The Forgetting Moon

by Brian Lee Durfee

  Liz Hen was pounding Dokie on the back. “You slit that bastard like a wet herring, Dokie,” she said, half shouting. “You sliced the fucker up good and right.”

  “I sure did,” Dokie responded, in a tone suggesting he thought the girl was mad. The heavy sword fell from his shaking grip, and he dropped to his knees and cried. Liz Hen grabbed the smaller boy in a great smothering hug and the two of them wept together, both kneeling over the dead knight they had just killed.

  Numb, Nail looked down at the carnage. The switchbacks below were a-litter with broken knights, scattered gear, swords, broken bows, shattered arrows, saddlebags, and a dead pony. At the bottom of the trail, poor Lilly lay sprawled in the snow, all four legs bent at awkward angles, a gash in her stomach gushing great gouts of blood. Nail was relieved, however, to see that she was completely and unquestionably dead. He’d dreaded having to hear some pitiful cries of agony come from her. Still, his heart went to her—she’d proven a stout traveling companion in the end, and a hardy warrior of sorts.

  Shawcroft’s satchel! Relief tugged at him when he found it still strapped to his shoulder. At least the blue stone was safe. And the ax still in his hands, its previous blue sheen now gone. The ax didn’t help at all! The others did the killing!

  “Some of those knights might yet be alive.” Despite the tears, bloodlust was still in Liz Hen’s eyes. “Let’s make sure they’re dead.” She pulled Dokie to his feet.

  Nail looked back down the switchbacks. The knight with the eye patch—the one who’d been kicked in the head by Lilly’s hoof as the pony had flown past—had a large gash above his one good eye. The wound was seeping a sheet of scarlet over his face and down into his matted brown hair and beard, which ruffled slightly in the breeze.

  “I think we should just go,” Stefan said. “We dare not fight them twice. That one there could still be alive.” He pointed to the same knight Nail was looking at.

  “Yeah,” Dokie agreed. “We dare not press our luck.” He began searching the dead knight at his feet. Liz Hen huffed and snatched up the sword belonging to the knight and dragged it up the trail behind her, its tip trailing in the mud. Stefan followed her. Dokie tied a dagger belonging to the knight around his waist, using a strap of leather gathered off the dead fellow. He then dumped the contents of the knight’s rough-spun belt-pouch onto the ground. “No food.” Dokie looked up at Nail, almost crying. “There weren’t nothin’ in it.”

  “We should keep moving,” Nail said, hefting the huge battle-ax onto his shoulder. He followed Liz Hen and Stefan up the trail, ax heavy on his back. It no longer felt a part of him, but bulky and awkward. Dokie scurried up behind him.

  When they reached the boulder-strewn summit, they paused to catch their breath, all of them drained from the ordeal. The saddleback was windswept and barren. A line of ancient, brooding standing-stones cast gaunt shadows along the ridge. Weather-bleached elk horns were lying in the grass around the stones. The Swithen Wells Trail stretched away in the distance, meandering through a sparsely wooded valley in the far distance. Beyond the valley rose dramatic peaks and canyons cloaked in snow, the highest pinnacles lost in billowing clouds.

  The abbey was only a few miles more. Nail bade Stefan help him tie the battle-ax to his back. Once secured, it weighed even heavier on his already weary torso and legs. He felt ashamed. He was bigger, stronger, and more trained than any of his friends. Yet it had been they who’d killed every one of the six knights. He had done nothing.

  He looked into the eyes of his companions. A definite change had come over them. Stern they were. He saw relief there too—relief in certain death miraculously averted. But there was also a bold maturity about them now too. Nail saw in his friends’ eyes some of the steel the Sør Sevier knights had in theirs.

  Several hours later and they had still not reached the abbey. Fortunately, their path was perceptibly downhill. Nail caught the distant scent of spring weather upon the wind, the warm fragrance a rarity in this clime. They marched along a rather rutted road, through a forest of stone, stunted trees, and bramble thickets, between frozen bogs and ponds and snow-covered meadows full of towering aspens that nodded in the breeze. Ironically, this part of their trek was teeming with wildlife. Tawny deer and large, shaggy musk oxen with sloping ebony horns watched Nail’s group pass by. Stefan had his Dayknight bow, but no arrows. Hunting was now out of the question.

