Moons' Dreaming (Children of the Rock)

by Krause, Marguerite

  He turned at a muffled rap on the door. “Enter.”

  “Good day, Your Highness.” Second Groom Palim was a barrel-chested, taciturn man a few years older than Damon. His rich brown skin, hair, and eyes indicated an origin along the warm northern coast. The same characteristics that had made him unfit for the plodding life of a fisherman made him one of Damon’s most valuable tools.

  Damon clasped his hands behind his back. “What shall we discuss today concerning the horses?”

  “Frog’s healing on that three-year-old filly. Ought to resume training before the end of the nineday.”

  “Do so. That’s the content of today’s conversation.” Damon resumed his seat and beckoned the other man closer. “Now, on to business. What progress on infiltrating the court at Raisal?”

  “No chance. Wizard scares most off. Rest I wouldn’t trust near Sene.”

  “If you don’t trust them you shouldn’t be using them.”

  Palim shrugged. “Sitrine court’s too small. Folks are too content.”

  “Well, keep trying. Anything useful from Dherrica?”

  “King still chasing prince. Border guard still strong. Guards hate Rhenlan.” Palim squinted slightly, as though examining the words he’d just uttered. “Fear us, too.”

  Damon rested his elbow on the arm of the chair, hand in chin. “Healthy fear is useful, if it’s mixed with respect and admiration.” Dherrica’s strong borders and civil strife provided excellent motivation to constantly recruit more guards to Hion’s service.

  “Captain Dael’s admired.”

  “I should hope he is. That’s one of the primary functions of the captain of the king’s guard, to play the hero while the king is busy with real work.”

  “Hion’s been hero and king.”

  “And wasted both opportunities,” Damon snapped.

  The other man showed no remorse for making him angry. “Dael’s known to honor old traditions.”

  “He can honor what he pleases so long as he obeys me. Don’t look so disapproving. You know I respect your advice. Have you any evidence that my captain’s loyalty is in question?”

  “No, Highness.”

  “Do you think that my tampering with established customs will turn Dael against me?”

  Palim hesitated. “Not sure, Highness.”

  “Have your spies watch him come festival day. I’ve canceled the Story of Beginnings, and replaced it with a parade of the guards. Weigh your suspicions against his actions, and report back to me.”

  Palim nodded.

  “Dismissed.”

  Damon shook his head after the departing groom. Palim simply could not imagine anyone in Dael’s position not desiring to further his own ambitions. Palim was not a very good judge of character.

  Of course, that little personality flaw made Palim a rare and wonderful find in their tradition-blinded world.

  * * *

  “We’ll camp here for the night.”

  Feather guided her tired horse toward the broken stone wall where Felistinon, apparently anticipating the king’s decision, had already dismounted. Sene remained a moment longer in the middle of the hard dirt road, sitting straight and still in the saddle, one hand shading his eyes against the westering sun as he studied the surrounding landscape.

  “Not that there’s anything to see,” she muttered as she slid shakily to the ground. For a moment she rested her forehead against the saddle’s smooth, well-worn leather, too tired to care about getting one more smudge of dirt on her already grime-streaked face. Not once since leaving Telina had they encountered other travelers or the smallest patch of cultivated land. The unrelenting solitude of the Sitrinian wilderness made her feel small and insignificant and far too lonely for comfort.

  “I’ll take care of that, miss.” Feather jumped as Felistinon reached casually over her head to unlace her horse’s pack.

  She put a possessive hand on the animal’s sweaty neck. “I thought I told you not to sneak up on me like that.”

  His dark-eyed glance was polite but unrepentant. “I don’t know how to walk any louder, miss.”

  “I also told you I can manage my own belongings.” It was a futile argument. Her bags were already leaning against the low wall, and as they spoke Felistinon deftly removed saddle and pads as well.

  “Oh, never mind. I’ll just go stretch my legs before we eat.”

  “Yes, miss.” He took her mount’s reins and began to lead it toward a break in the wall.

