of defeat which had settled over him like a shroud. Yes, we dwindle and die anyway, Chahiri, he thought. But must we dwindle into such madness that we give old legends false life? What next? Will we fall into the worship of some foolish god of our imagination as well? Will we build altars to what was once just a joke on the lowlanders? Are we finally so desperate? As far back as we know, we were always few, but we were strong, in mind as well as body. If we give up that strength of spirit, we will have nothing.

  He honestly did not know what to do beneath the weight of such irrational expectations. His father had searched the known world, but there were none like them anywhere else. There could be no new blood to strengthen the old. He could not raise the dead, neither the ones that had been lost in an ancient massacre, nor the ones that had died, somewhere, fleeing the possibility of another. Despite their careful culling, despite their meticulous attention to bloodlines, the fact remained that they were now woefully inbred. No highlander with gold eyes had been born in centuries. They had done the best they could with what they had, but nature could only be pushed so far.

  Perhaps if they no longer had to worry about the lowlanders pressing ever closer to their borders, perhaps if they no longer had to be constantly on the defensive, they would forget this foolish grasping for miracles. It was the closest thing to a solution that he could offer them, and Chahiri's insistence that he must accomplish more had been unreasonable, even cruel.

  Yes, one of their own on the throne of Lhant was all that he could offer his people. Another pyre, his father's, had marked the beginning of that endeavor. Twenty years later, this pyre, and the achievement of that goal.

  And still it was not over. What had been gained must now be kept, and whatever must be done to that end, would be. Perhaps, in one way, Chahiri was right. Perhaps, like the Red King, he had gone beyond mercy. He had scarcely seemed to notice at the time, yet his ruthlessness had served him well. And so it must continue to.

  o0o

  Elzin knew that her Royal Elite would be furious when they learned that she had left the castle alone without their knowledge, but she needed Caldan. She had to see him, to know for certain he lived. So she had told Kezzia she rested and was not to be disturbed, and she used the passage he had shown her so many months ago.

  Her sense of direction had been unerring. The only deviations to her course were to skirt obstacles or areas of clear land where she might easily be spotted in the starlight. She had nearly made it undetected, but a few soldiers had finally recognized her and walked with her a short way.

  Until she came to him. Caldan. How still he was, how sad. But he was whole.

  "Caldan," she called softly.

  "Elzin?" he asked in disbelief, turning. "Elzin!" He covered the distance between them in a scant few strides. He did not sound angry, just terribly distressed as he gripped her arms and peered into her face. "You do not belong here. Whatever possessed you to come to this awful place?"

  "I had to. I had to know you were alive." Tears could not tarnish her smile.

  He held her tightly. "Gods! You could have sent a courier—someone--anyone. Elzin, I set not one foot upon the battlefield. Anyone could have told you I was unharmed."

  "You don't understand. I--had--to."

  She stepped away, slowly, deliberately, to stare at her left hand. As Caldan watched, the tips of her fingers and a spot on her palm reddened and erupted with watery blisters. Burns. The same burns she had lied about that morning after he had claimed the throne.

  A cold slowness settled over Elzin's mind despite the searing pain. Burns. Sheldwinn's castle, burning. She forced herself to speak.

  "Where is Heratinn?"

  He flinched as if he had been cruelly struck. "I have not seen him since I left him on the hill. I will find Heratinn for you if it is him you want to see."

  "No!" she cried, truly frightened. "By all the gods, Caldan, please understand! I came for you because I love you. What more must I do to prove it to you? I have walked through--I have walked through to find you, Caldan, not Heratinn. But, the Saireflute--the Saireflute! I don't understand. Please help me understand."

  He seemed drawn to her, but wary, caught between approach and retreat, as if he feared she might yet wound him again. "Forgive me. What you said… seemed an accusation. I spoke without thinking."

  Somewhat hesitant, but with great gentleness, he took the Saire's injured hand between his own soothing, cool ones. "Elzin, you know that I would help you if I could, but you have closed yourself to me in this. What is it you would have me do?"

  She had told him that a kett
le caused the burns, and again she wondered why it was that she had lied to him. She must be truthful with him now. He knew so many things. Surely, he would help her. She looked again into his dark eyes and marveled at how they watched her so intently. She dropped her gaze, ashamed by what she must admit.

