The Night Holds the Moon

by Roberts, Parke; Thompson, Colleen

  "Your pardon, Great Lady, but it’s another book from Heratinn," said Kezwann. "His messenger said he asked that if you read nothing else he's sent, read this."

  "He must think I have nothing to do all day but thumb through all the books he sends me," laughed the Saire. She checked the spine. “At least this one looks interesting. Love Poems by Lord R, Baron of Sandicrest.” Elzin smiled coquettishly behind the book.

  "A Sandicrest writing love poems?” said Caldan “That I would have to see.”

  “Oh, please do,” she said, and offered it. “I don’t suppose you’d consider being inspired?”

  He looked up from the page he’d been perusing. “Surely you cannot mean to suggest I write an entire volume?”

  “What a wonderful idea!”

  He sighed theatrically, then slipped the slender volume in a pocket and patted it. “For inspiration, then.”

  o0o

  How Heratinn planned to elude his guards, his words between the lines of poetry didn’t say. But if he somehow managed to make it so far, the narrow, treacherous stairway into the abandoned vaults would serve Caldan’s purpose well. Heratinn would have his meeting. But it would not be with the Saire.

  o0o

  "Please," said Heratinn.

  "Again?" The guard frowned.

  "I'm sorry. Something I ate, I suppose." Did he look sick? He ought to: apprehension had tied his stomach in such fearful knots he thought he would retch.

  "The trots, eh?" The frown turned to something a shade more sympathetic. "Well, it looks like we'll get our exercise tonight. Just as well. I for one get tired of standing outside your door half the night, and Beril here is no master of conversation."

  "I'm not here for your entertainment, Shieldman. You lead, I'll watch his rear."

  "Better you than me, considering."

  "Can we hurry?" Heratinn asked mournfully.

  "What, no 'traitorous dog' appellations tonight? What miracles the fear of filling one's breeches will work on manners. I'd say you ought to get the trots more often."

  They marched him smartly to the privies. Heratinn slipped quickly into the farthest one and dropped the flimsy latch. But, instead of sitting down on the wooden bench, he stepped up, one foot on either side of the hole, and stood.

  The roof was thatch, his work quick and quiet. Two or three more trips, and he'd be through, down the back, and away. He must time it precisely. He would not have much time before the alarm was raised.

  o0o

  "Punctual to a fault." Caldan stepped out from behind the door, the only exit, as he spoke.

  It was as if his heart had been plunged into ice water. Somehow, with shaking hands, Heratinn completed the task of lighting the vault's two lamps, half expecting that the fatal blow would fall before he finished. When it did not, he turned and faced the highlander.

  He had to know. "Did she give me away?"

  "Elzin? She would never harm you," the king answered. He had closed the door as the lamps were lit, and now stepped farther into the room. The lamplight played eerily on the glistening walls, and on the contemplative features of the Tarskan. “But it appears I have a weakness for bad love poetry.”

  Heratinn looked past him; if only he could reach the door. But Caldan had interposed himself between it and him. He had been caught, somehow, and he knew what the penalty would be. He had known from the beginning.

  "There is much I wish to know, Caldan," said Heratinn. "Would you grant me that, at least?"

  o0o

  Drat these stupid stairs! Heratinn was going to have a lot of explaining to do when she caught up with him, swore Elzin as she stooped to rub a swollen ankle.

  Up until an hour ago, her day had been nearly perfect--or at least as perfect as a day could be for a woman in her last month of childbearing. Since lunch Caldan had scarcely left her side for a moment. They'd strolled in the garden, walked arm in arm along the beach and stopped by the stables to feed Moonwind a carrot. By the time they had sat down to a late dinner together she was tired and admittedly footsore, but so pleased to have Caldan's company that she'd coerced him into fussing with her over the nursery until, unable to keep her eyes open any longer, she admitted defeat and Kezwann had led her off to bed. Even then, he had returned to her one last time, to kiss her chastely goodnight under the watchful eye of her handmaid.

