The Forgetting Moon

by Brian Lee Durfee

  Directly in front of the Prince of Saint Only, Val-Ce-Laveroc and Val-Rievaux looked to be sharing a joke. The two Vallè gladiators were athletic and deadly. She had seen them kill in the arena with as much precision and skill as either Squireck or the oghul. Both Vallè warriors wore simple black leather pants over shirts of overlapping, scaled leaf mail. It was customary that the gladiators attend the celebration in full battle gear. The royals reveled in seeing their fighters all dressed up in their gladiator regalia—minus the weapons, of course.

  Shkill Gha was stuffing his mouth with meat and pastries. As he chewed, his ponderous lips peeled back, revealing a gaping maw crowded with rows of fanglike yellow teeth. His hideous face wore an expression of contempt for any who approached him asking of the tournament. He snarled at all comers, a deep rumble setting many to scatter. The three other gladiators appeared to be the only ones in the room unaffected by his grandiose presence. To be honest, this particular oghul was profoundly more ugly than Jondralyn’s trainer Anjk Bourbon. Shkill Gha’s arms were as corded and rough as old stumps and hung lumbering and low beneath his shoulders. His beady eyes drank in the sight of the Vallè princess, Seita, standing a few paces away. She was talking to Claybor Chaparral. The oghul shambled forward and stood over her, smiling wide, globs of food in his teeth. Lord Claybor looked at the beast in utter revulsion. Yet Seita bowed graciously to Shkill Gha and handed him a pastry from her own hand; he gobbled it immediately. Jondralyn had heard stories of this oghul’s crimes. He was a brutal killer of hundreds. Humans were his prey. To kill so habitually was a sickness, many said, a sickness caused by the wraiths that could never be reined in. It was clear that the wraiths afflicted oghul-kind, too. Shkill Gha noticed her staring, curled his lip, and growled.

  Jondralyn blanched and made her way back to her brother’s table on the raised dais at the eastern end of the room. Shkill Gha was a fright. Unlike Jovan, she believed the rumors of oghul Hragna’Ar raids in the far northlands of Gul Kana. Oghuls had their own prophets and shamans, shamans who spoke of the end of times as the great Hragna’Ar, which included raiding and pillaging, and, it was also rumored, human sacrifice.

  Jovan was alone at the end of the long table, the remains of his dinner spread before him. A row of six Dayknights, ever watchful of the crowd, lined the velvet-draped wall behind the king. To the far left of the six knights was the tall Silver Throne itself, always covered in white sheets, scarcely used or even seen since Borden Bronachell’s death. Jovan wore a black cloak trimmed with silver at the wrists and neckline with a black leather belt embellished with shiny brass looplets. Diamond and ruby rings adorned his fingers, jeweled bracelets circled each wrist, and gold chains, each hung with glistening gems, were draped about his neck. The only simple thing about Jovan was the royal crown upon his head—a silver band nearly a thousand years old.

  Unlike her brother, Jondralyn wore no finery with her already richly brocaded gown. Just a simple silver brooch. No gold chains. No rings. She didn’t want people to begin thinking of her as overly extravagant in anything. She desired the populace to see her as different from Jovan in every way.

  She sat at the opposite end of the table from him. She dipped her hand into the bowl on the table, snatched up a handful of nuts, and popped them into her mouth one at a time. Her gaze was fixed on a bracelet Jovan had removed from his wrists. He began shining it with a white silk handkerchief. The sight of her brother so engrossed in polishing such a useless trinket sickened her. She wanted to take the bracelet and cram it down his throat. There’d been a time when she felt her brother was not so unreachable; but of course they had been young children then. It was highly doubtful they would ever reclaim that closeness they’d once shared. And after the duel in the courtyard, where Jovan had so soundly thumped her in front of everyone, she knew there was little love left in him for any of his siblings.

  She took solace in the fact that she was privy to information that even her brother was not. Jovan was unaware of the Rooms of Sorrow buried under the city. He did not know of the white angel stone or Laijon’s shield, Ethic Shroud. Jovan was not part of the Brethren of Mia as she was—as their father mother and father had been.

  “Ale to wash down your nuts, m’lady?” The serving girl who had earlier caught Jondralyn’s eye curtsied before her. The girl held forth a silver goblet. With her ordinary looks, this girl was just another servant in the crowd, simple, bland, and unassuming. It was her breasts that set her apart—puffing from the top of her corset in a most obnoxious, attention-grabbing way. Jondralyn took the offered goblet, trying to place the face of the girl.

