The Forgetting Moon

by Brian Lee Durfee

  But Lord Kronnin’s eyes quickly fell on Jondralyn. “There are some who think highly of themselves because they fought alongside your father when he fell in Oksana.”

  “And rightly so, old man,” Leif said. “Truth is, I’ve seen more battles than you.”

  “Must you argue with everyone, Leif?” Jondralyn snapped. Her bay palfrey jittered again and she fought to bring it under control. Fool horse. She feared that learning to ride a mount in battle was going to take more practice than becoming a gladiator.

  “Pardon, m’lady.” Leif dipped his head toward her.

  “How is your newborn daughter?” she asked Kronnin once her horse had settled.

  “She is fine, m’lady, and healthy. We named her Raye.”

  “I am sure she will grow to be as radiant as her name suggests, as stunning as her mother, the unbearably beautiful Emogen.”

  Kronnin’s face glowed. “She will.” He paused, clearing his throat as he looked from her to Leif and back. “Word is, Jovan was nearly killed. What news have you?”

  “No news on the assassin or where he was from.” Leif bowed to Kronnin too as he spoke.

  The horse under Jondralyn stepped back again and neighed. She was growing frustrated with it. Leif reached out and with a gentle touch calmed her mount. She smiled and bowed her thanks to him, grateful for his gesture, knowing what lustful yearnings were behind his efforts.

  She had never hated Leif Chaparral. She had also never been too fond of him either. He’d flirted with her nonstop when she was a young teen. But once she was betrothed to Squireck Van Hester, the flirting had ended. Jovan and Leif had been raised together. But in a way, Jovan’s relationship with Leif was a trifle bewildering. The two had a private way of interacting; they seemed to know each other’s thoughts. Around them, Jondralyn always felt awkward and excluded. That was the way she felt now. Even though Leif and Kelvin Kronnin clearly disliked each other, she wondered if either one of them had an ounce of respect for her. They soon will.

  For a time, Jondralyn had believed she was going to be just another pretty, frilly ribbon woven into the tangled historical tapestry of the Five Isles—a broodmare to some lordling. But once her mother had died, she’d known she was destined to be a bright focal point in the history of her kingdom, a soldier, a warrior, noticeable and remembered. And not just for her image on a coin.

  “What news of the White Prince’s advance up the coast?” she asked Kronnin.

  “Word is Aeros has sacked Gallows Haven and Tomkin Sty, and now closes in on Ravenker. He destroys all in his way: burning, killing women and children. What few he leaves alive he enslaves. It is mass slaughter. The question is, can Jovan get the armies of Gul Kana gathered before Aeros can bring the entirety of his armies from Wyn Darrè by ship? The lords and barons of Gul Kana have never united their lands to make war since the crusades to take Wyn Darrè from the worshippers of Raijael over seven hundred years ago. But if they did, if Jovan can muster them, the warriors would number over two hundred thousand. They could all arrive here within two moons, if Jovan acts soon.”

  “You needn’t question the king,” Leif fired. “Jovan has sent heralds to marshal armies from every corner of Gul Kana. He even summons aid from Val Vallè.”

  “The Vallè,” Kronnin snorted. “Those prancing fools will be of scant use.”

  Jondralyn waved the comment aside. “The question for us is what do we do about Ravenker, Bedford, Bainbridge, and the other farms and villages in the path of Aeros?”

  “There is naught that we can do.” Kronnin took a deep breath. “Unfortunately, they’ll be sacrificed while we await more reinforcements from the breadth of Gul Kana.”

  “Perhaps you will wait, Lord Kronnin.” Jondralyn’s heart was beating hard inside her chest now. “But I shall ride south and look upon the armies of the White Prince with my own eyes. I wish to know what it is we are up against.”

  “And risk confrontation or capture.” Leif looked at her, bafflement and real concern on his face.

  “Leif is right,” Kronnin added. “There will no doubt be battles aplenty in the coming moons. No use in rushing to our doom. Aeros exists to wage this war. His knights are vile creatures, ruthless, deadly, and brutal beyond measure. It would be too dangerous to venture south with but a few hundred Ocean Guards.”

  “Then Ser Culpa Barra and I shall go alone,” she stated.

  Leif’s eyes, again filled with a brief moment of insolence, cut into hers, then softened. “Not without me, you won’t. You should come too, Lord Kronnin.”