  “I should have killed that pony and cut a shank of meat off it a long time ago.” Liz Hen said as she eyed another plump stag atop a snowy outcropping. “We could have made ourselves a nice meal of that useless beast.”

  “She was not a useless beast,” Nail shot back.

  “Useless to me.” There was anger in the big girl’s voice. “Stupid worthless thing couldn’t even carry my brother the entire way here. I am glad I pushed it down the mountain.”

  Nail forgave the girl her bitter words. They had all been through much. They all had reason to be angry at something. Ever since Shawcroft had rescued them from the tent, so much had gone wrong. So much of it my fault. Their journey had claimed too many lives: Shawcroft, Gisela, Zane, Bedford Boy, and Lilly. And abandoning Ava Shay, Nail felt, was his greatest sin. When he had seen the impatience in her eyes, he had let his own selfishness and hurt betray him. He knew he had no honor. And if it took his life entire, he would do whatever he could to regain it, to redeem himself for that one betrayal.

  Liz Hen made haste down the trail as the first tolling of the abbey’s bell drifted up the valley toward them. Just beyond a stand of trees a narrow drift of gray smoke dirtied the clear mountain sky. They all picked up their step. When they broke from the cover of the last forest thicket and saw the stone structures of the abbey yard for the first time, Liz Hen, Stefan, and Dokie wept openly. Nail did not cry; instead, he felt a frank swelling of pride in having finally reached their destination. At least he had done this one small thing right. He’d helped his remaining friends to safety. Shawcroft would have been proud.

  The abbey nestled in a snowy clearing of gray boulders alongside a frozen brook with a stone-slab bridge. There were only a handful of outbuildings, several made entirely of stacked rock. There was a small brick chapel, and what Nail knew to be a cozy dormitory adjacent to it. A garden covered in powdery snow, fenced by a high stone wall, lay between the chapel and dormitory. The rest of the scattered buildings were composed of wood or wattle and daub, except for the stable, which was made of stone slabs piled atop one another and roofed with flat timber planks. The place had a clean, well-kept look.

  As they drew nearer the abbey, Hugh Godwyn emerged from the chapel. The tall and lanky bishop walked with a bit of a stoop toward the stone bridge that spanned the frozen brook. A thin rim of clear ice skirted the banks of the brook, crystal water gurgled glittery and cold in the middle. The stone bridge was stout, and they all crossed over it eagerly. Godwyn awaited them on the other side. He flaunted a gray curling mustache that spread across his face with a flourish as he smiled. Flowing down his back was a mane of graying hair. He had thick, angular brows that also curled up at the tips. Like most bishops, he wore no finery and carried no weapons, his only adornment a fine brown cassock and a wide black belt. To Nail, Hugh Godwyn, gangly and sticklike, always looked more like an eccentric old vagabond than a bishop.

  “Well met, Nail.” The bishop spoke in a raspy voice, holding out a hand, eyes lingering on the massive ax strapped to Nail’s back. Godwyn’s hand was as rough and dry as a cobblestone when Nail shook it. The bishop held out his bony hand for the others in turn, introducing himself, asking them their names. He then inquired of Shawcroft.

  “Dead” was all the answer Nail gave.

  Godwyn’s face grew grave, moisture welling in his eyes. “I’ll get the details later. Shawcroft was my dearest friend. This news is most troubling.” He wiped at the tears running down his cheeks. “But listen to me go on. You all must have had a harrowing journey. A spring freeze like no other has hit these mountains, and you
sad lumps look to have had the misfortune of traveling right in the middle of it.” He motioned for them to follow, then led them through the snow and opened the chapel door.

  “I hope you’ve a warm bath ready for my chaffed arse,” Dokie said with enthusiasm as he scurried inside. Liz Hen and Stefan eagerly followed Dokie into the inviting warmth of the stone chapel.

  But the bishop held Nail outside with a stiff hand. “The ax is quite magnificent,” he said. “But I am most curious about what is in your satchel.”

  Nail scarcely knew what to do. Shawcroft had been insistent that the satchel reach the bishop, but that was before Nail had placed the blue stone into it. For some reason, his instincts were telling him that it was imperative he protect the stone’s secrecy.

  “I sense your distrust,” Godwyn said. “I promise I won’t quiz you on the death of your master until you’ve rested. And you need only speak of it if you wish. But I am eager to see that satchel.”