  “Do I dare ask to sit with you a moment, m’lady?” The girl threw her a shy look.

  “You can sit where you like,” Jondralyn said.

  “Not on your lap, I assume,” the girl said, giggling. Jondralyn shot the serving girl a dark look as the girl straddled the bench in front of her. “If Dame Vilamina sees me here, I would get a scolding for sure. She brooks no slouching from her staff.”

  The girl certainly had a flirty, confident way about her that Jondrayn imagined enthralled most men. From the way the girl brazenly sat, facing her, Jondralyn could see up her skirt almost to the top of her inner thigh. The girl placed both hands on the bench before her and pressed her breasts together with her arms, leaning in. She had a way of ducking her chin and making her eyes look big and round and, well, rather beautiful. Those eyes also twinkled with mischief.

  “You look familiar,” Jondralyn said. “I’ve seen you at court before? Yet I cannot recall your name.”

  “You don’t recall my name?” The girl’s eyes grew a tad cold as she pulled back. “I must say, I’m hurt.” She flashed a nasty, flirtatious little grin.

  Jondralyn felt herself blushing and, casting her eyes about, noticed Tala standing at the edge of the crowd, scowling like a thundercloud. Jondralyn frowned at her younger sister and turned back to the serving girl. “What is your name?”

  “Delia,” the girl said, her voice dark and creamy, almost husky with lust.

  Then it dawned on her. “You work at the Filthy Horse Saloon. What are you doing in the castle?”

  “Who’s this?” Jovan’s voice rumbled down the length of the table. “Who’s that girl with you?” Jovan was pointing at Delia, his voice slurred. Jondralyn could tell her brother was not quite fully drunk yet, but getting there. “Introduce me,” he said.

  Delia shot to her feet, then immediately dropped to one knee before her king, bowing low.

  “What is your name, girl?” Jovan stood.

  “Delia,” she said, straightening. “If it please Your Excellency.”

  Jovan staggered the length of the table toward the girl, his ceremonial sword clanking at his side. “You’re not considering sneaking away with my sister tonight, are you? The way she dresses some days, one might think it was indeed women she fancied.” There was a hard tightening around Jovan’s eyes. Jondralyn was learning to notice these small warning signs. Jovan was spoiling for an argument. He hovered drunkenly over Delia now. “I’m afraid that Jondralyn does not care for men, if you take my meaning.”

  “I’m sorry, Your Excellency.” Delia bowed again, still on one knee. “Perhaps I should go.”

  “Don’t let me scare you off, sweetheart,” Jovan said, holding forth a hand and helping Delia to her feet. She stood graciously and bowed to him again. But Jovan was looking at Jondralyn. “How does oghul cock taste?” He spat the question angrily at her. “I hear their peckers are over a foot long and covered in boils.”

  Jondralyn snatched the goblet from the table and took a long drink from it.

  “Don’t think I don’t know about your gladiator training,” Jovan said, hostility now carved on his face. “I hear Anjk Bourbon would only train a human if that human suckled his cock as payment. So tell me, how does it taste?”

  Jondralyn settled into a seething silence, now sipping from her goblet of ale. She did not want to get into a fight with her brother now.
But Jovan pulled his black sword. It rang from its sheath with a hiss, earning a frightened squeal from Delia.

  Jondralyn flew to her feet. “What’s the meaning of this?”

  Tala was between them, begging. “Please, Jovan, no.” The look on her face was one of such worry and fright.

  Jovan brandished the weapon, eyes glinting like steel. “I can only imagine what foul oath that—that—dwarf made you take to join his brotherhood.”

  “I—I know not of what you speak,” Jondralyn stammered, eyes bouncing between Tala and Jovan. She had never been asked to swear an oath of any kind by Roguemoore or Hawkwood or Squireck when she was introduced to the Brethren of Mia. But for some reason, she now wished she had swore an oath of some kind, if for no other reason than to spite Jovan.

  “That dwarf’s witch-worshipping cult is an affront to Laijon,” Jovan snarled. “I should have you flogged for your insolence, now that the dwarf has disappeared. And if I find out that you had anything to do with Hawkwood’s escape from Purgatory, I will have you flogged. Perhaps worse.”

