The Forgetting Moon

by Brian Lee Durfee

  “I’m no assassin.” Hawkwood’s retort was dismissively casual, eyes narrowing at the Vallè ambassador. “Nor am I a traitor.”

  “You’re both a traitor and an assassin,” Val-Korin said. “You know it. I know it.”

  Jondralyn looked closely at the long-eared Vallè. There was a certainty in the way he spoke that brooked no argument. His eyes were a light green, and in that moment she was able to see the flecks of gold dusted through them. His daughter, Seita, sitting next to the injured Val-Draekin, appeared amused by the entire conversation. That angered her.

  “Remove my sister, the dwarf, and Hawkwood from my sight, Prentiss,” Jovan ordered with impatience, his eyes fierce and commanding. “Now!”

  Sterling Prentiss and his four Dayknights moved forward, wary.

  Hawkwood spoke calmly. “I daresay it will take more than just you and four Dayknights to escort me anywhere, Prentiss.” His sword rang the rest of the way from its sheath. Jondralyn’s heart leaped straight into her throat as two of the Dayknights advanced to defend their captain. But Sterling stayed them with an upraised hand. The Val Vallè ambassador was smiling now too. To Jondralyn, it felt as if the entire episode had been orchestrated by Sterling and Val-Korin for just this purpose—to catch Hawkwood, and possibly even her, in this very position. She took a step toward her brother but was immediately blocked by the bulk of Sterling Prentiss, who grabbed her roughly by the arm.

  Hawkwood raised his blade. “Take your hand off her.”

  “Are you calling me out?” Prentiss growled. “Are you issuing challenge to a Dayknight?”

  Hawkwood’s eyes lanced into those of the Dayknight Captain. His sword did not waver.

  “I’ve a proposition to make.” Val-Korin weaved his way between everyone, commanding the attention of all. He looked at Jovan. “Sterling Prentiss has stumbled upon a grand idea. If Hawkwood is so insistent upon defending Jondralyn’s honor, Your Excellency, I say we let him. We are nearing the Mourning Moon celebrations, after all. What better way to celebrate than a duel to settle a point of honor?”

  “Yes.” Jovan clapped. “I like the way you think, Val-Korin.” A smile played at the corners of his mouth. “The four Dayknights against Hawkwood. A week from now. Black Glass Courtyard. A duel to the death to settle this.”

  “No, please, brother,” Jondralyn said, weary, truly expecting nothing to come of this save more suffering. “Is there no other way? This is all a misunderstanding.”

  “Hawkwood and the dwarf have poisoned you against me long enough,” Jovan snarled, rage etched on his face. “Even turned you against our holy vicar. Against Laijon. It is a father’s job to raise his children in the truth of Laijon or be damned. But our father is dead. It’s now my duty to keep you in step with the church and its teachings. I merely do the will of Laijon, ridding you of those who turn you against me.”

  In the background, Grand Vicar Denarius nodded his approval. Jondralyn knew Jovan was set in his ways—there was no arguing with him, especially in the vicar’s and quorum’s presence. When her mother was pregnant with Ansel, she had spoken to Jondralyn of her fear that if Borden was killed in war, and Jovan took over as king, her son would fall prey to the political machinations of both the grand vicar and the Val Vallè ambassador, Val Korin. And she’d been right. Jovan was beholden to both to an alarming degree. And Jondralyn found her brother’s constant piety and bullying in the name of Laijon ultimately dangerous for Gul Kana. Ever since hearing some of the Brethren of Mia’s interpretations on Laijon, the Blessed Mother Mia, and the baby Raijael, Jondralyn wasn’t sure she believed in the Church of Laijon’s infallibility anymore. She hadn’t prayed of her own accord in moons. There were tiny effigies of Laijon throughout Amadon Castle, but she no longer paused to kneel before them as she once had.

  “You four Dayknights”—Jovan pointed to the four surrounding Hawkwood—“make yourselves ready for the duel. I will bestow treasure and holdings near Knightliegh upon the one who strikes the head from the villain before you.”

  “Four against one!” Jondralyn shouted. “It is not fair!”

  “And when I win?” Hawkwood asked, sheathing his sword, as if in acquiescence to the coming fight, eyes on Jovan. “What holdings and treasure do I get?”

  “When you win?” Jovan laughed. “What could you possibly want besides your feeble right to live a short time longer than you normally would have?”