  The roasting warm glow of the chapel’s open door strongly beckoned, and Nail suddenly didn’t care about the ax or the stone. If Shawcroft’s satchel was what the bishop wanted, then the satchel he could have. He quickly shrugged it from his shoulder and handed it over. Godwyn opened the leather flap and pulled forth Shawcroft’s copy of The Way and Truth of Laijon. After a quick scrutiny, he placed it back into the satchel and briefly examined the scrolls next. Then he pulled forth the swath of black silk containing the blue stone. Nail’s heart skipped a beat. The bishop carefully, almost reverently, unwrapped the silk and examined the treasure inside, eyes aglow.

  “The stone is enough to steal my breath and praise the greatness of Laijon and the Blessed Mother Mia,” Godwyn said.

  All Nail could do was stare in fear as the man held the silk with the stone nestled within. It was something he couldn’t explain, but he desperately wanted the bishop to put the cursed thing away.

  Godwyn wrapped the stone in the silk and put it back into the satchel.

  Then the bishop did a curious thing. He began to unravel the leather stitching along the side of the satchel. Once he had pulled the long strand of stitching free, a secret compartment in the satchel was revealed. He dipped his hand into this newly revealed pocket and pulled forth a small, thin parchment.

  Godwyn read what was written on the paper, placed the paper parchment back into the secret compartment. “Bless Ser Roderic,” he mumbled. “The finding of Laijon made so easy.” He looked squarely into Nail’s eyes and leaned in, planting both hands firmly upon his shoulders, gripping his plate armor, holding him fast.

  “And bless you, boy.” Tears were now streaming from the bishop’s eyes. “Bless you for making it this far.” The bishop released his hold. “Now let’s get that useless hunk of shiny metal from off your back and some food into your belly.”

  * * *

  I beseech thee, my fellow brethren in Laijon. Do not let your castles and keeps fall into disrepair as you await his return. Do not believe that your forts and fortresses will no longer be needed. Lest ye be lax in your stewardship, be ever mindful. The abominable power within the followers of Raijael is both grievous and great. So keep thy blades honed sharp.

  —THE WAY AND TRUTH OF LAIJON

  * * *

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  TALA BRONACHELL

  10TH DAY OF THE MOURNING MOON, 999TH YEAR OF LAIJON

  AMADON, GUL KANA

  If Jondralyn didn’t have to wear a gown, then neither did she. Tala was wearing a white blouse and a knee-length brown tunic over tan pants and black boots. She watched with a heavy heart as the Prince of Saint Only entered Sunbird Hall through the western doors. He was surrounded by Dayknights. It had been three days since his triumph in the arena, and still he was kept prisoner. The rusted chain around his neck was thick and heavy. As he shuffled toward the king, his leg irons clattered and clanked along the cobbled floor. Other than his gray irons, Squireck Van Hester wore naught but his loincloth and Tala’s wreath of heather on his head.

  The final gladiator was customarily released at the moment of his triumph. But Squireck had been kept in prison. Over the past few days much chatter in the castle had been devoted to the likelihood that the Prince of Saint Only would never be freed. Rumor was, his continued imprisonment was Jovan’s doing—or Jovan’s doing at the behest of Denarius and the quorum of five. Some deemed the king’s actions a misguided betrayal of a thousand years’ worth of tradition. There had been a dark mood within the hallways of the castle as Jovan continued to delay Squireck’s release. There was even growing dissension among some Dayknights and Silver Guards over the matter—dissension that Sterling Prentiss had quashed, claiming that the grand vicar would not formally release Squireck until Jovan was healed sufficiently from the attempt on his life to participate in the ceremony, as tradition warranted.

  The king stood before his throne at the northern head of Sunbird Hall with the grand vicar and quorum of five, a goblet of wine in hand. Tala knew that Jovan had been numbing himself with spirits these last few days. And today was the first he had risen from bed. He did not look well. Bandaged still. He did not look like one who should be on his feet at all. Jondralyn stood to the side of the throne directly behind him, as if she too expected the king to collapse at any moment. Tala stood on the other side of Jondralyn, worried for her older brother.

