The Forgetting Moon

by Brian Lee Durfee

  Jovan took the sword and shield from Sterling. He thrust one arm through the strap of his shield and hefted the sword, feeling its weight. He met Tala’s eyes for but a moment, and she saw something she hadn’t noticed in Jovan before. Her brother’s face looked tired, older, drained. The once-boyish cast to his features had faded. He stared at Jondralyn in her armor for a moment, then turned from her.

  “You shouldn’t worship Hawkwood so,” he said casually to Glade and Lindholf, who now stood at attention before him. “I have been watching you from above, dueling, using Hawkwood’s Sør Sevier tricks. The techniques of that Sør Sevier bastard are no longer a part of your training.”

  “With all due respect”—Seita bowed before the king—“those were Vallè tricks I was teaching, with just a sprinkling of Sør Sevier blade work intermingled.”

  “And Hawkwood’s the best fighter in Amadon,” Lindholf said. “We’ve learned so much from him alread—”

  Lawri let out a sharp gasp as Sterling Prentiss slapped her twin brother’s face hard with the back of his gauntlets. “Don’t argue with your king, boy.”

  Lindholf’s head snapped back. Cuts from the gauntlet welled red along his cheek, and his nose was bloodied. The rain had picked up. It quickly washed the blood away. For some reason, Lindholf glanced at Tala. It seemed he was more embarrassed that she, of all people, had seen him get slapped. Tala took pity on her cousin and sent him what she thought was a warm look. It didn’t seem to help matters, though. When Lindholf looked back at the captain, both hurt and rage glinted in his eyes.

  “Yes, be mad at me, you sniveling arse-wipe,” Sterling said. “But mind your manners, too. I will remember this day and your ill-advised words.” He turned and addressed all the soldiers gathered around. “The king is right. We should be wary that a scoundrel such as Hawkwood has been allowed to live and train among us for so long. You are henceforth forbidden to practice any sword craft he has taught you.”

  Jondralyn stepped in front of the Dayknight captain, anger on her face. “Hawkwood is my friend.”

  Tala was stunned when Jovan swung his sword. Jondralyn pulled her own short blade, barely in time to block the blow aimed at her head. Tala’s ears rang with the sounds of steel on steel. The sharp twang and clank of Jovan’s naked blade striking against that of Jondralyn carried with it a certain foreboding and reminded Tala of the real sounds of death and battles in the arena.

  “What’s the meaning of this?” Jondralyn stammered, backing away from her brother, sword at the ready. Tala sensed that every crossbow bolt in the battlements above was raised and aimed straight at her sister. Rain fell harder now, the drops dampening Tala’s dress and streaming across her cheeks. She was assaulted by a gloom that settled into her heart. The courtyard had now become a joyless place.

  “The folly of Borden’s eldest daughter is at an end,” Jovan said. “I am your older brother and I am your king.” He thrust his shield out and readied his blade for another strike at Jondralyn. “If you love Hawkwood so much, then let us fight, sister. It is what you want, after all. To prove your manhood. Disarm me and I call off the duel between your friend and the Dayknights. You lose, the duel goes on as planned. One week from now.”

  Jondralyn’s answer was quick in coming. With surprising speed her sword lashed out in a wide swing aimed beneath the king’s shield, meant to sweep his feet away. Jovan jumped backward and thrust his shield to the ground. Jondralyn’s sword clacked against the shield. They backed away from each other, swords poised.

  As her older siblings circled each other, Tala found it hard to believe they were actually fighting with bare steel. Neither wore a helm, and rain plastered their hair around their heads and ran in rivulets from their faces. Tala shivered from the biting squall that poured down. How had it so quickly come to this, a duel between siblings to settle other people’s problems? Seita was right about the folly of dueling. Something had definitely changed in Jovan since the kingship had been thrust upon him. The older brother Tala had once admired was becoming more distrustful of everyone, including his own sister. Tala wanted to shout at them to stop. But as the younger royal sibling, she knew she must act normal, appear unconcerned, remain stoic, as if a duel between brother and sister were a mere diversion from her normally uneventful, solitary, routine-dominated life.