  Feather set off down the line of tumbled stones toward the man who was to blame for all her problems. Sene’s horse, stripped and hobbled, grazed beside the guard’s rangy bay within the broken circle formed by the old wall. The king himself wandered along the inside of the rough fence, kicking now and then at objects hidden from Feather’s view by the tall grass.

  Hurrying a little, she caught up to him when they were a third of the way around the wall from Felistinon. “Doesn’t this part of Sitrine have anything but ruins?”

  “I’m afraid not.” The king’s broad shoulders moved in a half-shrug. “Trust me. This is a better place to camp than the open plain.”

  “You’ve stopped here before?”

  “Many times. This used to be an inn, the Blue Bottle. The well was somewhere along here.” He kicked aside another fallen stone. “I admit there’s not much trade these days between Sitrine and Rhenlan, but Brownmothers at least still travel where they will. We have a Brownmother house at Bren, a day’s ride south and east of Raisal.”

  “I’ve heard of it.”

  “We’ll pass the turn-off about midday tomorrow.” He smiled down at her. “You’ll be home in time for a bath before dinner.”

  Your home, not mine. She thought of Jenil’s cluttered rooms and the quiet murmur of the Broad River below the windows of Garden Vale’s Brownmother house. She’d yet to encounter a proper river in wide, wind-swept Sitrine.

  Trailing her fingers over the weathered surface of the ragged line of stones she asked, “Is the rest of your kingdom as sad as this place?”

  Sene stopped walking. “No, it’s not. You’ll see, when we reach Raisal.”

  He swung one leg over the wall and sat there, hands clasped loosely in his lap, at ease in the warm evening air. Feather had the impression he would be at ease anywhere, from the roughest campsite to the finest palace.

  “Has Jenil told you nothing about us?”

  “She told me I am honored to be betrothed to your son.”

  “Dreamer or not, I am going to have to have a talk with that woman. Listen carefully, young lady. A betrothal is not a marriage. No one is going to force you and Chasa to marry. No one is going force you to do anything.”

  Feather folded her arms. “So why didn’t Jenil listen to me when I said I didn’t want to leave Garden Vale?”

  “Dreamers have the annoying habit of being certain they know what’s best for everyone.” A smile crinkled the corners of his eyes. “They’re usually right.”

  “Then I’ll have to marry your son, won’t I?”

  Sene grew serious again. “Feather, do you remember any of your childhood?”

  “Glimpses, here and there.”

  “What about the rest of your memory? Since you came to live with Jenil? Did you learn what the Brownmothers teach?”

  “I remember everything I was taught in Garden Vale.” Faces flashed in front of her mind’s eye, beloved teachers, dear friends. Miles and days away, all of them.

  “The Story of Beginnings?” he prompted her. “Tales of the kingdoms before the plague, of the war with the horse people, of Hion’s hunt for the last fire bear?”

  “Yes, yes. I’ve heard them all.”

  “But you don’t believe them.” Feather dropped her gaze, hoping that the growing darkness hid the flush that spread up her neck and warmed her ears. The too-astute king continued, “It’s not easy, I know. For years Keepers marry Keepers, and Shapers marry Shapers, and we raise our children and go about our own business without botheri
ng anyone else.”

  His rumbling voice deepened. “Until the rules change and we’re suddenly expected to marry outside our own kind, to produce children who’ll never get married themselves, but who will live for hundreds of years, bending the power of the gods to benefit all of the Children of the Rock.”

  In spite of herself, Feather shivered. “Maybe that part is true, I know Jenil is real. Her power is real. And I can believe that Dreamers are infertile, just as Shapers and Keepers are usually infertile with each other.”

  “Dreamers have to come from somewhere.”

  “From your generation, Your Majesty. Not mine! New Dreamers were supposed to have been born ten or fifteen or twenty years ago.”

  “Two were. My cousins followed tradition.”

  “What of Hion’s cousins, and Dea’s cousins, and all the other Shaper families? Where were they when the Dreamers were killing themselves, searching for the cause of the plague?”