  The arena herald’s voice sang out through the stadium, announcing the next match. The orchestra struck up a wild chord as the next fighters strode onto the field. One was Shkill Gha, the killer-oghul from Jutte, a seven-foot-tall, leathery beast of a fighter in rusted mail armor who lumbered into the arena to the beat of the orchestral drums. He slowly swung his heavy war hammer to and fro above his head. The crowd booed the oghul voraciously. He answered with a smile, baring teeth like yellow-rusted knives.

  “When I win!” Hawkwood demanded over the roar of the crowd.

  Jovan scrutinized the other man with a scowl. “The matter is settled! You win your right to live but a moment more by my leave!”

  Jondralyn pleaded, “That means next to nothing—”

  “Shut up!” Jovan bellowed. “I don’t wish to miss watching this bloodsucking oghul crush his opponent.” He then clapped loudly. “This foul beast is my favorite!”

  Below, Shkill Gha pulverized his foe beneath the weight of his massive war hammer. His victorious roar was so loud it drowned out the chorus of boos from the crowd and swallowed up the sound of the orchestral horns and drums. “I fuooking’a shite on yo all’a!” he bellowed in his thick oghul accent, booming voice deep and jarring. “I fuook on’a yo muothers!” The oghul’s thunderous shouting brought the entire arena to silence. Shkill Gha tossed aside his war hammer and grabbed the fallen gladiator under both arms. The oghul lifted the limp corpse so he was face-to-face with the dead man. He bared his teeth, lips curling back, drool running from the corners of his mouth. He bit into the mutilated flesh of the dead man’s pulverized neck and sucked the still-warm blood from lifeless veins. That was the last thing Jondralyn saw as the Dayknight captain escorted her, Roguemoore, and Hawkwood from the arena.

  An iron-gray sky heavy with clouds boiled above Jondralyn and Roguemoore as they stood upon the battlements. The arena matches had ended earlier that afternoon. Below, Tala and Lawri, along with Lindholf Le Graven and Glade Chaparral, watched Val-Korin’s daughter spar with Val-Draekin in the center of Greengrass Courtyard. Val-Draekin’s injured arm was in a splint and heavily bandaged; still he fought off Seita’s flurry of attacks with ease.

  “Look how fluidly the Vallè fight,” Jondralyn said. “Even with one arm in a sling, Val-Draekin can beat back any threat Seita poses.”

  “Indeed, the Vallè are a different breed in many ways,” Roguemoore followed.

  Jondralyn could hear the Vallè princess’s lilting laugh even from her perch overlooking the yard. Greengrass Courtyard was a private royal garden roughly three hundred paces long by a hundred wide. It was located about three-quarters of the way up Mount Albion near the center of Amadon Castle, directly below the King’s Gallery and the great Sunbird Hall. There were perhaps two dozen such courtyards scattered about the many levels of Amadon Castle. The largest—Tin Man Square—was nestled between the two towers of Thesua just below the Great Gatehouse about halfway up Mount Albion.

  The sight of Val-Draekin’s skill with a blade left a somber residue of bitterness in Jondralyn. She’d blundered miserably in the Filthy Horse Saloon. It made her feel inadequate in every way. “To me it seems Val-Draekin let those sailors in the saloon injure him intentionally. Someone with the Vallè’s skill could have beaten them back.” She turned to the dwarf. “Have you met with him since he came to the castle last night?”

  “He’s saddened that Breita is not at court with Seita. But he’s brought news from his homeland. He claims Val-Korin has fallen out of favor with the Val Vallè royal family. I will leave it at that for now.”


  With two flicks of his wooden blade, the injured Vallè disarmed Seita. Her wooden sword spun off into the grass, but cat-quick she dove and caught it before it touched the ground. Tumbling, she sprang to her feet and launched her own wave of blows. Val-Draekin was soon retreating under her onslaught. The two Vallè looked like dancers as they sparred, yet there was something almost barbaric about them too, some savage quality that was both lethal and serene. As they fought, Val-Draekin’s face remained beautiful, yet devoid of passion. Seita always appeared at ease with the world. Indeed, pleasant laughter lived within her eyes and voice. She disarmed Val-Draekin. His wooden sword arced away and he nearly dove for it, then pulled up short, motioning to his injured arm. Vallè flesh healed thrice as fast as a human’s. Injuries like Val-Draekin had suffered in the Filthy Horse Saloon would normally take a man six moons to recover from fully—it would take the Vallè about two. Still, even injured and in defeat, Val-Draekin moved with a languid grace few possessed and many envied. Jondralyn knew she would’ve been slain in that pirates’ duel had Val-Draekin not fought in her stead.

