The Forgetting Moon

by Brian Lee Durfee

  Nail hung his head. He cared not how other unwanted children lived. He only knew of his own life—full of hard work and toil and never an encouraging word. It also pained him to know that the bishop not only thought him a bastard, but an ungrateful bastard at that. He wanted this man to think highly of him. But it seemed that even this well-meaning bishop was more apt to tear Nail down than build him up.

  Trust no one. That would be his new rule. Trust no one. Only believe in yourself. Shawcroft was gone. He was a mean old cob. Nail had watched the man murder a Vallè woman. Bloodwood or not, it was a cruel, evil thing. Even though Shawcroft had saved him from capture, and died helping him escape, Nail still found it difficult to believe any good of the man. He was truly conflicted.

  Only one man had ever been nice to him. Baron Bruk. But he was gone too, as was his grayken-hunting ship. It seems there is no place in the Five Isles for me now. In a way, during their frozen journey to reach this place, Nail had just assumed that the abbey would become his new home, and Hugh Godwyn his new master. And perhaps that was why he’d felt so comfortable here. But, alas, that dream seemed foolish too.

  “Why were those men from Sør Sevier hunting us?” he asked, looking at the bishop, challenge in his eyes. “Why did Shawcroft want me to bring you his satchel? What of the ax? The stone? Why were we to go to Lord’s Point? And when? Won’t you tell us about any of it? You must know something. You must know of my family, my sister, my parents. You must know who Shawcroft really was. Baron Bruk called him Ser Roderic. Does that name mean anything to you?”

  “Well, that is quite a list of questions,” the bishop said. “Perhaps you should be asking them one at a time. And I will do the best I can.”

  “Who were my parents?”

  “Shawcroft never told me who your parents were. He only told me that you were important to the Brethren of Mia.”

  “Brethren of Mia,” Nail repeated. “What is that?”

  “A brotherhood of scholars and warriors dedicated to ancient secrets.”

  “Was Shawcroft part of this Brethren of Mia?”

  “He was. As am I. As are many.”

  “Was Shawcroft named Roderic? Baron Bruk also said that Shawcroft had a brother, King Torrence. Is that true? Who are my parents? Was Shawcroft my father?”

  “Slow down, now. Did you never ask Shawcroft any of these questions?”

  “About my parents, I would ask all the time. But he would say nothing. So what was the point of asking him his true name? He would have likely ignored me.”

  The bishop’s brow furrowed as if deep in thought. “Shawcroft was not your master’s real name. His real name and title were Ser Roderic Raybourne, Prince of Wyn Darrè, younger brother to the king of Wyn Darrè, Lord Torrence Raybourne. Both Raybourne brothers were closely aligned with King Borden Bronachell and other members of the Brethren of Mia. Shawcroft—or rather, Ser Roderic Raybourne—was made a Dayknight captain by King Borden. That was long before you were born, Nail.”

  “Brother to the king of Wyn Darrè,” Nail said, wonder, apprehension, distrust, all of them burrowing inside of him at once. “I scarce know what to believe. Why would a man of such station want to live in Gallows Haven, mine for gold and other such nonsense, or become guardian to a bastard like me? I can hardly believe he knew King Borden Bronachell, or that he was a Dayknight.”

  Stefan piped in. “Shawcroft had a Dayknight sword. We saw it. He said he’d hid it in the eaves all these years. Remember, Nail? He said it had been many years since he had held Dayknight steel. Said it before he gave me the Dayknight bow. Remember?”

  Nail recalled the black sword. He’d even held it in his own hands. Ran with it. Lost it on the beach. And Shawcroft had found it again somehow. A Dayknight will always be able to find those things most important to him. But a secret sword hidden in the eaves did not make Shawcroft a Dayknight. Or could it? Could that be why he’d been so mean all the time? Were Dayknights trained in cruelty? It was clear the bishop’s answers were only going to fill his head with more questions.

  “Why was Shawcroft watching over me? What am I to a prince of Wyn Darrè?”

  Godwyn settled back on a stump of aspen in front of the fire and said, “I only know that Shawcroft was watching over you at the behest of Borden Bronachell.”

  “Ha, that’s unlikely.” Liz Hen held her knitting out with a squint, examining the wool shirt she was working on. She looked at the bishop. “Our late king would not give a raccoon’s silent fart for one such as Nail. That I guarantee.”