  “Some of them were dying, too,” Sene said. “Others were too frightened to realize what was happening, or too bitter to care. None of which matters now. We missed our chance.”

  “So you pass the burden to your children.”

  “Not a burden. A gift. Do you believe in the gods, Feather?”

  “I don’t know. Jenil does.”

  “So does Aage. He doesn’t just believe, he knows. They talk to him. They’re giving us another chance. Maybe our last chance.”

  “And that’s supposed to make me feel better?” Feather demanded.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “It’s all very well your being kind and charming and promising that no one’s going to force me into anything, except how can I say no when everyone says my saying no will mean the end of the world!”

  The king’s big, callused hand cupped the side of her face. “Gods, I’m getting as bad as Jenil.”

  His thumb gently wiped away the single tear of angry despair that escaped her rigid control. “None of us is that important, little one. I believe more Dreamer children will be born. If not to you, then to someone else. You’re not alone. You’ve been given an opportunity, yes. But what you do with that opportunity is up to you. All I ask is that you give the matter some thought before you make your decision. Talk to Chasa. Get to know the people of Sitrine. You were happy, once, in Raisal.”

  “I was happy in Garden Vale.”

  “Your Majesty!”

  Sene jerked around at Felistinon’s warning shout. The guard was running for his pile of gear, pointing urgently into the darkness beyond the tumbled remains of the inn. Sene slid off the wall, grabbed Feather under the arms as if she were a child, and swung her up and over the low barrier. Before she could draw breath to protest he grabbed her by the hand and started to run, leaving her no choice but to run with him.

  His wordless urgency lit the first spark of fear in her. The grass hissed past their legs, the thick growth hiding broken stones and half-rotted beams of wood that moved treacherously under her feet. Twice she tripped and almost fell, the king’s iron grip tugging her upright and onward.

  “What is it?” she gasped as he finally dropped her hand and slid to a halt next to his saddle. The last light had faded from the horizon, where a faint band of orange lingered at the edge of the arching blue-black of the night sky. Moonslight cast conflicting shadows over the wide plain, altering the shapes of familiar objects and making it difficult for Feather to judge distances. But Sene was right in front of her, and there was no mistaking the size of the sword he pulled from his saddle scabbard, or the deadly intent with which he spun to search the darkness.

  She saw them at the same moment he did, crouching figures that clambered over the wall near the point where Felistinon had left Feather’s horse. The animal threw its head up and shied nervously as one of the figures broke away from the group and ran toward it. The corporal was nowhere to be seen.

  “Don’t move,” the king told her. Lifting his head he roared, “Stay away from that horse! Guards, attack!”

  The dark shape paused, then resumed its scurrying rush forward, one hand raised. Pale Keynlight glittered off a knife blade. The horse swerved awkwardly, its hindquarters bumping up against a section of wall. Feather’s throat went dry with helpless terror.

  She didn’t hear the twang of a bowstring or the whirring flight of the arrow. Its feathered shaft seemed to materialize in the center of the man’s chest with the suddenness of Dreamer magic, stopping him in midstride. The horse neighed frantically at the sharp scent of blood and skittered away along the wall as the shadowy figure toppled over and vanished from view in the tall grass.

  Then the rest of the dark shapes were running toward Sene, and Feather didn’t have time to think of anything except staying out of the way. The low wall at her back provided a little comfort. The steady support of Felistinon’s marksmanship provided more. From the corporal’s vantage point somewhere in the darkness he picked off three more of their enemies with well-placed shafts, leaving only five knifewielding adversaries for the king.

  They had the advantage of numbers. Sene had the sword. If they had coordinated their attack they might have brought him down. Feather crouched low in the grass, hands searching desperately for something of manageable size she might use for a weapon. The first attacker died soundlessly, head flying one way, body falling the other as he ran straight into Sene’s sweeping sword stroke. Momentum carried Sene around to block two more jabbing knives. Another swift beheading. The third screamed high and bubbly as she fell, Sene’s back swing slicing her nearly in two.