  "I lied to you," she said quietly. "I don't know why. I was sorry as soon as I'd done it, but I couldn't bring myself to tell you."

  She took a deep breath and steeled herself against the reluctance that crowded out her guilt to settle in her chest. "The night you--the night you became king, while you were asleep, I found the necklace lying on the floor. It's strange how it never stays anywhere I try to keep it."

  Strange also, this sudden tightness, like iron bands about her ribs. She forced the words out anyway. "I picked it up. I don't know how--" Her last bit of precious air emerged as a squeaky gasp, "it burned me."

  She wanted to tell him more, to tell him all, to unburden herself, but her lungs refused to fill. Her hands flew to her chest as she strained, open-mouthed, pulling for the air that would not come. Desperately, she clutched at Caldan.

  "A medic! At once!" the king ordered. Soldiers ran to do his bidding, and he eased Elzin to the ground.

  Beyond the pain of her burns, she dug her nails into both of his arms. Soundlessly, she battled for life, her appeal, wordless, to him alone as, one by one, the cold stars died, and she lost Caldan in the dark.

  o0o

  He worked hopelessly as her face darkened, but his efforts were in vain. Nothing obstructed her throat. He could find no reason why she should not breathe.

  No reason. Yet, her hands weakened and fell to her side. The frantic pulling of her chest faltered. Stopped. Her body gave a final twitch, then stilled.

  He counted each second it took for the medics to arrive, so that he would know that the eternity was an illusion.

  o0o

  "Your Majesty. I am Gemnir, medic for the 15th Battalion. Permit me--"

  The moment he touched her, she shuddered and drew breath.

  "Odd. There is no blockage," he said. "Your Majesty, what happened?"

  "She spoke, and then… She seemed to strangle. On nothing."

  "Perhaps some form of seizure," ventured the medic. The Saire groaned softly and opened her eyes. The dreadful, dark congestion in her face had already faded to ruddiness.

  "Rest, Elzin," said Caldan. "The physicians are here. When you are ready to speak, you must tell them all that happened."

  Elzin nodded, wary of speech. The medics helped her to sit and offered her wine, which she gulped eagerly.

  "I'm fine now," she insisted. "You can go."

  "But, Great Lady, you must tell us everything, if you would have us help."

  But she knew already no mere physician could help her now.

  o0o

  Goddess! All the stupid questions and examinations--and how many medics were there in this silly army anyway?

  It seemed hours before she had Caldan to herself again. Did he guess, she wondered.

  She took one of his hands and let him feel the smoothness of her palm. The burns were gone. The Flute had made its point.

  "I never thanked you for the horse, Caldan." Her voice, quavering and uncertain, sounded like a child's. "She's beautiful. I've never had such a wonderful birthday gift."

  "You are welcome to her. I think that you will find that Moonwind suits you. Beautiful and very gentle, she will make you comfortable, but for all of that, she is very bold." Still on his knees at her side, he smiled at her, but did not release her hand. "Oh, yes. There is not a timid bone in that one. She is just like someone else I know."

  "You're wrong," she told him softly. "I'm afraid. When I came here, I was afraid for you. Now, now I'm afraid for me.

  "Something won't let me finish my story, Caldan. I'm not brave enough to try again. I can't risk my child's life for that." She tried to fathom his expression, but the leap and flicker of the blaze behind them made his face unreadable. "I'm afraid that you'll be mad, that you'll stop trusting me. I couldn't stand it if you didn't trust me anymore."

  Reassuringly, he squeezed her hand. "No, I am not angry. I knew you lied to me about your burns, and I suspected the necklace had a part in it. The Saireflute will have its mysteries. These are best left to you."

  Loud cheers erupted from the surrounding night, and Elzin smiled.

  Awkwardly, she lurched to her feet and gave his hand a tug. "Come with me, Caldan. The war is over, isn't it? You've worked so hard for so long. It wouldn't be fair for you to miss this part. Besides, they'll want to see their king."

  With a crash and a shower of sparks, the tower of burning wood settled further in upon itself as Elzin led Caldan toward the countless, smaller fires and the sounds of revelry.

  The king did not look back.

  Chapter Thirty

  Warm milk,

  Warm breast,

  The warmth of arms around you.

  Sleep, child,

  Time for rest,

  The cold is far beyond you.