  She was worried for herself, too, and more for Lawri. Tala still did not know why Jovan was so beholden to the vicar, and the failure to figure it out weighed her down daily. The Bloodwood’s game had taken on a depth of deceit that Tala thought unfathomable. Lawri now lay in a hidden room accessed only through Lindholf’s bedchamber. Despite the warnings of the Bloodwood to stay out of the secret ways, Tala, Lindholf, and Glade had carried Lawri through the castles hidden passages, anyway, and hidden her there. Nobody knew the girl’s resting place but the three of them along with Jondralyn. Tala and her older sister had been tending the sick girl, bathing her fevered body with warm water, changing her soiled bed linens, holding her, talking to her. Lawri’s illness was growing increasingly dire, evidenced by her gaunt cheekbones and the hollowed fever in her eyes, the whites of which had turned the color of leather. The entire time in Tala’s care, the sick girl hadn’t ingested anything save a few sips of water.

  As Sterling Prentiss unlocked the iron bands around Squireck’s wrists and ankles, Tala felt a pang of guilt. She had lied to Lindholf and Glade. She had laid the blame for Lawri’s molestation on the Dayknight captain rather than the grand vicar. Blaming Sterling was easier, and more believable. Tala had feared what the eternal consequences to her soul would have been had she implicated Denarius, Laijon’s holy prophet.

  But her lie about Sterling had set in motion a succession of events so uncontrollable that Tala could not even begin to grasp their dreadful implications. At the time it had seemed a good thing that Glade had so gallantly confronted the captain, even to the point of threatening him and eventually physically injuring him. But now Tala worried that her lie might indeed lead to Sterling’s death. After their Ember Lighting Rites two days ago, Glade and Lindholf had not remained silent on the matter. They had spread her lie. Soon the entire court was aware of Tala’s accusations. Sterling was under mounting suspicion. Now Lawri’s disappearance could have significant political consequences beyond what Tala could even imagine. Lord Lott Le Graven wanted the Dayknight captain’s head on a pike. His twelve-year-old twins, Lorhand and Lilith, were practically in seclusion. But the Dayknight captain fell under the protection of the grand vicar and the quorum of five. Jovan could not act further without the consent of Denarius. And it seemed Denarius was intent on shielding Sterling from further investigations, because, as Tala was aware, who knew where further investigations might lead?

  When Sterling Prentiss had been found unconscious in the corridor in front of Lawri’s bedchamber by two of the Silver Guard, he’d admitted, much to his embarrassment, that it had been Tala, Lindholf, and Glade who had accosted him, then kidnapped
Lawri from her room and from the care of the vicar.

  But few believed Sterling Prentiss. Again, because of Tala’s lies.

  “You must deny whatever Sterling says, Tala,” Jondralyn had instructed her two nights ago as they’d tended to Lawri. “Though it pains me to lay such at the feet of the Dayknight captain, an honorable man who has helped our father greatly over the years, you must deny all he says. It also pains me to think that Sterling has been taking liberties with Lawri. But if you claim it is so, then it is so. That our dear cousin lies before me is evidence that what Sterling says about you attacking him and kidnapping her is also true. And it is that which you must deny. And if Lindholf and Glade are indeed a part of this, you must convince them to deny it too. The three of you can never admit to Jovan or anyone else what you have done. I do not know whose foolhardy idea it was to attack Ser Sterling and take Lawri from her chamber, nor do I want to know, but what’s done is done. Yet that rash action has put the very kingship of Gul Kana and my rulership in Amadon in jeopardy. Not to mention the lordships of Rivermeade, and Eskander Suspicion cannot fall upon any of you in this matter. It must remain on Sterling Prentiss. You must make Jovan believe that it is Sterling who has the girl. The testimony of you three against Sterling may not sway Denarius, but it should be enough to sway our brother and save you all from being locked up, or worse yet, hung.”

  Glade had agreed with Jondralyn when Tala told the two boys of the plan later that day. “Yet again you’ve involved me in treasonous acts for which I am not proud,” he’d said. “I daresay, Lindholf will spill his guts under the slightest scrutiny, and it will all be for naught anyway. We will all of us hang.”

  But Lindholf’s eyes had grown hard at Glade’s words. “You willingly assaulted Prentiss. And don’t tell me you didn’t enjoy it, Glade. We did the right thing. I already live with the shame of betraying Tala once when I told Prentiss about our trip to the dockside tavern and climbing the Laijon statue to retrieve notes from Hawkwood. I felt your disappointment in me then, Glade. You too, Tala. And I vow neither of you will ever feel such disappointment in me again.”