  “Don’t feel so sorry for yourself,” Roguemoore said. “Don’t think I can’t tell what you are thinking.”

  “How do you know what I think?” she snapped, then realized the dwarf did not deserve her wrath. Still, many things had upset her today. “True, I am unhappy. Hawkwood is now under guard of the Dayknights, awaiting the duel.”

  “Everything has a purpose,” Roguemoore said. “Another of the Brethren’s creeds. I know you worry for both Hawkwood and Squireck. But everything has a purpose.”

  “Everything has a purpose?” She was beginning to think the dwarf was not telling her all he knew about Hawkwood, Val-Draekin, the Brethren of Mia, and their plans. She saw the honor in Hawkwood’s defense of her at the arena. But the whole episode seemed entirely pointless; it felt almost staged by her brother to catch Hawkwood in just such a dilemma—defending her. She wondered why Jovan hated Hawkwood so. “I see no purpose in the duel. Surely Jovan knows Hawkwood will kill the Dayknights.”

  “Don’t be so sure he will, Jon.”

  “You doubt his skills?” she asked harshly.

  “You remind me of your mother, headstrong and foolish, the both of you. Your brashness at the Filthy Horse bears that out. You want to challenge and threaten and fight and out-argue everyone, including your brother. Everything to you is a crusade for fairness. In a great many ways you remind me of Alana. She acted as such with your father. She challenged him, as you challenge Jovan. But she was far more cautious than you.”

  “Me challenge and threaten and fight and argue? It was you who mocked the grand vicar, you who initiated the entire argument that led up to this pointless duel.”

  “Jovan’s court is much like the arena. You have the quorum, the grand vicar, the Vallè ambassador, countless other lords and barons, all vying for Jovan’s attention and favor. Jovan senses you are smarter than them all. He fears you.”

  “Fears me?” She felt herself swell with pride.

  “Hawkwood says you have potential as a fighter. But you attack too quickly with too much attention spent on cutting and slashing, with no attempt to defend. You could do well in the arena fighting in such a brash way against untrained criminals. Perhaps you could have taken that old sailor in the Filthy Horse had the fight not been a ‘pirates’ duel.’ But in reality, you haven’t the patience to find your opponent’s weaknesses. You shoot your mouth off in the same way. Think before you speak or threaten or challenge. Unlike your mother, you wear your emotions too visibly, Jon.”

  “You advise me to think before I threaten or challenge?”

  Roguemoore looked directly at her, eyes unyielding. “Ask yourself this. Why was your father in Oksana when the White Prince first attacked Wyn Darrè?”

  “I don’t know,” she answered, feeling the dwarf was just running her around in circles. “It was nearly five years ago when he died.”

  “Is he dead?”

  The abruptness of the question stunned her. “Ser Jubal Bruk saw him die, as did Jovan and Leif Chaparral and a host of other survivors of the battle.”

  “Jubal Bruk claimed he saw your father fall, and from a distance of several hundred yards, mind you. And I doubt Jovan or Leif saw a thing. But more importantly, why was Borden on the far side of Wyn Darrè at that particular moment in time?”

  “Under Father’s rule, Gul Kana always lent what aid it could against Sør Sevier’s crusade. He was there in Oksana to stop the White Prince’s invasion in Wyn Darrè before it reached Gul Kana.”

  “Yes and no.”

  She looked at the dwarf, expecting more, but she could read nothing in his gaze.

  “There are such things as prisoners of war,” Roguemoore stated, turning away.

  “Sør Sevier would have bragged they’d captured Borden, held him for ransom.”

  “Not if they wanted us to keep Gul Kana’s armies out of Wyn Darrè. A dead king is easier to reconcile than a captured king. A captured king needs rescuing. And Sør Sevier did not want Jovan rushing to the aid of Wyn Darrè. Their spies and influence run deep. Sør Sevier knew that Borden’s councillors would pull Gul Kana’s armies out of Wyn Darrè at his death.”

  “If what you say is true, and Sør Sevier influences our court, and if the White Prince indeed captured my father, then in all likelihood he killed him soon thereafter.”