  It soon looked as if the early blow Jondralyn had delivered would be her only one. Jovan blocked the rest with his upraised shield; at the same time, he was attacking repeatedly with his own sword, beating Jondralyn about the arms and shoulders, quickly wearing her down. Jondralyn’s chain mail was the only thing saving her from serious injury. The weight of her sword was becoming a disadvantage now. Even though she wielded a short sword, her every swing was more labored than the last. Jovan was thrusting his shield up under her guard, pushing her backward. Jondralyn had no choice but to retreat, winded. Once they were separated by a few yards of turf, Jondralyn bent and sucked in air. But Jovan allowed her no respite and lunged. Jondralyn raised her sword to block, but it was knocked from her hand. She fell to her knees from the impact.

  “Done!” Jovan placed his booted foot against Jondralyn’s chest and shoved her backward onto the muddy grass. “It appears Hawkwood will duel the Dayknights as planned.” He handed Sterling Prentiss his shield and sword. Both men walked from the courtyard in silence, and the crossbowmen along the battlements retreated from sight.

  “Well,” Seita said as Jovan and Sterling disappeared through the far tunnel. “I see the pecking order has clearly been established. As if we didn’t already know.”

  Jondralyn gathered up her fallen sword. Still kneeling, she dropped back to her haunches, the shortsword now gripped in both hands, resting on her legs. Her head hung low. Matted strands of hair partially obscured her face. Rainwater ran from the chain mail in sheets. Tala took two steps toward her sister but stopped as Lawri Le Graven slowly folded to the ground directly in front of her.

  “She’s fainted.” Lindholf rushed to his sister’s side.

  Seita and Val-Draekin knelt over Lawri. “We must get her out of the rain.” Seita felt Lawri’s neck for a pulse, shielding Lawri’s body from the rain with her own.

  Tala’s heart was pounding. She tried to take hold of her deeply rooted emotions, a breath, another, yet there remained a puddling warmth sinking within her chest, a faint swirl of dread growing in her gut.

  Could it be the assassin’s poison was truly eating at Lawri?

  “We should carry her to the infirmary.” Lindholf cradled his sister’s head. “Help me lift her, Glade. She’s been hiding some terrible bouts of sickness lately. Looking pretty for the court but puking her guts out in her chamber in secret.”

  Seita pulled a small wooden box from the pouch at her waist, stuck two of her fingers into it, and rubbed her fingers under Lawri’s nose. Lawri’s eyes darted open as she shot to a sitting position, sneezing and coughing.

  “What was that you wiped under her nose?” Lindholf asked.

  “Just a little fairy dust,” Seita answered, smiling. “A magical elf concoction my pet mouse taught me how to make.” But her attempt at humor was lost on Lindholf as he put one arm around his sister’s shoulders whilst his other hand held wet hair out of her face. Lawri sneezed. With Glade, Lindholf helped his sister to her feet.

  “I’m taking her in,” he said as Lawri’s sneezing turned to a hacking cough. Then she vomited. “Rotted angels,” Lindholf muttered, looking up at Seita. “Bloody Mother Mia, what did you rub under her nose? It’s made her spew.”

  “Its purpose was to make her spew,” Seita said. “It all has a purpose, Lindholf. Everything I do.”

  Tala felt a tug at her arm and turned. It was Jondralyn. Her older sister was sodden with mud from the field. As Tala looked upon Jondralyn, a vague weight of unease was burrowing into her heart. The cause of her consternation was in the look that her sister gave her, an almost pleading look.

  Jondralyn’s eyes traveled slowly, deliberately, from
Tala to Lawri and back. “I’m going to need your help,” she said, moving closer. There was a splattering of rain across her shoulders, and she smelled of wet leather and cold armor. She whispered in Tala’s ear. “Yes, Tala, I think you’re the only one who can help me now.”

  * * *

  Whoso believeth that hostile spirits dwell in the totems, let them be accursed. Whoso believeth the standing-stones guard buried treasures and the holy weapons of Laijon, let them be accursed. For we the prophets of old say unto you now, the weapons of the Five Warrior Angels were taken up into heaven.

  —THE WAY AND TRUTH OF LAIJON

  * * *

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  NAIL

  2ND DAY OF THE MOURNING MOON, 999TH YEAR OF LAIJON

  GALLOWS HAVEN, GUL KANA

  There are those in Gallows Haven who expect me to be perfect,” Ava Shay said with a touch of sadness, her face a golden silhouette against the starlight twinkling off the ocean waves beyond her. “I fear I may never be able to live up to their expectations. Living alone, raising my brothers and sisters, takes its toll.”

