The Forgetting Moon

by Brian Lee Durfee

  “Soon you will wear their colors,” she accused. But her voice sounded meek. Hunger clawed at her stomach again. She hoped Jenko would offer her something: food, a reassuring word . . . his love. I would accept food from him, just not the White Prince. Despite the weakness she felt in her bones, she stood taller and said again, “Yes, soon you will wear their colors like this traitor, Mancellor.”

  “What am I to do?” he answered, glancing at Mancellor. “What am I to do?”

  “Fight back. Resist them.”

  “As you resist Aeros?”

  Ava recoiled as if struck in the face. An unholy din rolled through her head—the black song of the wraiths now awakening, their evil tune prowling through her mind. “You should have saved me from him,” she spat. But if the venom of her words had any effect on him, he gave no outward sign.

  “I have witnessed the power of the Laijon we worshipped, of the bishop we followed, and it wasn’t much.” He looked fiercely proud of himself as he motioned with a nod to the Wyn Darrè now standing guard next to her. “You may think him a traitor, but Mancellor was once like us—a captive of Aeros Raijael. Look at him now, Ava. The Angel Prince only wishes for us to come unto him and prosper. These worshippers of Raijael are not the demons we believed them to be as children.”

  At the sound of his blasphemous words, Ava thought she might faint. “Not the demons we believed them to be? They killed my younger brothers and sisters. Burned them as Ol’ Man Leddingham tried to save them. Made you cut up your own father. If that’s not what demons do, then what are they?”

  “They are just like us.”

  “They’ve bewitched you. The Way and Truth of Laijon speaks of the followers of Raijael and their sorcerous powers, powers that can poison and turn the hearts of men. What you believe about them is naught but the conjuring of your fevered mind.”

  “What am I to do?” Jenko asked. “What must my father think? What must he think of what I did to him? If he even still lives. Aeros’ victory over all of Adin Wyte and Wyn Darrè, and now his ease in destroying this part of Gul Kana, my own village, speaks for itself.”

  His words bore the stench of garbage, the stench of evil. The hunger and nausea festered within Ava anew, making her drowsy. A renewed hatred for Aeros enveloped her, cold and unrelenting. She tried to suppress the rage so she could speak with a clear head. The Way and Truth of Laijon claimed that hatred was the poisoned soil in which dark thoughts could take root. “You should have saved me from him,” she muttered. “How can you stand before me and say what you’ve said?”

  “A greater mercy had we all died, Ava,” Jenko said, eyes now brimming with concern, confusion. “What am I to do but perhaps join them and live? What should each of us to do but try seeing things as our enemies do?”

  She looked at him in astonishment, the wraiths now worming their way back through the crust of her brain like leeches, sucking at her will.

  “I will never,” she came to her answer in a weary, soul-sick breath, “see things as they do.” Despair claimed her as she turned and entered the tent of her torturer.

  The sounds of footfalls awakened her, along with murmuring voices. Ava opened her eyes to the grainy light of a few flickering candles. Even immersed in the luxury of Aeros’ large, soft bed, she could not find comfort. Her loins ached, but not with the sweet, hungry ache she had felt after her first night with Jenko. This slow, throbbing pain was one dedicated to reminding her of the misery of her new life. She could smell the reek of her own sin and knew that no amount of scented oils or perfumes that Aeros gave her could defeat the stench of wickedness that had seeped into her every pore.

  As the voices grew in strength, she began to make out individual words. Wearing naught but a short shift, she climbed from the bed and padded softly toward the flap of canvas that separated Aeros’ bedchamber from the bulk of the tent. She set her eye to the narrow slits between the canvas drapes. The room adjacent to Aeros’ bedchamber was rimmed with candlelight as two shadowy figures stood there. The first was the Angel Prince. But what really got her gut jumping was the sight of the other man swathed in the black leather armor—the Spider, or as she’d recently learned, Spiderwood, sometimes also called the Bloodwood. The sight of him always sent shivers through her. It seemed this dark-haired man could read her mind with but a glance. Ava contemplated retreating back into the softness of Aeros’ bed before they caught her spying.

  But Aeros spotted her and bade her enter. Slowly, reluctantly, scared of the Bloodwood, she slipped between the flaps of the tent and into the room with the two men.