  “Not if he wanted to bring him out later, for some other purpose.”

  “You are like Jovan. You see a conspiracy in everything, dwarf.” At her words, she detected a measure of hurt behind those dark, unrevealing eyes of his.

  “The Five Isles are thick with conspiracy, Jon. I just told you. Trust no one. Your father was a clear thinker. He would have marched the entire might of our armies into Wyn Darrè and fought off Sør Sevier on foreign soil had his councillors and lords allowed it and backed him in his plan. He was not enamored of the idea, but he knew that if an enemy comes, you fight. For, if they keep coming, they may destroy you. He knew that the only way to utterly conquer an enemy is to go to his kingdom and burn his lands, kill him, kill his wife, his children. He believed one does not negotiate with a butcher. With a butcher, the only way peace is achieved is with the honed edge of a blade and the spilling of blood. And the White Prince is a butcher. As, I fear, Gul Kana will soon learn.”

  Roguemoore paused before continuing. “Your father believed a Sør Sevier assassin was responsible for your mother’s death when Ansel was born. Most chalked Alana’s death up to the complications of childbirth. Not your father. His desire to strike against the White Prince was spurred not only by practicality, but by his emotions, too. He fought Sør Sevier despite what others thought. There were barons, lords, archbishops, and even a grand vicar along with scores of others in Gul Kana who did not approve. Their case was that Wyn Darrè’s problems are not Gul Kana’s. Let Wyn Darrè fight its own battles. After all, Sør Sevier is no direct threat. The entirety of the king’s court thinks the prophecies in The Way and Truth of Laijon are about to be fulfilled and Fiery Absolution is inevitable, so why send good men to fight against prophecy and destiny? These notions, in part, were planted in their heads by conspirators, emissaries of Sør Sevier. But your parents and others in the Brethren of Mia swore many oaths together, promising to never allow Absolution to happen. That is our focus, the prevention of Fiery Absolution. Now that fighting the White Prince on Wyn Darrè soil is no longer an option, we must proceed by other means. The Brethren have been preparing for near two decades. We’ve a way to defeat Aeros and his armies that does not involve the deaths of tens of thousands of Gul Kana soldiers.”

  “What are you getting at?”

  “Trust no one, Jon, not the vicar or the quorum, certainly not Val-Korin or his daughters, and as I see it, perhaps not even Val-Draekin. I have not made up my mind yet, though your father spoke highly of him.” His words only added to her confusion.

  “Indeed, you are like my brother.�
�� Jondralyn was growing tired of the vagueness in parts of their conversation. “Everything is a conspiracy with you two. Why is Val-Draekin here?”

  “We must keep him close. The information he carries is important to the many oaths I swore to your father so long ago. Val-Draekin has the potential to become either one of our greatest allies or our worst enemy. It depends upon how we treat him. No. How you treat him, Jon. You are tied to him in a way. He is important to the plans of the Brethren of Mia, more so than your father initially believed. If something should happen to Hawkwood during the duel with the Dayknights, do not lose sight of Val-Draekin.”

  The dwarf had earlier hinted that he did not expect Hawkwood would kill the Dayknights, when she knew he was more than capable. Her brother was setting Hawkwood up for something worse, she feared. “It is clear Jovan wants the Brethren of Mia eliminated. You should escape the city, Roguemoore, now, while you can, before my brother sets you up too. Flee from this place if you value your life. There is something about this duel that doesn’t seem right. We fell right into Jovan’s trap.”

  “Indeed.” The dwarf smiled, and his deep-set eyes now sparkled. “Sometimes it is best if you make them believe the trap is theirs.”

  With an icy rattle along the nape of her neck, Jondralyn had the sudden stark sensation of falling into a brisk rolling river, of being hurled about by unseen currents. Around Roguemoore she often felt she was an unwilling participant in a very large game, a game so far beyond her she was helpless in it. Yet, still, within the midst of this spinning battle, she was both frightened and thrilled. Like her father and mother before her, Jondralyn wanted to be part of the Brethren of Mia. But who were her allies? Hawkwood? Squireck? Roguemoore? She had made her bonds with each them, for sure. But had she chosen them? Or had they chosen her? And what was the Brethren’s true purpose that Roguemoore had just spoken of? We’ve a way to defeat Aeros and his armies that does not involve the deaths of hundreds of thousands of Gul Kana soldiers. How? This question ran around her head like a rat trapped in a cage.