  She had fallen asleep immediately, only to awaken shortly after feeling bloated, restless and queasy, and nothing would do but toasted rye bread and a breath of salt air. Munching on the toast, grumbling over her painful feet, she had almost missed Heratinn and his escort as they'd passed in the castle courtyard.

  He had looked more ill than she, and she had realized with a sudden pang of guilt that with Caldan to amuse her, she'd not given Heratinn a thought all day.

  “Heratinn! I’m so sorry!”

  His stricken look at her declaration had unnerved her so badly she had dropped her toast. He had knelt to retrieve it and had pressed both it and a tiny covert note into her hands as she apologized for not visiting. She had promised an extended stay tomorrow and he had seemed to gain comfort from the offer.

  Later, reading his note, she wondered what was so secret he would take the risk to escape his guards? Perhaps he and Castandra had devised some plan to steal away some time together, and they needed her to help. High time, she thought; there was nothing more satisfying than a forbidden romance. In fact, she’d personally seen to it that their reunion would be sooner than he expected.

  The Saire smiled to herself. If only Heratinn knew how easily she'd managed to leave her guards behind. The hidden passage in her chamber had many exits besides the one in the wood far outside the castle walls. Like this one, midway down the steps to the lowest archive vaults.

  She could understand why Heratinn would want to meet down here. No one ever came to the place; it had been empty and unused since a heavy condensation had begun to lay continually on the walls of the corridor, fouling the air with the oppressive smell of decay and rendering the stairs slick as ice. Mindful of her awkward bulk, Elzin descended the steps like a child, slowly, one at a time. To her relief, light spilled from beneath the closed door. Heratinn had already arrived. But why did she hear voices?

  And why was one of them Caldan's?

  o0o

  "For the second time, even though you anticipate death, instead of beg you would ask questions. I recall that, even as a child, the most important thing to you was to know. In this, you are very like us, and I cannot find it in my heart to deny you."

  "You have no heart, traitor."

  "You are mistaken. I have one, although you might find its place unconventional. Ask, Heratinn. Little time remains to you."

  "Very well. I am curious about the manner in which you found yourself able to take power. The deaths of my mother and brother appear to be something more than happy coincidence."

  "Stantinn was easy -- his decadent nature made it so. Your mother, on the other hand…" Hidden behind the closed door, Elzin could not see the highlander remove a tiny glass vial from his pocket. "The Buktoz make this poison. Nothing can match its efficacy. The tiniest amount, introduced into the bloodstream, is sufficient to kill someone even the size of your mother. A very tiny amount, such as one might place on the tip of a thorn. Thorns aren’t weapons. Neither are hollow reeds. You mother's spell detected nothing until it was too late, when I combined them as blowgun and dart."

  o0o

  Leave, screamed something inside her, leave and pretend that you heard none of this. But cold horror had frozen her feet to the slick, damp stone.

  o0o

  “It seems you learned a lot during your childhood overseas,” Heratinn said coldly. He had no pleasant memories of his mother. She had shown him no more affection than a sea trout would lavish on its spawn, and he had learned quite early to avoid her attention. Neither had he loved his brother, Stantinn. The Prince Royal had made his years a living hell with his vicious bullying. But they had been his family,
and Caldan had murdered them with no more remorse than he would feel for a fat hen dispatched for his evening meal.

  He frowned, all too aware that he had no time for contemplation. "There have been other 'coincidences' which worked to your advantage, certain deaths and a disappearance which led Elzin to rely solely upon you. The young candidate--the red-haired girl. What was her name? Oh, yes: Shelvann. Did you ever spare her family a thought? And what of Beksann? I'm certain you remember she was my nurse; so few details escape you. I was very fond of her. And, of course, Captain Elzmere. He would have been very helpful to the Saire, had he not disappeared. I wonder, what happened to them all?"

  "I think you know," said Caldan said simply.

  "By Shador!" swore Heratinn. "Have you no conscience? For the longest time, I thought that you loved Elzin, however unlikely the match. You only manipulated her to gain the throne. You have used her, and you have murdered everyone she cared for."

