The Forgetting Moon

by Brian Lee Durfee

  “Your story makes little sense,” he said to the serving girl.

  “If I’d done the killing, why then would I yell for help?” she asked pleadingly.

  Val-Korin spoke. “I must say, minus her unimaginably noticeable bosom, this girl’s ordinary appearance is the perfect disguise for an assassin.”

  Sterling’s brow furrowed with annoyance. Still, the Vallè had a point.

  “Everyone can imagine a slim girl being an assassin,” Seita added. “But bosoms like hers are the perfect disguise. They sort of cancel any attempt at going unnoticed. I ask you, Father, who would ever think a girl sporting breasts of such magnificence would be apt to knife the king?”

  “Yes,” Val-Korin said. “And again, any girl endowed with such delights would surely gain the attention of the king. Then, once alone in a room like this, with a knife . . .”

  “The perfect crime,” Seita said.

  It was an asinine theory. This girl hadn’t knifed the king.

  Truth was, Sterling could scarcely tolerate the Vallè. They had a knack for locating the absurd in everything and prattling on about it until any sane person wanted to tear out their own hair. No matter what, life was just one big game to them. As an entire species, the Vallè’s propensity to conjure havoc for havoc’s sake knew no bounds. They were always running some scheme or con purely for their own amusement. Sterling wouldn’t put it past either Val-Korin or his daughter to have staged this entire assassination attempt just to garner a few Vallè giggles at his expense—merely looking at their delicate, smug faces made him want to punch someone, or something. He’d sooner trust a bloodsucking oghul than a Vallè.

  “It would be a nuisance to keep her around,” Seita said. “I foresee only trouble if she lives, Father. We should behead her now.”

  “I agree,” Val-Korin said.

  “Please, no,” Delia said frantically. “I had nothing to do with this.”

  Val-Korin pulled a slim dagger from the pocket of his tunic under his black robe. His thin lips turned up at the corners in a faint grin.

  “You dare draw a weapon in my presence?” Sterling queried, annoyed. “Put it away!”

  “As you wish,” Val-Korin said, a trace of amusement dancing behind his maddening little smile. “I’m only trying to be of assistance.”

  “Frightening the girl does little to assist me.”

  It was Culpa Barra who advocated the wisest course of action. “Best we lock her in the dungeons under the Hall of the Dayknights until we’ve investigated this further.”

  The serving girl hung her head, hair covering her face. In a way, Sterling actually kind of agreed with Seita—behead the serving wench now and be done with it. But what the Vallè princess didn’t realize was that killing the girl now would not solve the more obvious problem: the real assassin. That dark shadow, whoever it was, still stalked the halls of the castle. And if Sterling did not find the assassin soon, it might be he who suffered a swift beheading.

  “The king didn’t want to bed me,” the serving girl muttered. “He got mad at me.”

  Sterling stepped in front of the girl and lifted her chin in his hand, studying her face. He could spot a lie in anyone. And this serving girl was easy to read. She was not lying. Her eyes bored into his, pleading. “I shouldn’t even be here,” she said. “Don’t you understand? This is not what I was asked to do. He got mad at me.”

  If what she said was true, and Jovan had not bedded her, it was a shame.

  “I was supposed to be with Jondralyn,” the girl said softly, more to herself now than to anyone in the room, eyes cast to the ground. “Doesn’t anyone understand?”

  “Perhaps you meant to steal from His Excellency the king?” Val-Korin said.

  Sterling’s brow again furrowed with annoyance. “Gather a contingent of Silver Guards and escort her to Purgatory,” he ordered Culpa Barra. “I will interrogate her there later.”

  As he watched Culpa tie the girl’s hands and march her from the chamber, Sterling’s mind churned. Someone, quite possibly in Jovan’s own council, was behind the assassination attempt. Val-Korin came to mind first. The archbishops next. He distrusted all of them. But if this is the Vallè’s—or even the vicar’s—doing, why? Jovan was their puppet.

  Perhaps it was Edmon Guy Van Hester. After all, the Lord of Saint Only had ample reason to hate Jovan. But killing the king would not free Squireck. So Edmon seemed an unlikely culprit too; he was a conquered lord living in a conquered castle. He had no power anywhere.