  “What do you think of her?” Aeros asked the dark-haired man. “A treasure.”

  “Seems she’d be lively enough. Though that young man she fancies appears destitute of genius. I don’t know what potential you see in Jenko Bruk.”

  “You did not know Mancellor when we first took him,” Aeros said, his face so white it appeared pale blue next to the darkness emanating from the Bloodwood. “The Wyn Darrè boy was also full of bitterness and hate. There is no triumph more satisfying than turning your worst enemy into one of your greatest allies. Mancellor is as one of us now. He has earned his place at my side.”

  “And you plan on grooming the Gallows Haven fellow as well?”

  “Jenko Bruk is destined to bring great treasure unto me. I have foreseen it. He will prove the most loyal yet. Spades will make sure of that.”

  “Spades,” the Bloodwood said with distaste. “You place far too much faith in one so unbalanced.”

  “She’s a crazed, malignant one, to be sure.” Aeros smiled wickedly, winking at Ava. “But that unhinged ferocity of hers gets a deadly point across to those we capture. I like that. I need that. Someone like Spades must do the things that need doing. Violent things that I wish to avoid doing myself. It is how my father uses Black Dugal. For the dirty tasks.

  “Or does Dugal use my father for his dirty tasks?” Aeros stepped lightly across the expanse of rugs on the floor and knelt before a gold-filigreed chest set in the corner of the room. At his touch, it opened soundlessly. With great care, he lifted its intricately scrollworked lid. Reaching into it, he pulled forth an ox-horned helm that sparkled shards of dancing yellow candlelight and dazzled Ava’s eyes. Aeros handed the helm to the Bloodwood, who held the relic up to the light, examining its burnished surface and intricate gold and silver inlays with a careful eye.

  “What do you think?” Aeros asked.

  “An old war helm of curious make,” the Bloodwood said.

  Curious make. Something about the shiny helm struck Ava as frighteningly odd. It was the two horns sprouting from the helm that seized her eyes. They were not oxen at all, but something else entirely, something foreign and unrecognizable.

  “Of all my Knights Archaic,” Aeros said, “I knew only you would be the least impressed. The Bloodwoods hold no craven yearnings for ancient relics or sacred things.”

  The Spider ran nimble fingers over one of the helm’s strange horns. “You believe this to be the Lonesome Crown of Laijon.”

  “Gault pretended to be less than awed when I took it from King Torrence on the Aelathia Plains. But he noticed it, all right. How could he not? He desires much of what I possess.” Aeros’ eyes wandered to Ava. “Gault knows the importance of these things I collect.” He looked at Spiderwood. “Do you?”

  “Black Dugal educates all in his care about the mythology of the stones, and of those most closely associated with them. But we Bloodwoods give scant credence to such fables. I’ve read portions of The Moon Scrolls of Mia . . . among other such writings.”

  “So too has your brother, it would seem.”

  “Hawkwood will soon be dead.” The Spider offered the helm back to Aeros.

  “Stabler’s report of a Bloodeye mare at the bottom of a pit full of spikes concerns me greatly.” The White Prince took the helm and placed it back into the chest. “I fear Rosewood is dead.”

  “Do not underestimate Rosewood.”

  �
��We’ve heard no word from her. Sending her so near Shawcroft alone could have been a grave mistake.”

  “That was more your father’s decision than Dugal’s.”

  Aeros pulled from the chest a small black swatch of silk and handed it to the Bloodwood.

  Spiderwood unwrapped the cloth and his eyes widened. Cradled within was a green stone, flat and oval with polished round edges.

  “An angel stone,” Aeros said reverently. Smoky waves of green color passed over the stone’s smooth surface, and its translucent innards seemed to dance and glow.

  Witchcraft! Ava’s mind screamed. Sorcery! The sight of the glowing stone wrapped icy chains around her heart, constricting it. She found it hard to catch her breath. Had Aeros called it an angel stone? The Way and Truth of Laijon held that the stones of the Five Warrior Angels were taken into heaven with Laijon.

  Anything the vile White Prince said is surely not to be believed!

  The Spider held the stone up to his eyes—bloodshot eyes.