  Kronnin’s eyes bored into Leif. “You figure we’ll just stroll down the coastline, have a gawk at Aeros’ armies, and then what?”

  Jondralyn’s heart had not slowed its pounding. “Are you not the least bit curious, Lord Kronnin?”

  “Curious, yes, but not suicidal.”

  “The time has come to gauge our worth.” She faced Kronnin, her eyes unflinching, confidence growing. “These Sør Sevier bastards are whetting their swords with Gul Kana blood, and most in Gul Kana wish to wait and do nothing until they arrive at Lord’s Point. Well, I wish to see these invaders with my own eyes.”

  Kronnin looked off into the distance, his gauntleted hands clutching at the reins of his horse like the hands of a drowning man clutching at a rope. He turned back to her. “It would be unwise to march this many Ocean Guards south. We should send but a few scouts if you insist on this course. I can see some wisdom in doing that.”

  “And I shall lead these scouts,” she said.

  “It is madness,” Kronnin said.

  Do we all possess a wish to remain important to our fellow man? Or is it just me? Jondralyn did not understand the man’s apprehension. Do we all not desire our great actions to be witnessed and sung about by the minstrels and bards? Or am I, a woman, now the only one who aspires to greatness? Can’t he see that this is our chance for greatness and bravery? “You may not wish to go with me, Kronnin,” she said. “But I beg of you, please do not thwart me.”

  “Seems Laijon and I together could not dislodge you from this course,” Kronnin said. “But you will not go without at least sixty knights,” he continued, bowing in his saddle. “Sixty of my best along with a dozen or so squires shall accompany you, if it pleases m’lady?”

  “Very well,” she said.

  “Then I shall take my leave.” Kronnin bowed again to her. “Ser Revalard Avocet will lead my men.” He indicated the tall knight to his left. Jondralyn watched as Lord Kronnin whirled his destrier, motioning for sixty of his men to separate from the group and stay behind with Ser Avocet.

  She’d won. She couldn’t trust her own voice not to sound excited. So she merely nodded her approval to both Leif and Lord Kronnin.

  “Let us be off,” she finally said, and reined her mount around abruptly, facing south.

  They will call me the Harbinger. She watched Lord Kronnin and his Ocean Guard ride away. The scribes will call me the Summoner of All Armies. Yes, the scribes will write of Princess Jondralyn Bronachell, one of the Five Warrior Angels returned. For I have been preordained to carve my name into history.

  * * *

  Beware alchemy. Beware evil combinations, lest some things hidden be discovered anew. Potions and poisons can turn one against one’s will. Certain poisons can set the wraiths against you, erode one’s life unto death. Yet other potions can bring one back to life. Taken in evil combination, poisons and potions can leave one changed beyond all measure. Alchemy is altogether wicked. For it is the work of the Vallè.

  —THE WAY AND TRUTH OF LAIJON

  * * *

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  TALA BRONACHELL

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

  AMADON, GUL KANA

  Lies. So many lies I have told. Tala wanted to shout to all of Amadon that it was the grand vicar who was guilty, and not Sterling Prentiss. But who would believe that?

  Tala feared the chaotic, swirling thoughts of her feverish an
d damnable games with the Bloodwood might overwhelm her. She had failed Jondralyn. Despite telling her sister of Jovan’s plot, Jondralyn had still left for Lord’s Point. And she’ll be killed! And it’s my fault. All of it.

  She sat in the sparsely lit room adjacent to Lindholf’s bedchamber where she and Lindholf and Glade had hidden Lawri. The room was small, no more than a closet, and Lawri lay on a cot in the center of it. A few candles flickered on a table near her bed. Two of the room’s walls were made of solid stone. The other walls were in rougher shape, crumbling brick and mortar with wooden slats showing through, some parts lined with thicker wooden planks to hold up the flaking stone. There were chains and irons along with hefty leather straps fastened high on all but one of the walls. Tala had no idea what those had once been used for. It seemed every corner of the castle held ancient secrets of some kind. She allowed her eyes to stray toward Lawri. Once stunning and beautiful, now her cousin looked a hundred years old, so shrunken and frail a strong breeze could carry her away. Her chest scarcely rose with each strained breath. Her sweat-damp face was pale gray, the flesh stretched tight around her skull and jawline. But it was Lawri’s eyes that disturbed Tala the most; they were closed, sunken pits. She took Lawri’s hand in her own, startled at how dry her cousin’s fingers were, coarse and rough as an old strap of rawhide. She’s almost dead. She’ll die before her Ember Gathering. With her cousin’s hand in her own, Tala felt a rush of emotion so strong it frightened her.