  “And why do you say that?” Godwyn asked.

  “Well, look at him,” she sneered. “He’s the least important of us all.”

  “And you’re the most important of us?”

  “More important than Nail.”

  “Well, one never knows.” Godwyn looked contemplative. “Perhaps you are, Liz Hen, perhaps you are.”

  “Perhaps has nothing to do with it. I’m better than Nail. And that’s that.”

  Nail kicked at the dirt with his booted foot as if contemplating how best to respond to Liz Hen’s derision. She’s quick enough to blame me for the death of everyone in Gallows Haven. He looked beyond the red-haired girl’s sour face to the landscape beyond. Shadows crept out from the forest and the fire crackled. The sun was at an angle, vanishing over the horizon, and the air was crisp but not overwhelmingly cold yet. Still, he shivered as he tried to give Liz Hen his most hardened glare. But she stared back at him with even more venom. Before long, he realized nobody had spoken for a while and he was sulking. So he asked the question that needled at him. “You say that Shawcroft watched over me at the command of Borden Bronachell?”

  The bishop stroked his curling mustache. “That is what Shawcroft claimed. Beyond that, I know as much as you. But as for why Shawcroft was in Gallows Haven, well, you need only look to the ax and stone you found in the mines to answer that question. Finding them was his life’s work. The work of the Brethren of Mia.”

  Nail kicked an errant log back into the fire pit, wincing at the pain in his wrist. If he moved just the wrong way, the scab forming over the slave brand on his inner wrist would crack and sting. Nail looked at Godwyn, trying to hide the pain, his eyes casting what he hoped was stony indifference. He did not want to seem overanxious, but he desperately wanted the man to continue. “Can you tell me more of the Brethren of Mia?”

  The bishop looked up, the firelight gleaming yellow shards in his eyes. “The Brethren of Mia hold to the truths written in The Moon Scrolls of Mia—the lost writings of the Blessed Mother Mia. We believe that secret truths of all things are hidden within the scrolls of Mia. For nothing is as false as the history we have all been taught, especially concerning Laijon and the holy book penned by the Last Warrior Angels. I say it to you now, and for the good of your own souls: the Quorum of Five Archbishops in Amadon, the grand vicar, The Way and Truth of Laijon—it is all a lie.”

  At those words, Liz Hen uncurled one of her hands from her knitting and performed the three-fingered sign of the Laijon Cross over her heart. “You blaspheme,” she said, her face reddened with anger. “How do you claim to be a bishop of the church and yet say such evil things? It is goddess worship spewing from your mouth. The holy book says that Mia is to be revered but never worshipped. I testify to you that there is only one true church, and Grand Vicar Denarius is Laijon’s holy prophet, and there is only one holy book, and that is The Way and Truth of Laijon. I believe with all my heart.”

  “That you have such faith is admirable, Liz Hen,” the bishop said flatly. “But your faith is misplaced. No fault of your own, mind you, but you have been misled. We all of us have been misled. Even the holy vicar in Amadon is misled. He too falls under the illusion of truth created by those who penned The Way and Truth of Laijon.”

  “I won’t listen to this.” Liz Hen’s fleshy face scrunched up in disgust.

  “She’s right,” Dokie added. “Bishop Tolbret blessed me after I was struck by lightning. His priesthoo
d healed me. Laijon continues to watch over me now. I’ve been through much tribulation and survived unscathed because of Tolbret’s blessing.”

  “Amen,” Liz Hen said. “Bishop Tolbret healed you.”

  “But we all watched Tolbret killed,” Stefan said. “What of his sacred robe? I don’t believe any of what we were taught.”

  “Tolbret must’ve been unworthy then, prideful,” Liz Hen grunted. “That’s why Laijon allowed him to die. That’s why his priesthood robe did him no good.”

  “That makes no sense.” Stefan looked worried now. “If Tolbret was worthy enough to heal Dokie, then why claim him unworthy of priesthood protections, Liz Hen?”

  “Don’t be daft,” Liz Hen huffed. “You’re overthinking it. He was worthy when he blessed Dokie, unworthy when he died. You all saw his pride. It’s a sin. Pride.”

  This coming from the person who thinks she’s better than me. Liz Hen’s scattered logic made little sense to Nail. He wasn’t going to offer his opinion, though. Liz Hen already hated him enough.