  “I think you’re perfect,” Nail said simply.

  “You’re so nice.”

  They sat in the sand, gazing at the ocean. Nail’s sword and armor rested nearby. All the day’s Mourning Moon Feast competitions were now over. Nail wore a rough-spun shirt, pants, and leather greaves. Smoke from Jubal Bruk’s black cauldrons billowed up into the darkness to the north, the boiling of grayken blubber still ongoing. A few scabby chickens pecked in the dirt just to the south. The sound of dogs barking in the distance and the natter of the village women preparing food for the revelers of the Mourning Moon Feast were a blur of noise near the keep far behind them. So conscious was he of the nearness of Ava Shay, Nail was only dimly aware of any of it. The turtle necklace she’d made for him was still around his neck, its presence a burning reminder of his want for her.

  “The future can be frightening,” she continued. “Some prospects seem exciting, overwhelming even. Things may open up for me and my siblings soon. I mean, my parents have been dead a while now. I’m so conflicted, most times.” Ava trailed off into silence. Nail studied her golden-hued face, lit from the distant bonfires of the Mourning Moon Feast. There was an ivory-peach tint to her skin. Her full lips glistened.

  “I’ve made plans.” He thought of his own uncertain future. “Perhaps I can design stained-glass windows for chapels, maybe a cathedral.” Though he wondered if he would ever be able to do anything without Shawcroft’s permission.

  “You are a splendid artist, Nail. The best in the village. Never change. I like you just the way you are.” Her statement moved him profoundly. Nobody had ever said such a thing to him, certainly not his master. Her words sharpened his desire for her.

  He leaned in and kissed her. Her lips were soft and tasted of cinnamon. She pulled away a little quicker than he would have wanted and rested her hand in his. “You’re so nice. So strong. Handsome, too. You will make some lucky girl very happy one day.”

  Nail didn’t know quite what to make of her last comment. But in the moonlight, her soft-glowing eyes sparkled like pools of cool water. There was a scent of flowers about her. He ached to kiss her again.

  “That odd woman we saw on the mountain,” she continued, looking nervous, “that cloaked woman on the red-eyed horse who spoke to you, did you know her?”

  Nail shuddered, imagining the Vallè woman’s terrified face as Shawcroft put the knife to her ear, the screams as she’d burned. “She was just a lost traveler or something.”

  “There’s been talk of a Sør Sevier spy in town. Was it her?” There was real worry in Ava’s eyes. “Will the White Prince attack here?”

  “Why would he attack here? Gallows Haven is so small.” His mind was whirling. You are not of my blood. Still, they will be coming for you, the Vallè woman had said. Shawcroft had called her a Bloodwood. Bloodwood assassins have hunted us your entire life, boy!

  Stefan Wayland had drawn his bow on the woman that day. Nail had done nothing. Stood dumbfounded as she’d muttered nonsense at him. Some days he wondered if he truly had anything to offer anyone.

  Stefan was the best bowman in Gallows Haven. Earlier tonight, just outside the keep’s courtyard, he’d won the Mourning Moon Feast archery competition. His prize: a finely carved, solidly weighted Amadon Silver Guard bow from Baron Bruk. Gisela Barnwell, Maiden Blue of the Mourning Moon Feast, had kissed Stefan right then and there. Even Dokie Liddle had attended the competition, his face showing scarcely any signs of his lightning burns. With an enthusiastic shout, Dokie had assured everyone that Stefan would win the archery competition against Tomkin Sty and Peddlers Point conscripts when they held their annual tournament between towns.

  “Do you believe in The Way and Truth of Laijon?” Ava asked, resting her head on Nail’s shoulder. “Do you believe in Laijon?”

  “I reckon I believe,” he muttered. Shawcroft certainly took issue with much that was taught within the holy book. And some of those doubts had been instilled in him. But his master rarely explained himself when it came to matters of faith. “It’s just sometimes, the writings of The Way and Truth of Laijon seem awfully hard to decipher.”