  Lawri’s eyes opened slowly. Bloodshot and dark-hollowed. As her gaze met Tala’s, Lawri’s dry fingers clutched hers tightly. Tala broke down in tears when she saw the love emanating from her cousin. Those two dark pupils, dry and so near to death, still conveyed the spirit that was Lawri.

  Tears accompanied Tala’s words, which spilled out beyond her control. “I forbid you to die. I forbid it. Soon we will be exploring again. You’ll see. We will be sneaking away from the Silver Guard and crawling through the castle as if we own it. You will soon be running in Greengrass Courtyard, the cool grass under your toes. You will hold your arm out for Ser Castlegrail’s hawks. You remember how you liked the hawks? I will have the kitchen bake those sweet wheat rolls that you like.”

  Tala could barely speak, the tears flowed so freely now. Her mouth quivered. “You—you can feed bits of the bread to the hawks. They will swoop in . . . swoop in and perch on your arm and—and you can feed them. I promise. You will not die, do you hear me?” Then Tala could not speak anymore, and Lawri’s eyes drifted shut again.

  As she walked, two Silver Guards trailing a few paces behind her, Tala was lost in a bottomless pit of endless grief and torment. She had been wandering the halls of Amadon Castle for hours now. There was little else to do. She could sit in her room, alone, and worry about Lawri—and Jondralyn. But that would only compound her misery. She was well aware of how the howling presence of the wraiths could blight the soul when one was left alone. And as much as she loathed it, walking with an armed escort was more favorable than that. Still, a life spent boxed in by Dame Mairgrid and soldiers paid to protect her was really no way to live either. Where else but in a prison would one be forced to her room most days and only escorted out by the guards?

  The thought sparked an ire within her that she had scant resolve to rein in. She quickened her pace, and the Silver Guards trailing behind hastened to match it. She knew she could not lose them. They would follow her like bloodhounds until she returned to her chambers. But she knew it irritated them when she varied her gait so. And that pleased her, because her royal imprisonment would never end, and so why not derive pleasure where she could?

  She slowed as she turned from the corridor and entered one of her favorite places in the castle, Swensong Courtyard. The yard was bright in comparison to the grim interior of the castle, and full of people. Tala strolled over the many crisscrossing cobblestone paths and through flower beds aglow with blossoming flowers of bright purple and white. The many mingling fragrances of the flowers, which normally filled her with hope and joy, now just added to her despair.

  A smattering of statues, some of Laijon, most of long-dead grand vicars, and a few of heralded Dayknights, accentuated the flower gardens and ivy. The statues were old and cracked and weather-stained. The tops of the trees that lined the ivy-covered walls of the courtyard bowed and swayed in a moaning breeze that lazed its way over the crenulated battlements. The grand and narrow Swensong Spire at the far southern end of the yard rose up into the sky like a needle. Of the many spires of Amadon Castle, Swensong—though elegant—was not the greatest or the tallest. That honor belonged to Cember Tower in the center of the castle, atop the pinnacle of Mount Albion.

  As she strolled through the gardens, assorted nobility and other castle folk paused to bow to her. She nodded in greeting to those she recognized, but most she ignored. They made her feel lonely; all of them dressed in their colorful waistcoats and dresses, strolling hand in hand, enjoying companionships they made in the yards whilst she sought only solace and reprieve. She thought of Glade. How disgusted she was with him. So gleeful and giddy when his brother had slain that warrior woman in Sunbird Hall.

  She recalled Lindholf and Glade’s Ember Lighting Rites last week in the Royal Cathedral with the other seventeen-year-old sons of Gul Kana royalty. For his part, Glade had chosen to administer the flame to her—a great honor, and a great ceremony. But it was all tainted now with his evilness. And all of it administered by the worst of all people. Denarius.