  If it was a Sør Sevier assassin—again, why? If it had been a trained assassin, Jovan would certainly be dead. And from the evidence, whoever attacked him also had plenty of time to slay Delia as she slept. But, again, why? A Bloodwood would be better off assassinating Jondralyn. Or even me, for that matter. After all, Jovan had offered no resistance to their recent conquest of Wyn Darrè. Even now, the king offered scant resistance to their inevitable invasion of Gul Kana. It was as if the new king, in his apathy, was speeding Absolution along at a breakneck pace. At the very thought, Sterling fumed. Not everyone in Gul Kana harbored such a death wish—certainly not Jondralyn, nor Roguemoore. And perhaps that was why Sterling had taken sides with the Brethren of Mia.

  King Borden Bronachell and Sterling had been like brothers. The king had tried to get Sterling to join the Brethren before his death in Wyn Darrè. He had confided in Sterling many of the secrets of Mia, which Sterling had, at first, found alarming. Not until after Borden’s death and Jovan’s taking of the Silver Throne had Sterling finally realized the ever-growing ineptitude and futility of Jovan’s reign and joined Roguemoore’s secret organization in hopes of forging a better Gul Kana—a Gul Kana of which Borden would have been proud—a Gul Kana that would fight against the White Prince. But to this point, Sterling had done little as a member of the Brethren of Mia except help Roguemoore in seemingly petty schemes: arranging horses for Hawkwood and the dwarf in Eskander, the harebrained plan of picking a fight with Roguemoore just so Hawkwood could challenge the Dayknights to a duel and get tossed into Purgatory. That fiasco had cost four good Dayknights their lives. Clearly, the Vallè were not the only ones in Amadon concocting wild schemes and cons. He was not privy to all the inner workings and secrets of the Brethren. But in truth, Sterling enjoyed helping them. It was with the dwarf that he, with the help of Kelvin Kronnin, had begun organizing legions at Lord’s Point and Lokkenfell, preparing behind Jovan’s back for the Sør Sevier invasion. Plus, there was something insidious in the way Jovan was being manipulated by Denarius and the quorum of five, but Sterling could not put a finger on exactly what. It was with the Brethren that he could do his part behind the scenes to counteract all the political machinations of Val-Korin and the grand vicar when it came to Jovan and the young king’s rule. And that was a worthy cause in and of itself.

  Now that Jondralyn was part of the Brethren, all the better. He saw Borden’s strength in her. It was clear that Hawkwood saw that strength in her too. Jondralyn, at least, desired to stand up and fight. She had honor. The very last prophecy in the Revelations of the Fourth Warrior Angel in The Way and Truth of Laijon warned that the wrath of Laijon would be great if those able to bear arms in Gul Kana did not fight the righteous war. Even in the face of Absolution, they were still to defend themselves. For Laijon would only arise again for those who would defend themselves. When he was younger, Sterling had wondered if the prophecies in The Way and Truth of Laijon weren’t all just nonsense. But things seemed to be coming to pass rapidly now. Fiery Absolution might be inevitable, he surmised. But Gul Kana need not go down without a fight, as it appeared Jovan was leading them to do. He hated Borden’s son. Jovan was a miserable, overly pious, fickle boy who distrusted those he should trust and trusted those—like Val-Korin—who ought to be slapped in irons and thrown into Purgatory.

  Perhaps this assassination attempt was the work of Roguemoore, or Hawkwood, or even Jondralyn. Whatever the reason, someone had tried to kill Gul Kana’s king tonigh
t. And to Sterling’s way of thinking, it was a shame Jovan had not died in the attempt. He recalled the first verses from the Book of the Slave in The Way and Truth of Laijon: For if it needs be that one man die so an entire kingdom falls not into destruction, then so be it done in the name of Laijon. Still, Sterling did not want to be hung for negligence in the death of his king. So the task was upon him to hunt down an assassin in a castle full of more nooks and crannies and hidey-holes than there were fish in the sea. He could already feel the anger and frustration rise within him.