  The last two came at the king from opposite sides. Without seeming to hurry Sene turned and twisted, facing first one, then the other, sword whispering in the moonslight, its blade dark with blood. Feather heard a sound on the wall behind her. In a flurry of long legs and long hair Felistinon launched himself over her head, sword in hand. As he thrust his blade through the nearer man’s back, Sene dispatched the other one with a final neat, two-handed swing.

  Without a word, king and guardsman turned their backs on one another. They circled slowly through the trampled grass, their eyes searching the ruins, the line of the broken wall, the empty plain beyond. The only sound in the night was Sene’s heavy, gradually slowing breathing.

  Feather was ready to burst with tension by the time Sene lowered his sword and glanced over his shoulder at the corporal. “Well done.”

  Felistinon took one last look along the wall, then knelt to wipe his sword on the grass. “Do we leave them and move on?”

  Sene walked toward Feather. The coppery smell of blood hung around him like a cloud. “Are you hurt?”

  “No, Sire.” She pushed herself upright, determined not to let him see how badly her knees were shaking.

  He guessed anyway. “It’s never easy,” he said gently. “Still, I think we should stay here tonight. The bodies must be burned.” He glanced at Felistinon. “The wind’s in the north, I think.”

  “Outside the wall?” the corporal replied. At Sene’s nod he said, “We’d better stake the horses.”

  “I’ll be with you shortly.”

  Felistinon walked off to retrieve his bow. Feather stared at the crumpled, broken bodies scattered across the grass. Sene said, “They were Abstainers.”

  “They’re the first I’ve ever seen.”

  “They would have killed us.”

  “I know. I just wish—”

  “What?”

  “I want to understand why.”

  “Why Abstainers kill?”

  The bitter taste in the back of her mouth had little to do with the deaths she’d just witnessed. “Why Abstainers exist.”

  “I wonder if any of us can understand. We are the Children of the Rock,” he said, and the low rumble of his voice came close to the somber rhythm of ritual. “We make our vows before the gods, to live for one another, to shape or keep or dream according to our natures, to fulfill our duties to the rest of the Children. To forsake our vows is to forsake our deepest, tr
uest selves. Abstainers have chosen to forsake the foundations of life. Once that happens, perhaps they simply can’t stand to see anyone else in possession of what they’ve abandoned.”

  “You don’t hate them, do you?”

  “No. I pity them with all my heart.”

  “But you kill them.”

  He looked around at the corpses, his expression calm. “Yes. I do. And have before, and will again.”

  “Doesn’t it bother you? Even a little bit?”

  He placed his warm, callused hand on her shoulder. “I don’t question the will of the gods. It only wastes my time, and theirs, and doesn’t change a thing.”

  Feather held her peace as Sene walked away. He didn’t question tradition and law. Fine. Perhaps that worked, for a king. Perhaps it had once worked for her. No longer. She had thought she understood her life, a single thread in the open weave of a simple fabric. Jenil had shattered that illusion. The pattern of Feather’s life was more complex than she could ever have guessed, interwoven with people she did not remember and a purpose she had never anticipated. Or so they told her, Sene and Jenil and who knew how many others who would claim to know her better than she knew herself.

  They could claim whatever they wished. She would believe them, or not, as she saw fit. From now on, she was going to question everything.

  Chapter 19

  Vray sat on the edge of the porch and tried to massage the kinks out of her aching right hand. The touch of the clean skirt against her legs distracted her briefly. A few days of clean clothes and clean surroundings hadn’t been long enough to make cleanliness seem normal. Her healing flea bites no longer itched, and she entertained the thought that eventually even the marks would fade. Eventually. She’d have to start thinking in terms of long periods of time again. Forgetting habits she’d worked three years to acquire was going to be hard.

  The afternoon had turned pleasant. The only reminder of the morning’s thunderstorm was a puddle in front of the chicken coop. The carter emerged from the stable, wiping his hands on a cloth, then saw her and began walking toward the porch. I’m too tired, Vray thought. He’s either got some work for me to do, or he’s going to make friendly conversation. She hoped it was work. She didn’t want friends.