  “There is only one thing a cross-shaped altar can mean,” Aeros went on. “If we’re to believe what Stabler said about those mines above Gallows Haven, it would seem another one of the weapons of Laijon has been discovered.”

  “If so, Shawcroft’s ward now has it.”

  “Even more reason to find the boy. All the stones and weapons of our Lord Laijon are fated to find their way to me. It is written in the stars.”

  “You seem sure of yourself.” The red streaks in the Bloodwood’s eyes almost glowed in the light of the stone as he scrutinized it.

  “I am as confident that all the stones will come to me as you are that Rosewood is alive and that your brother will find his way to you.”

  The Bloodwood peeled his eyes away from the stone. “Jubal Bruk has surely reached Amadon with news of our attack by now. Hawkwood will seek me out. He wishes me dead. He knows what is hidden within the writings my father keeps. Hawkwood knows many truths the Brethren of Mia dare not admit to themselves.”

  “Well then, let us hope he brings us another one of the five pillars of Laijon when he comes to kill you.”

  “It will be Hawkwood who dies.”

  “A confrontation I would pay to see.”

  Spiderwood gave back the stone, eyes lingering on its translucent surface. “I hold no fealty to whatever legends you ascribe to, my lord. Still, I can see how such a splendid little gem could pull at a man’s mind and twist it.”

  Aeros wrapped it in the silk and placed it back in the chest. “That is why none alive should know of it but the three of us.” He stood, looking at Ava. She remained motionless, resolved to not even blink. Her determination was, for a moment, absolute.

  The Bloodwood said, “Gault was there with you on the Aelathia Plains when you found the stone.”

  “Aye.”

  “He will try and take it.”

  “Unfortunately . . . yes.”

  “So you will agree to my plan?” the Spider asked. “You know what must be done?”

  Aeros gave a slight nod. “Word of what we’ve done to Krista will reach Gault eventually. Perhaps Black Dugal has already enlightened the girl to the fact that Gault is not her father. If he gets wind that she is part of Dugal’s Caste—well, Gault is not quick to anger, he’s calm as a pond, but when he does become angry, his rage knows no bounds.”

  “Aside from creating one’s own Bloodwood daggers from the souls of the condemned,” Spiderwood said, “part of the Sacrament of Souls is to forsake all one’s kin. A Bloodwood is to become fatherless and motherless in the eyes of Black Dugal. If he has not already enlightened Krista as to her true parentage, he soon will. Or he may have some other do the telling for him. Dugal can be devious in his purpose.”

  “Would Gault know of this Sacrament of Souls and what it entails?”

  “The man is an astute observer of all things. I am sure he’s heard rumors of the Sacrament of Souls. He will rush to her rescue for sure.”

  “I cannot have that,” Aeros said. “He cannot ruin our plans for her. Much rides on Krista and the tasks Dugal will set her to.”

  “Dugal also knows this.”

  “So it must be done, then?” There was hesitation in Aeros’ question.

  “Dugal has sanctioned our actions.”

  “Gault is not even a full-blooded man of Sør Sevier.” Aeros’ face twisted in loathing. “Dugal is right. He should die. Most of his own kin are naught but goddess-worshipping witches who King Edmon either killed or had married off to noblemen like Agus Aulbrek. The match of Agus and Evalyn Van Hester was deemed unholy even by the Laijon worshippers in Amadon. Gault is less than a bastard. As the Illuminations say, ‘Tainted blood is ever treacherous.’ He is, by nature, unholy, susceptible to betrayal. There is growing proof of his treachery. He has seen the stone. He desires it. And he has, of late, exhibited naught but rough lust for other things closest to me.”

  Aeros’ gaze sliced into Ava, the danger in his look real and palpable. His piercing eyes now had her in their binding, unwavering grasp. Hazy candlelight played off Aeros’ silky hair in yellow waves as he continued, “Gault thinks me blind to his subtlety. But I see how he appraises my Ava. I have foreseen his betrayal.”