  “I offer my help and the help of my retainers in tracking down this killer,” Val-Korin said. “Val-So-Vreign, one of my best guardsmen. Even Val-Draekin can help. He is more skilled than any of your Dayknights, an expert tracker—”

  “Enough.” Sterling glared at the Val Vallè ambassador. “The only help I’ll need from the likes of you, or any of your kind, for that matter, is to lick my arse clean after a ripe shit.” The insult shot through the air like an arrow. And in the immediate wake of his outburst, Sterling desired to take the words back. But it was as if those words had been trussed up inside, waiting for their chance to escape, ever since the Vallè ambassador had accosted him earlier that evening about Silver Guards not clearing the Temple of the Laijon Statue fast enough. “I ordered you leave this chamber long ago.”

  Val-Korin took a step back from Sterling, astonishment on his face, a delicate hand rising to his chest. His voice now simmered. “Well, I must say, I’ve never been treated so vile. The holy vicar will hear of this. Come, Seita. Come, Val-Draekin. Let us relieve Ser Sterling of our presence.”

  As he watched the insufferable Val Vallè ambassador strut out the door, his daughter and Val-Draekin following, Sterling fumed—fumed at himself for not controlling his own anger.

  And once he let that anger get to him, Sterling knew, there was no telling what he might do.

  He found it hard to believe that his short investigation led him to the bedchamber of Jovan’s youngest sister, Tala. The slim, dark-haired princess sat on the edge of her bed, looking up at him with a blank, sleepy stare.

  “Why would you have your brother killed?” He leaned over her menacingly.

  She answered with silence. Yet he was struck by the sudden intensity in her eyes. This surprised him. For he figured the news of her brother’s injuries would set off a great flood of royal whining and histrionics in the girl. Yet here she sat, calm, the look on her face one of deep, dare he say, reflection. It was as if this girl too was trying to mull over in her mind the whys and wherefores of the attack on Jovan. But one telling thing about her reaction—she wasn’t shocked at the news. Though she did ask how her brother was.

  “Jovan lies in the infirmary,” was all he gave her. The old Vallè sawbones, Val-Gianni, who had cleaned and stitched Jovan’s wounds, claimed the king had been stabbed five times, yet somehow the blade had missed every vital organ and artery.

  Sterling had learned from the head kitchen matron, Dame Vilamina—an aged windbag who knew each and every morsel of gossip in Amadon Castle and could prattle on about it for hours—that Delia was put on the serving staff at the request of the king’s sister Tala. Several things had started falling into place in Sterling’s mind. Also, more questions arose. Especially when Dame Vilamina claimed that both Glade Chaparral and Lindholf Le Graven had been spotted with Tala near the docks in stolen Silver Guard armor. Sterling had Vilamina escorted to Purgatory under the Hall of the Dayknights and placed in a cell near Delia. He ordered the guards to stay within hearing distance and see if they discussed anything of note. If they were part of a plot, or just unwitting players, Sterling would soon find out.

  Sterling studied young Tala Bronachell as her dark eyes stared into space. She was transforming into a young woman of graceful, almost spiritual beauty. In a few years, she would surpass even Jondralyn as the jewel of Amadon.

  “Even a sister to the king can be hung for treason,” he said. “Tell me what you know and your brother might be lenient with you . . . if he survives.”

  Still she stared, eyes boring into the cold stone hearth behind him. Sterling leaned toward her, taking the young girl’s chin in his hand, forcing her head up so she could look him in the eye. “Vilamina will surely hang. Is that what you want? If this was your doing, or if someone put you up to this, best spill it now. It would be a shame if the poor kitchen matron was executed because of you . . . and the serving girl hung too.”

  “I do not know what you are talking about,” Tala spoke. Her usual affable and charming voice was buried somewhere deep within herself.

  “Things do not look good for you, young lady. Tell me what you know.”

  There was a flicker of emotion in her eyes now—and hatred, too. “If my brother is injured, I demand that you take me to the infirmary.” Her words were a challenge and defiance, a command really. Insolence now emanated from her in waves.