  --cradle song

  His breakfast finished, Heratinn took the handle of the knife and spun it against the table. The handle was marble, the table top the same, and so the thing spun well and smoothly until it came to rest, the sharp blade pointed at the wide, oak dresser where he liked to shave. He was allowed to do that now, too: shave, in privacy, any time he wanted. No longer was his meat delivered to him cut, and his shaving glass and razor to be used only under strict guard. No, as the usurper’s popularity rose, sharp knives came with every meal. Now he was often alone with his razor and his mirror--the finest silvered glass, so very sharp when broken. To some men that might have seemed an improvement. Heratinn knew better.

  "Am I to use them on myself, or someone else?" the deposed prince asked his bare walls. Did it matter? Whether he cut his own throat or another's, the result would be the same. He would die. And if he waited too long, he would die anyway. Caldan would see to that. It would only be made to appear as if the hands of the king's men had been forced.

  Would Lhant believe it? Would Lhant even care? The highlander had become the hero of the isle: the unwavering prophet of the invasion, the cunning general who defeated Gorbagg's horde in the space of a day, the devoted widower who had so long remained chaste, only to love and be loved by the Saire. He was the stuff of legend and song; only the Saire, who had made them one with Telriss's magic, had a higher place in the populace's hearts.

  Now that the war was over and his oath ended, he was restricted to a single, windowless room and he could go nowhere or meet with anyone unescorted. Elzin had begged him to renew his pledge, but he would not, and so now their visits were restricted to his room. And far less frequent.

  Books were all he had. The Saire sent him any he requested and, along with his own reading, he whiled away the endless grinding hours by finding her volumes or passages he thought she might enjoy.

  His situation seemed hopeless. Who would help him now? Once, he might have sought the help of the nobles, but they had been mostly stripped of power. No longer able to add their own taxes to those imposed by the crown, no longer able to levy their own armies, no longer judge and jury within their own provinces; the nobles had no means to help him. Agents of the king had confiscated most of the nobles' wealth, and had lured away with safer, more lucrative offers what few troops had remained behind to guard their master's holdings.

  Criers had been sent across the whole of Lhant to spread the word to the illiterate populace. In ramshackle taverns, rustic meeting halls, village squares, and humble hearths, jubilant commoners toasted the new king, who had promised the seized wealth of their overlords would be used to reclaim the loved ones captured and sold into slavery in Buktoz.

  Just this day, Caldan had released the former members of the defunct Council of Lords. Many justifiably feared the reception their vassals would give them upon their return.

  He could afford to wait no longer while the usurper grew eve
n more entrenched. Given much more time, even the Saire’s power might be eclipsed. Although his chances of success were small, he must act now. Already he had delayed too long.

  Between the lines in a thin book of romantic poetry, Heratinn carefully inscribed his plea for her to meet him, contriving to make it appear as much a part the original script as possible. He could not take the risk to hide a separate sheet inside; his captors surely watched for those, but they did not have time to read each book he forwarded to her.

  He had a note prepared to slip to her as well, if only she would come, but he could not risk that she might not. Only she had power enough to help him. Could he open her eyes to the implications of so many convenient deaths, each one of which had put the Tarskan one step closer to the crown? Would she help him return the throne of Llhant to the rightful house of Sheldwinn?

  She must, because she was his only chance. By escaping his guards, would make his life forfeit. He must rely on Elzin's gentleness to drive her from Caldan.

  o0o

  "What do you think?" asked Elzin proudly as the king surveyed the room. The nursery was at last done to the Saire's satisfaction, and like the rest of her apartments, it was lavish. The cradle was fashioned from some smooth, dark wood, inlaid with designs of porpoises in gold. The blankets were woven from the softest lambswool and beautifully embroidered. All around the room lay marvelous toys of every description: clever puzzles, soft animal forms, and everywhere those toys found most often in the nurseries of children of the lowlands, ships. Some of the toys were obviously well made from costly materials, but others were quite homely, gifts sent from the wives of poor fishermen or the children of farmers. Caldan doubted that the Saire had put one of them aside.

  "No prince or princess of the isle has received so warm a welcome," he said. That seemed to please the Saire, for she smiled even as she rubbed at the small of her back. She had grown quite uncomfortable these last few days, and she was eager to put the room to use.