  “Please, Jovan, come sit with me.” Tala took Jovan by the arm, trying to lead him away, trembling as she did so.

  But Jovan shrugged Tala off, his jaw twitching with anger as he turned on Jondralyn. “Beware, sister, someday someone may hold you to account for this un-un-unfathomable treachery you are involved in.”

  “Please, Jovan, you’re drunk,” Tala pleaded again. “Come sit with me and Ansel.”

  “He’s bloody well lost his mind.” Jondralyn sat again, taking another swig of ale.

  With a forceful motion that made her flinch, Jovan sheathed his sword and said, “You know I suffer from a rabid intolerance of idealism and . . . and . . . folly, both of which abound in you. The arena is no place for a woman. It will gain you nothing but your own bloody death, Jon.”

  Jondralyn was gulping at her mead now, both hands clenched tight around the goblet. She eyed Jovan with what she hoped was unmistakable belligerence, but Jovan’s attention was now elsewhere—he was apologizing to Tala. “True, I am drunk.” Jovan’s voice was slurred. He scratched at his head wildly. “I am behaving poorly before guests and serving girls and even my dearest sister. Please forgive my brash behavior, Tala.”

  But Tala was looking straight at Delia, who appeared to avoid her stare.

  Jovan’s glassy gaze also shifted to the serving girl. “You also must accept my apologies,” he said, holding his hands out to her. “I insist.”

  But Delia was frozen in place, staring at the king with wide, terrified eyes.

  “Poor thing, I’ve frightened you.” Jovan bowed to the Filthy Horse barmaid. The silver crown slid from his head this time. It landed gently on the thick white rug under Jondralyn.

  “Do you mind?” Jovan motioned to the crown at Jondralyn’s feet. “I dare not reach down for fear of toppling over drunk. And I apologize to you, too, Jon. Much weighs heavy on my mind of late.”

  Jondralyn picked up the crown and handed it to him. Jovan placed it firmly back atop his head, then slapped her, a backhanded blow across the cheek that knocked her reeling against the table and sent her goblet of ale splashing over the rug.

  “Only the king is allowed to touch the royal crown!” he spat. “Mind your place!”

  A bone-deep weariness washed over Jondralyn. She felt the sting on her cheek. This was a battle she would not win now. She knew it.

  This abuse at the hands of her brother would not be over until she had proven her quality in the arena. She would usurp him. Then she would have to kill him.

  He was staring directly at Delia, his head leaning closer and closer down toward her, so close Jondralyn feared Jovan might very well topple drunkenly into her, face-planting himself right in her pale cleavage.

  “Like a little kitten, you charm without knowing it,” Jovan said to the girl. “Have you ever fucked a king?”

  “No, Your Excellency,” she answered.

  “Neither have I.” Jovan took her by the hand, pulling her toward him. “Perhaps you can tell me what it feels like.” With a snap of his fingers, the six Dayknights standing against the wall stepped forward and escorted Jovan and Delia out of Sunbird Hall.

  * * *

  Oh, that chaotic War of Cleansing! How it raged! Demons great and small fled before the might of the armies of the Five Isles, the Five Warrior Angels leading the way, reaping destruction. It mattered not where the foul demons slunk off to, be it mountain, sea, or cave, for they were found and they were slain. To the very last they died, to the last day of the Vicious War of the Demons, that final cleansing under the great Atonement Tree.

  —THE MOON SCROLLS OF MIA

  * * *

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  STERLING PRENTISS

  4TH DAY OF THE MOURNING MOON, 999TH YEAR OF LAIJON

  AMADON, GUL KANA

  Sterling felt cursed as he opened the door to the entry hall of the king’s chamber. Beyond that he made his way through a small foyer and cordoned-off library and then into Jovan’s bedroom. Culpa Barra followed.

  Sconces lined the walls, illuminating the scene. Jovan’s bloody clothes and bedsheets were strewn about the floor. The Val Vallè ambassador, Val-Korin, was examining the king’s four-post mahogany bed and blood-soaked sheets. His daughter, Seita, stood on the thick bearskin rug at the foot of the bed; another Vallè, the dark-haired fellow who’d been accompanying the ambassador’s daughter as of late, by her side—Val-Draekin his name. Sterling didn’t like the looks of him.