  The grand vicar had anointed Glade’s head with holy oil, then performed the Ember Lighting Confirmation. Denarius had pulled down on a thick rope, opening the flue centered in the cathedral ceiling high above and letting in a shaft of light that spilled down upon the main altar. Glade had then offered his Ember Lighting Prayer, confessing his love of Laijon, the church, and Laijon’s holy prophet, Grand Vicar Denarius. He then took up a goblet of oil and proceeded to Tala. She, in front of the altar, had held forth a pestle of crushed cloves in her cupped hands. Glade tipped the goblet, dripping the oil into her thin ceramic pestle whilst he lit the flame under it, setting the herbs alight with help of the oil. She freed one of her hands, passing it over the pestle, letting the flame caress her flesh briefly, knowing she was worthy of none of it. The Ember Lighting flame was meant to grant both participants courage, faith, strength, and protection from the wraiths. She then bowed her face to the pestle, drawing in a deep breath, smoke filling her lungs: the smoke was meant to bring them both healing and sustenance. She blew the vapors back out slowly, her essence supposedly mingling with the smoke. Up through the cathedral her essence had floated and twirled, up toward the flue high above, eventually to reach the air and take flight into heaven and dwell with Laijon. A realm I will never deserve to live in. All my lies and deceptions. My hatred of Glade!

  It should have been Lindholf who offered me the flame. But her cousin had performed the same ritual as Glade, choosing his mother, Mona Le Graven, to administer his flame to first, and next his younger twin siblings, Lorhand and Lilith. Then both Glade and Lindholf and the other seventeen-year-olds had stood before the grand vicar as he draped a string of Ember Lighting beads around each of their necks.

  Something about the Ember Lighting Rites made her think of the assassin’s last note. Study the Ember Lighting Song of the Third Warrior Angel found in The Way and Truth of Laijon. Pay particular attention to chapter twenty, verse thirty-one. Study it. Memorize it. During Glade’s and Lindholf’s Ember Lighting, Denarius had read from The Way and Truth of Laijon, read the very verse Tala was to memorize. And it came to pass that at the time of final Dissolution, he died upon the tree, nailed thusly, purging all man’s Abomination, the sword of Affliction piercing his side. Thus all was sanctified. Upon the altar they laid his body in the shape of the Cross Archaic. And as prophesied in all Doctrine, Mia took up the angel stones. And it came to pass, the five stones of Final Atonement she placed into the wound manifest.

  Tala continued through the
courtyard, angry at herself, feeling sorry for herself, contemplating the meaning of the Bloodwood’s note, the scripture, the Ember Lighting Rites, trying to figure how it all tied in, if at all. As she walked, in some corners children screeched and giggled in play. Benches of ornately carved stonework dotted the gardens. Tala considered sitting but heard the faint chords of a familiar song strike up in the distance. She blinked, her gaze sweeping the gardens. The music was coming from near the spire. So she proceeded that way, the heels of the two Silver Guards clacking on the cobblestones behind her.

  The Val Vallè princess, Seita, in leather breeches and billowy white shirt, sat on one of the garden’s carved stone benches at the base of the tower. She was playing a mandolin, her fingers skipping lightly over the strings, the sound of her playing blending perfectly with the pale-lavender wonders of the garden. Seita’s deft fingers were plucking mellow sounds, which was surprising to Tala, considering she knew not that Seita could play at all. What was stranger still was seeing her cousin Lindholf Le Graven and Val-Draekin dancing to the music not far from where Seita was sitting. Tala quickly realized that the two were not dancing at all but were rather randomly, and quite clumsily, walking toward each other, bumping shoulders, turning and repeating the process.

  When she had first met him, Val-Draekin’s shoulder had been in a sling. Yet it looked fine now. Tala knew that the Vallè healed quicker than humankind, but the repeated collisions with Lindholf seemed ill-advised. Plus, the warm beauty of the soothing chords emanating from Seita’s mandolin seemed at complete odds to the awkward goings-on between Lindholf and Val-Draekin.

  Tala observed the interplay for a moment. “Whatever are you doing, Lindholf?”

  At the sound of her voice, Lindholf stiffened with a gasp. His dark eyes swung from Val-Draekin to her. Blond curls flopped across his forehead, hiding some of the burns from his childhood. The two Vallè turned and looked at Tala too, the last notes of Seita’s song drifting away in the breeze. The Vallè princess stood and bowed, her green eyes like gemstones. The rich wood of her mandolin was polished, accentuating its delicate grain. Tala’s eyes were transfixed by the exquisite beauty of the instrument.