  The girl continued, “All we need concern ourselves with now is that Godwyn is a heretic and we needn’t listen to him anymore.”

  “Perhaps so,” Godwyn said, “heretical to your line of thinking anyway. But the truth is, the answers to the many questions Nail has been asking about the stone and ax can only be found in The Moon Scrolls of Mia and the knowledge the Brethren of Mia have gleaned from reading them. And it is not witchcraft. It is not goddess worship. The Mia scrolls have been with us always, hidden, of course, until recently. A portion of them are in the satchel that Nail carried. It was the information in those scrolls that led Shawcroft to Gallows Haven, led him to the mines, and led him to the ax and stone you found there.”

  Godwyn tipped another log into the hungry fire pit. Nail watched the sparks leap and twirl into the growing darkness, wondering what all this meant. His face was now overly warm from the fire, whilst the cool evening air plucked at the back of his neck. He rubbed his hands over the back of his head, trying to warm it. He felt at the still-raw scab in the roots of his hair—the wound from the helmet that had been jammed onto his head. But he soon forgot about his scabs and pains when the bishop resumed speaking. “As for the reason why the White Prince sent his men to track you through the mountains—well, it is simple: he knew what Shawcroft had found. The battle-ax you carried from the mines is Forgetting Moon, one of the fabled weapons of Laijon, and the blue stone is one of the lost angel stones of the Five Warrior Angels.”

  Godwyn went silent, letting his last remarks sink in. Nail noticed all eyes were on him, glittering with reflected flame. He knew why they looked at him so. They truly think I brought all this danger and death down upon them. For his part, he didn’t know whether to believe the bishop or not. It was all too much to take in. The cross-shaped mark on his wrist flared in pain. He could hardly move his hand or arm from the unexpected sting. It took some effort, but he squelched an impulse to just stand up and retreat into the abbey alone.

  Then came a sudden wild screech from Liz Hen and the girl shot to her feet, her knitting landing in the fire with a hiss, the woolen shirt curling in flame.

  The girl stared wide-eyed over Nail’s shoulder toward the abbey and beyond. She was gazing out toward the Swithen Wells Trail, both hands clapped over her mouth.

  Nail whirled, heart pounding, fearing that more Sør Sevier knights were descending upon them. But it was only Beer Mug he saw. Through the fading light of late evening, the large gray shepherd dog came padding up the trail, tail wagging.

  Liz Hen screeched again, then beamed, her face alight with joy. “He must be starving,” she squealed. “I must fetch him a bit of meat from the larder.”

  With that, the plump girl trundled off toward the abbey, giggling with glee and delight, the dog bounding along behind her.

  * * *

  Those who read my writings will be privy to the greatest mysteries of an age. Other than Laijon, what were the names of the other four Warrior Angels? The Way and Truth of Laijon never mentions them, calling them simply Gladiator, Princess, Assassin, and Thief, Laijon being the King of Slaves. But in due time I will reveal all things, even the names of the Five Warrior Angels, for I knew them well.

  —THE MOON SCROLLS OF MIA

  * * *

  CHAPTER FORTY

  JONDRALYN BRONACHELL

  16TH DAY OF THE MOURNING MOON, 999TH YEAR OF LAIJON

  OUTSKIRTS OF LOKKENFELL, GUL KANA

  It’s Kelvin Kronnin’s Ocean Guard that draws near,” Culpa Barra said as several hundred blue-liveried knights crested the far ridgeline, seeming to thunder and flow over the grassy slope like waves. Another hundred or so mounted squires followed. Jondralyn’s bay palfrey, sensing her nervousness, whinnied and shuffled back. The horse was unfamiliar to her. She took the beast hard by the bit and pulled it in line with the others—all palfrey travel horses taken from the King’s Highway stable in Lokkenfell.

  Astride their lightly armored horses, Leif Chaparral, Culpa Barra, and five of Leif’s maroon-and-gray clad Wolf Guard from Rivermeade waited atop the ridge with her. Leif wore the black-lacquered armor and silver surcoat of the Dayknights. The silver-wolf on a maroon-field crest marked him as one from Rivermeade, the sword of his rank with the black opal–inlaid pommel at his side. Culpa Barra also wore the armor of the Dayknights and black-opal sword. Jondralyn wore the silver and black of the Amadon Silver Guard.