  "I cannot afford the luxury of a conscience, Heratinn, but at least I was never driven by malice. As for Elzin, she is a simple creature and easily distracted. She has already forgotten the others. When the time comes, she will forget all about me."

  Elzin flung wide the door, her expression through her tears as fierce as it had been that night she held him in the mist.

  "You're wrong. I will never forget you, Murderer."

  Heritann had never seen anyone move so fast. Swift as a striking snake, Caldan seized Elzin by her wrist, then propelled her hard into the wall. Her eyes glazed, her knees buckled, and awkward with child, her body folded until she sat with her back to stone. Heratinn bolted for the door, but the highlander intercepted him neatly and sent the younger man sprawling. The last of King Sheldwinn's line watched in horror as Val Torska casually removed a thorn from his pocket and uncorked the tiny container still in his hand. "I fear this is the last of it. Remove your ring, Heratinn."

  Heratinn drew his feet beneath him. "Come and take it."

  "As you wish," said the Tarskan, and he drove the heel of his boot into Heratinn's temple. Nauseated, nearly insensible, Heratinn felt Caldan take his wrist.

  "I know I'm done. But, please, for pity's sake, spare Elzin. She's only a girl, and she's with child."

  "You should have considered that before you left me no option." Slipping Heratinn's ring forward, Caldan jabbed the thorn into the small indentation that marked where the band had encircled his victim's finger. Heratinn's body went limp even as Val Torska shoved the heavy gold circle back to conceal the tiny wound.

  o0o

  "Gods, Elzin. Why did you have to come here?"

  He sounded so aggrieved that, still dazed from her collision and shocked by the sudden violence that she had somehow, unbelievably, been thrust into, she expected Caldan to comfort her, as he had so many times before. Instead, he removed his jacket and folded it with quick precision, turning all the buttons under, and whipped it around her neck.

  Now she understood. She understood it all. Her skin prickled with chill dread even as he pulled the jacket tight around her throat. He had turned the buttons under so they would leave no telltale marks. And then he pulled it tight, lifting her with it; up, up, up to the tips of her toes. Elzin clutched ineffectually at the wide, soft garrote with both hands, struggling to pull it away, but the highlander neither tightened nor loosened his grip, and she realized then that he carefully applied only enough pressure to cut off her air, just enough to suffocate her. No marks, her mind screamed as her terror mounted. No marks, so they would think it had only been another seizure, like the one she’d had at the victory celebration. Poor, bereaved Caldan!

  The thought made her struggle harder. Too late she thought to attack him. Weakly, she reached up to scratch his face, but her grip fell short, feeble as a newborn's, to grasp two fistfuls of his shirt. Newborn. Her child would not be born. She could imagine the infant gasping in her womb. Please Caldan, she begged silently, I promise I won't tell anyone. Don't hurt my son. Just let me bear this child; then you can have me if you must. My son is dying, Caldan!

  But he did not relent. He had almost seemed to feel some pity for her before, but if he felt it now, she could not read it in his calm, remorseless features. Her whole center pulled painfully for the breath that would not come; black splashed across her vision, until all was black and she no longer knew if her eyes had failed her or if her lids had fallen shut. She felt no longer terror or pain, but light-headed, suspended, and she knew that her long, long death was nearly done.

  Telriss, she prayed. Preserve us.

  o0o

  She lay on something cold and hard, and someone in the room was weeping. When Saire Welmiann had died, they had placed her body in a cool, windowless room on a marble slab, all surrounded by flowers. The old Saire had looked then as if the perfume of the blossoms had lulled her to sleep. Did she look so serene? She didn't smell any flowers; perhaps instead they had piled about her the forlorn toys meant for her unborn child. But why had they laid her body in such an undignified heap?

  Tentatively, Elzin opened her eyes. By the light of the lamps, she could see Castandra. The girl held Heratinn in her arms; his head rested on her breast and she rocked him gently, like a mother comforting a child.

  Elzin groaned. Heratinn. It was too late for him, but Castandra had arrived in time to save her. The unlighted torch beside Caldan’s prone body explained the how. His chest rose, slowly. Alive, then. It was better than he deserved.