  The gray stone walls of the room were draped with velvet tapestries and hung with an astonishing number of decorative swords, all opulent with intricate jeweled hilts and delicately sculpted crosspieces. Every surface of Jovan’s scrollworked armoires and cabinets was covered with golden trinkets, glittery goblets, and jeweled Laijon statuettes.

  A kitchen girl, the front of her corset covered in blood, slumped against the wall near the cold stone hearth. Blood splatters adorned the priceless horsehair divan near her. Six Silver Guards flanked the girl, spears held at the ready. She wasn’t going anywhere with that much steel pointed in her face.

  “I’ve already had Jovan carried to the infirmary,” Val-Korin said, and bowed to Sterling. The Val Vallè ambassador wore a long black robe; the red brass pendant of his rank hung about his neck from a slender, bejeweled chain. “He was escorted by Ser Landon Galloway himself. Val-Gianni, my own physician, accompanied him.”

  “How grievous were his injuries?”

  “With a bit of Vallè luck, he may pull through.”

  Sterling studied the crimson-coated bedsheets with ever-growing dread. Jovan had lost a lot of blood in the attack. Though the captain held scant love for Jovan, the fact that an assassination attempt had happened so easily within the castle was a failure of staggering magnitude. It could cost Sterling his life. It was his solemn duty as Dayknight captain to protect both the Silver Throne and the grand vicar. As things stood, with the king near death, the vicar would be hard-pressed not to have Sterling hung.

  “We held her for you to question.” Val-Korin motioned to the distraught girl under guard. “A serving wench from the kitchen staff. Or so she claims.”

  “How could one such as she cause such chaos and havoc?” Sterling asked Culpa.

  It had been a long night for the two of them. The grand vicar’s anointing of the last four gladiators had already put Sterling in a state of prickly agitation that had lasted all evening. Every year it was the same, and in Sterling’s estimation, it was an uncouth tradition. Dousing criminals with consecrated oils, and then uttering the Angel Warrior’s Prayer over each, was an affront to human decency. Yet the priesthood blessing administered over the four gladiators was specific in its intent—the winner of the tournament was deemed holy and therefore ultimately innocent in the eyes of Laijon. Sterling doubted the validity of any of it. Agitated, he scowled at Val-Korin, Seita and Val-Draekin. “What are your daughter and this other person doing here?”


  “They were both with me when the guards raised the alarm,” Val-Korin answered cordially. “Naturally, they followed me here.”

  The Val Vallè princess nodded to Sterling, as did Val-Draekin.

  “Odd to bring a lady of the king’s court into such a bloody mess.”

  “My daughter’s here to learn an important lesson on abstaining from rash action, using caution in one’s life. You know, that life is not always a vase of fragrant flowers.”

  “Whatever.” Sterling looked from father to daughter. “This is a Dayknight investigation now. Archbishops will be involved too. You all must leave.”

  He moved toward the serving girl, who still cowered against the wall. Tears streaked her cheeks Sterling admired the cut and fit of the girl’s outfit. Even covered in blood, the garment suited her well. “Name?” he asked.

  “Delia.” Even scared and shaking, the girl possessed a rich, throaty voice. Her eyes darted about the room and rested on Culpa, who’d stepped up behind Sterling.

  “What have you to say for yourself?” Sterling continued.

  “He desired to sleep with me,” the girl blurted. “But then he got suddenly angry with me. I tried to soothe him. But then he would not have me.”

  “So you stabbed him?”

  “No, Ser. He fell asleep. Then I fell asleep. When I woke, he was already stabbed.” Four Silver Guard spears immediately threatened her throat. Fear flashed in her wide, round eyes. “It was I who shouted for the guards,” she said, voice shaking.

  Sterling looked askance at Culpa, who shrugged. Jovan was not one to dally with the kitchen help. The captain appraised the girl with a cold eye. She had a wild, untamed look underneath her fear. But he was certain that this girl had not stabbed Jovan.

  “I fell asleep,” Delia said. “On the floor. When I woke, he was already bloody.”

  Sterling’s eyes roamed the room, looking for any sign of a hidden passageway. Nothing was apparent, but his look was cursory. He made a mental note to come back later with Culpa Barra and search the chamber more thoroughly. Perhaps there were passages here that Jovan had not told him of, or that he himself did not know about because they were so ancient. The hidden tunnels in the castle were countless. But he did not want to discuss the secret ways with Culpa whilst the other guards and the three Vallè were still present. To his consternation, the latter hadn’t left yet.