  The mist hung motionless on the valley floor below them. Lokkenfell was a mile to the north, Lord’s Point some forty odd miles to the west. A stretch of swampy farmlands and canals lay between the two cities. Stone pathways and gray stone walls crisscrossed the farmlands, most overgrown with grass and weeds. Livestock gathered in green pastures to the north and east. Squat farmhouses, their chimneys streaming smoke into the morning haze, dotted the landscape too. The towers of the Lord’s Point castle and cathedral were barely visible in the far distance, and beyond that, the sea rolled away to the end of the horizon. Jondralyn thought she could just make out the tip of the Fortress of Saint Only floating just above the ocean crest five miles beyond Lord’s Point.

  “They should have arrived with more haste,” Leif Chaparral said. “Kronnin will soon know that I am most displeased.”

  “We’ve only just arrived ourselves,” Jondralyn said, a dull and faint feeling of unease settling in her stomach. “I will do the talking.” Initially she had found Leif’s lurking intensity rather tiresome on their four-day journey from Amadon along the king’s tolls. Leif had remained mostly silent during the first few days. And if he did speak to her, it was in a condescending manner. “Someone wielding a Silver Guard sword, afraid of a rodent,” he’d jibed when she was startled by a mouse that had darted from underneath one of the toll wagon’s bedrolls. “This task scarcely suits you, Jondralyn. Makes me question the wisdom of your brother, the king.”

  If not for the presence of Culpa Barra, that portion of the journey would have been torment for her. Sterling Prentiss, at the behest of Grand Vicar Denarius, had deemed Ser Culpa Barra standard-bearer of the Dayknights. Both Prentiss and Denarius had insisted that the church be represented along with the king in the negotiations with Aeros Raijael. And Jondralyn was glad for the young Dayknight’s company. She recalled the efficiency with which Culpa had dispatched the four injured Dayknights on Jovan’s orders after their duel with Hawkwood. She’d become fast friends with him on their journey from Amadon. Culpa was without guile. He talked to her with an ease most men could not. There was no want or desire or lust in his eyes when it came to her—at least none that she could detect. She was glad for this new friendship. He was her lone connection to the Brethren of Mia.

  But the second half of the journey had been different between her and Leif. The Prince of Rivermeade had started noticing her in the all ways Culpa Barra had not, and his lust for the company of a beautiful woman had softened his treatment of her. He’d reverted back to how he’d been as a teen, his manner fl
irtatious and playful. She could see through his change in character, though. She’d heard that after she’d escorted Squireck from Sunbird Hall, Leif had brought in a Sør Sevier captive and executed her right there in front of everyone. It was this coldness that she believed was his true nature. But she was happy for his reversal in personality. Dealing with a flirt was something she could handle—and more pleasant. She just needed to be on guard and discern the flirting from conniving and play it to her advantage. It would be a fine line to walk.

  She could sense that Leif was going to be brusque with Lord Kronnin and wanted to head that off. Kronnin’s Ocean Guard reined up before her. The several hundred or so horsemen formed ranks behind Kronnin, their destriers sweaty and damp from the hard ride, their manes braided with ribbons of Lord’s Point ocean blue. Outside of special ceremonies and celebrations in Amadon, Jondralyn had never seen so many mounted soldiers and squires before. As they had pounded up the ridgeline toward her, she’d tried to remain stoic, unimpressed. But now her heart was thumping; her own mount’s hooves padded apprehensively under her. She tightened her grip on the reins and tried to calm the horse as it jostled into Leif’s mount, earning her a scowl from the prince of Rivermeade. Her own armor was startlingly uncomfortable, especially atop her unfamiliar steed.

  Kelvin Kronnin, in the silver armor and blue livery of Lord’s Point, removed his helm and held it in the crook of his right arm. The blue flag of Lord’s Point hung limp from the wooden pole of the standard-bearer behind him. Lord Kronnin was bareheaded with a shaved face. His angular, hard-lined features were accented by an old scar that ran along the bridge of his nose and down his jaw line. From atop his war charger, he bowed to Jondralyn. “It is not often we are privileged with one of the royal family. On word of your arrival, we hastened from Lord’s Point to Lokkenfell.”

  “Hastened?” Leif scoffed, earning a momentary, ill-favored look from Kronnin.