  "Castandra." Her voice creaked like wind through ancient riggings as she struggled to make herself heard. “Thank the goddess, you came!” When the sorceress did not respond she grasped the girl's arm tightly. "Castandra?"

  "Why did I come?" she moaned. "What a fool I’ve been. And now, I’ve killed him.

  "I'm sorry, Heratinn. I'm so sorry."

  "Castandra, please! I need you!"

  "I could have told him that I never wanted to see him again,” she said as she smoothed the hair that had fallen across his brow. “I could have hurt him a little and spared him this. But I loved him selfishly. I could not bear to be without him, and now, because of me, he is dead. I have gained nothing, and Heratinn has lost everything."

  Elzin stood and pulled Castandra to her feet. "You had nothing to do with it, Castandra. Caldan killed him because he was in the way. He didn't even know about the two of you."

  Elzin clutched Castandra's arms to steady herself. How long did she have before Caldan revived and finished what he had begun? Hours? Minutes? She needed help, fast, but Castandra was insensible. Who, then? Who else could tell her what to do?

  She should summon her guards; she should have the highland king arrested. Or could she? Sudden flashes of insight illuminated her suspicions: Caldan's selection of Zendriam as the captain of her elite; the numerous replacements of many of her guard; the involvement of key elite in Heratinn's overthrow. Were they any longer her Royal Elite? Could she expect them to support the wild accusations of a pregnant woman barely out of her teens over a newly victorious king? Would they even disapprove of Val Torska's actions? After all, it was the military who had wanted Heratinn dead from the beginning.

  A powerful cramp bent her double, and both hands flew protectively to her abdomen. Please, Telriss, no! Not now, not here! There was only one decision she could make. "We're leaving, Castandra. Right now."

  "Leaving?" the sorceress echoed dully.

  And what of Caldan? His expression haunted her: merciless, impassive, eyes black and depthless, the eyes of a shark. Was that what Heratinn had seen, in his last moments: Heratinn, and all those murdered others? Like her brother. Like Elzmere.

  A thousand nightmares on you, Caldan, she thought, invoking her father's favorite curse, and a hundred bitter deaths. Impotent grief and rage rose up in her like bile, and she kicked him, hard, furious that he could not feel it and thereby give her some small satisfaction.

  o0o

  Though her hounds wove themselves anxiously around her legs, Castandra averted her e
yes and said nothing. The Saire retrieved a lamp and started up the stairs.

  Castandra followed blankly through the humid cold. From time to time, Elzin turned and waited for her, murmuring words she could not comprehend. She understood only the feel of Heratinn's flesh as it had cooled against her own.

  The Saire stopped and began to push upon the stone wall.

  "Help me," she said. Obediently, Castandra pressed her palms beside the Saire's own, and a hidden door turned beneath their hands.

  "Hurry," urged Elzin as stepped in. She tugged at her Castandra’s wrist.

  The sorceress hesitated, staring back the way that they had come.

  "Come with me," coaxed the blonde softly. "Please, Castandra, come with me. I need you… Besides, there's nothing for you here. Not now."

  o0o

  The girl seemed to come suddenly to a decision then; she ducked her head and entered the tunnel without another backward glance.

  Elzin staggered as another cramp surprised her. So soon -- too soon. She thought she would have more time. But, time for what? Where could she go that might be safe?

  They could not hide here. As soon as Caldan recovered, he would send men to look for her. Probably he would check the tunnels himself. Besides, she thought with a shudder, she could not bear her child within this awful warren.

  Where, then, could they go? In the city she would immediately be recognized. Within minutes, every wag-tongue in Sheldwinn would broadcast the news of her appearance and condition. Not the city, then.

  If only she could have more time. The contractions came so quickly now, she would be lucky to make it past the marshes.

  She glanced behind herself to be sure that Castandra still followed. The snakes would be active in the marshes this time of year, snakes and worse. Horrors that creeped or flapped or slithered would be waiting in the murky darkness. She shuddered with revulsion. Travel there would be dangerous at night, even with help, and if the tides were wrong…