  Ava giggled. “At least you are honest, Nail. You say what comes to your mind, even if it is nonsense. You just might be the most honest young man in all of Gallows Haven. It is admirable, to be sure. My mother, when she lived, was devoted to Laijon, almost to the point of distraction. She carried the cross about her neck and rubbed the Ember Gathering beads in her hands. When I am given my cross and beads, I will do the same. The Way and Truth of Laijon has commanded us to shrug away the cloak of unrighteous doubt. I have prayed often and felt Laijon’s Holy Spirit warm within my body, within my own heart. His spirit has frightened away the wraiths that might steal my soul. He answers the prayers of the worthy.”

  Nail admired her devotion, wishing he could find the warmth of Laijon’s spirit within his own heart too. It seemed some were blessed with a gift of faith, a type of faith that he longed for. That he couldn’t summon it within himself was frustrating.

  Ava lifted her head from his shoulder, took his arm, and pulled him down. They lay in the sand, gazing heavenward. “When you look at the stars, what do you see?”

  Nail studied the southern Gul Kana sky. Pinpricks of frosty light twinkled from horizon to horizon. “Seems so big. Makes my life seem so . . . insignificant.”

  “I wonder what the sky is,” Ava spoke softly. “The Way and Truth of Laijon speaks of heaven being in the sky. But why can I not see it up there?”

  Nobody had talked to him about the sky since he was a child. He recalled the fellow, Culpa Barra, who had lived with him and Shawcroft for a time in Deadwood Gate. Culpa had read to him from old scrolls, taught him secrets of the stars and the lights of the borealis, ideas and concepts he only half remembered.

  “There was a man, a friend of Shawcroft’s, who once told me of heaven,” he said, his voice reverent in tone. “He spoke of Laijon and the other Warrior Angels. He spoke of those fighters who have died in the service of Laijon being raised into heaven to live among the stars—”

  “How horrid,” Ava said, leaning on one elbow, looking at him now with revulsion. “And did you believe such blasphemous ideas?”

  Nail was taken aback. “He spoke of stars without end,” he said hastily, thinking if he explained himself further, she would understand. It was one of his fondest memories, Culpa Barra taking him aside and teaching him of the stars. “All created by Laijon, numberless and without end.”

  Ava sat up, folding her knees against her chest, wrapping her arms around them. “He seems full of Mia-worshipping witchcraft, this man. Heaven is a glorious place of spirits, not Warrior Angels living among the stars. The stars are too small. A warrior would crush a star between the tips of his fingers. I don’t recall Bishop Tolbret reading anything like that out of The Way and Truth of Laijon. The holy book says the Blessed Mother is to
be revered, never worshipped. It is taught that she was a great woman. But we are not to worship her in place of Laijon. Goddess worship is wrong. Ol’ Man Leddingham heard tell, long ago, that before Baron Bruk came to Gallows Haven, he burned a raggedy Mia-worshipping witch who preached such wretchedness in Amadon. Leddingham said this woman was unclean before Laijon and deserved to die by Fiery Absolution.”

  The entire conversation was not at all going the way Nail had hoped. Now it looked as if he had offended the only person he wished not to offend. Both of them being parentless, he’d always felt a shared bond with Ava. But that now seemed to be unraveling. “Perhaps I misheard,” he stammered.

  Ava was looking south down the beach. Two figures were making their way up the waterline. They veered off and began climbing the grassy knoll toward Gallows Keep. When the firelight from the Mourning Moon Feast struck the two figures, Nail could see it was Jenko and Jubal Bruk.

  “We should get back to the feast.” Ava stood and hurried up the beach. Nail grabbed his armor and sword and followed.

  “There’s one too many boys here.” The Bishop strolled up from behind, brown cassock brushing the ground beneath him, prayer book in hand. “I’ve not enough Ember Lighting robes for you all. There’s one here who will not be fitted tonight.”

  Every boy in front of the chapel hung his head, none in the group daring to make eye contact with Nail. Even Stefan, Zane, and Dokie looked away. The silence lasted a while. Nail’s eyes crawled up the steep face of the chapel, gazing toward the stained-glass windows high above. Somehow he knew what was coming. The disappointment seemed almost too unfathomable to grasp, especially in the state he was in, slightly drunk. He felt the sword at his hip and looked down at his pile of armor, stacked against the chapel’s outer wall with the armor of the other seventeen-year-old boys.