  Ava swayed on her feet. Nausea now enveloped her and she felt faint. I am so hungry. But she did not want to collapse again. She had already done so once earlier that day, in front of Jenko and Mancellor. I am dying. Over the last two weeks, she had become willow thin from lack of food. She feared she would wither away, both body and soul. But wouldn’t it just be better to wither and float away into death’s embrace? Over the days, she had stayed steadily drunk on a mixture of red wine and other such drink.

  What the Bloodwood said next turned Ava’s veins to ice.

  “Gault will no longer be a problem for us. I’ll see it done in Ravenker. Suspicion will not fall upon you, my lord Aeros. I assure you.”

  * * *

  The brave and pure of heart are recorded in scripture, to be sure, but so are the craven, the venal, and the foolhardy. No man is perfect. Remember, even the Warrior Angels were once brawlers, rogues, and thieves. One single man, even be he the reincarnation of one of the Five Warrior Angels, cannot be totally without blemish. Only the reincarnation of Laijon himself is to remain spotless of all stain.

  —THE WAY AND TRUTH OF LAIJON

  * * *

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  NAIL

  19TH DAY OF THE MOURNING MOON, 999TH YEAR OF LAIJON

  SWITHEN WELLS TRAIL ABBEY, GUL KANA

  The dark-haired man came walking out of the fog. Face of a raptor and eyes black as death, he drifted toward Nail like a wraith through the mist, moving with a fluid gait. The stranger’s every step across the loamy soil was a haunting reminder of the black-cloaked shade who had killed Shawcroft.

  Clouds had drifted in over the mountains earlier that morning and settled over the abbey. Nail had been lounging on a rock, enjoying the solitude, with Zane’s dog, parchment, charcoal, and the beginnings of a new drawing in hand—a blond girl sitting at the base of a tall standing-stone, flowers in her hair.

  But upon seeing this new stranger, he leaped from his perch. The man’s dark hair was shoulder-length. He wore a leather harness bearing two cutlasslike swords crossed over his back, their grips and pommels jutting above his shoulders. These hilts, sprouting a profusion of serrated spikes, looked like antlers above his head. He also wore a brace of long knives at his hip. Slung over his shoulder was a black cloak stained with dirt.

  Beer Mug eyed the newcomer with concern, ears pricked. That the dog had not even been alerted to the man’s approach was in itself alarming. Nail’s hand was trembling as it latched onto the hilt of his sword and pulled it free. He brandished it before the man menacingly. That the stranger held out his hands in peace scarcely eased Nail’s mind.

  A stumpy, bearded fellow came waddling out of the mist next, leading two roan palfrey horses, a quizzical look on his rough-hewn face. “Put away tha
t blade, boy,” he said. “You’re liable to slice yourself to ribbons.”

  “I’ve been in many battles,” Nail said, then immediately felt stupid for saying such a thing as he noticed the pocked and well-used look of the short fellow’s iron half-helm, leather armor, and the heavy spiked mace strapped to his back. Nail realized that the squat and grizzled man was in fact a dwarf. He’d seen a few dwarves in his lifetime, but only from afar—ofttimes dwarf trading ships from the west coast of Wyn Darrè would make port in Gallows Haven for a night. Nail and the other boys in town would run to the shoreline to see if they could spy a dwarf sailor or two.

  Stout and short, runty and ugly, this dwarf before him had a round, surly face hidden behind a tangled and wiry beard. The dwarf smiled, and that, too, did little to ease Nail’s mind. His guard was up.

  It was the tall, dark-haired stranger who made the first introduction. “Hawkwood,” he said, holding forth his hand. Nail backed away, sword up, ready.

  “Roguemoore.” The dwarf bowed. “Who might you be?”

  “I don’t see why you need to know my name.” His eyes bounced between the two.

  The two strangers exchanged a glance. One of the roans behind them whinnied. Beer Mug approached the dwarf, a low growl in his throat, then sniffed around the stubby fellow. After a moment’s investigation, he began to wag his tail.

  “We’re looking for Hugh Godwyn.” The dwarf’s tone was affable. He petted Beer Mug on the head. “The abbey we seek should not be far. The fog has turned us around some. I doubt we’re too extremely lost, but if you know of the abbey, please tell us. We’ve journeyed far.”

  After his initial fright at seeing the two materialize out of the clouds, there was something about the smaller of the two travelers that Nail liked.