  “That is out of the question.” Sterling wondered if the hatred he detected within Tala was directed at him. It wouldn’t be a surprise. With the exception of Jondralyn, he’d never found favor with the Bronachell children ever since Borden had been killed in Wyn Darrè. He knew that Jovan hated him and considered him of little importance, preferring to keep council with Denarius and Val-Korin. And he sometimes felt that Jondralyn only tolerated him because of his deep affection for her father and now because of his links to the Brethren of Mia. For as much as Sterling had admired Borden whilst he was alive, and for as much as he was grateful to the king for making him Dayknight captain sixteen years ago, deep down Sterling knew that Borden’s son was different from his father—weaker, more afraid. Jondralyn had more spirit than a dozen men. She was the future of Gul Kana. And Tala? Tala showed potential; she was gathering some strength now.

  She brooded darkly in front of him. “I order you to take me to my brother.”

  “You’ve heard of Purgatory? Perhaps I shall escort you there, personally.”

  “You haven’t the authority,” she said calmly.

  She was correct, and he was actually starting to admire her for standing up to him. Any incident involving the royal family brought into play many meetings and much discussion among the nobles and king’s council and even the grand vicar. One could not just march the king’s sister off to the dungeons under the Hall of the Dayknights without serious repercussions. Tala was certainly more stoic and far smarter than he had originally thought. Interrogating her like this was going to get him nowhere. Still, he was convinced she was hiding something. He backed away from her. She relaxed visibly. Her posture now carried with it a smidgen of victory.

  “That serving girl who tried to bed the king is a killer,” Sterling said. “Keep in mind, Tala, when anybody from the streets of Amadon is given entry into the castle, the possibilities for calamity are infinite.”

  The girl blanched at his words.

  “But I see now, perhaps Vilamina is lying and you had nothing to do with this.” He would let Tala think she was off the hook for a while. “You’ve never seemed overly burdened with an abundance of ambition,” he continued. “To plot an assassination is most likely beyond your limited wits.”

  He glanced at her one last time before leaving her chamber. Real anger burned in her eyes. Yes. This girl is hiding something. He grinned at her, admiring her audacity. He knew he would find out what she was hiding. He would pull the information from her. It might not be today, but he would succeed. His life depended on it.

  * * *

  I, Raijael, begin this Illumination in hopes that all will learn how my mother stripped me of my birthright. Laijon died, nailed upon a tree, Mia piercing him with Afflicted Fire. Upon a cross-shaped altar she did lay him, weapons at his side, five angel stones thrust into his wounds, Ethic Shroud atop his chest. I was born at his side. Heir of Laijon. Dragon Claw. As for my birthright . . . you will see what Lady Death hath stolen.

  —THE CHIVALRIC ILLUMINATIONS OF RAIJAEL

  * * *

  CHAPTER TWENT
Y-EIGHT

  GAULT AULBREK

  5TH DAY OF THE MOURNING MOON, 999TH YEAR OF LAIJON

  GALLOWS HAVEN, GUL KANA

  Crabs and seagulls had picked the beach clean. Crows pecked at the still-smoldering pile of corpses behind Gault as he walked along a grassy knoll toward the prisoner tent. All morning his thoughts had been on the small green stone Aeros had taken from King Torrence Raybourne. If only my lord would show it to me one more time.

  It was a pleasant morning, and though he’d been awake since yestermorn, it had been a pleasant night as well. He’d made love to Spades just before dawn. It had been over six moons since the two of them had shared a bed. As a man who prided himself on his levelheadedness, Gault didn’t personally care for the unsteady nature and evil temperament of the red-haired beauty. And he’d promised himself he wouldn’t get involved with her again. But Spades had long legs, a smoky stare in bed, and a beguiling nature when it came to the arts of seduction.

  The mole-faced girl’s head was still on a stake near the entrance of the prisoner tent. There were also four dead bodies under the stake, hands still tied with rope behind their backs—the captives who had died yestermorn in the escape attempt. The line of prisoners standing in front of Spades could not tear their eyes from the dead. Some looked sick, as if their will to live had transformed into poison and was eating them from the inside out.

  Gault counted the fetching blond girl, Ava Shay, still amongst the prisoners. He felt a strange relief seeing that she was still here. The thought that she might have been killed had made his blood run cold. He averted his gaze, for he found that she watched his approach with uneasy anticipation. Spades turned, eyebrows raised in question. He gave her a brief nod, acknowledging that Aeros was on the way.