Dark of the Moon

by P. C. Hodgell

  "Clever Gricki." Lyra smiled, with a touch of malice. "He always knows the details—about everyone and everything. Don't you, Gricki?"

  Jame hastily interrupted. "Lady, would it be possible to pay my respects to the Prince?"

  Lyra glanced up at the portrait over the fireplace. "If you can find him. Oh!" She rose abruptly, flustered. "That is, he's been so busy lately. Duties here and there . . . I hardly ever see him myself. But it's all quite normal, you know." She gave Jame an anxious look. "There certainly haven't been any violations of the contract."

  "Contract?"

  "You know," said Lyra as if to a simpleton. "The marriage contract. It comes up for review at Midwinter. My father, Lord Caineron, won't renew it if anything is, well, not quite right. Then I would have to leave. But if the Prince helps Father win at the Cataracts, maybe he will even extend the contract to include children. Oh, I would love that!"

  Jame stared at her. "Don't you have anything to say about it?"

  Lyra stared back. "Of course not! Lord Caineron is the head of my family. Naturally, I have to do what he tells me."

  "Naturally," Jame echoed, looking peculiar.

  "But then you won't tell my lord father anything about this because you're a woman like me," said Lyra with an abrupt, sunny smile. It fell away as she turned on the young man in the shadows. "And you won't because there's nothing to tell! Do you promise?"

  "Lady," said Graykin miserably, "you know I can't."

  She made a little angry dart at him, small fists clenched. "You will promise, Gricki or . . . or I'll tell this lady some details I do know about you. Think, Gricki."

  From the way she spat out the nickname, Jame knew that it meant the same thing in Southron as in Easternese. The young man cringed.

  "Lady, please . . ."

  " 'Lady, lady,' " she mimicked him, then spun around, skirt belling, to face Jame. "Do you like riddles? Here's one: What do you call a half-Kencyr-half-Southron bastard? Answer: Anything you want."

  Graykin abruptly left the room, not quite slamming the door. Jame stared after him.

  "I didn't know that sort of a blood-cross was possible. Who made the experiment?"

  Lyra shrugged, already losing interest. "Oh, a kitchen wench and someone in my father's retinue, apparently. He visited Karkinaroth about twenty years ago when Odalian's father was prince. Will you find Odalian for me?" She caught Jame's hands and spoke in a breathless whisper. "Oh, please do! I couldn't say it in front of that . . . that sneak, but things have been so strange here, and I've been so frightened. Will you?"

  "I'll try, lady," said Jame, and made her escape.

  Out in the hall, she leaned against the door and took a deep breath. Those awful, airless rooms! Was that how a Highborn woman lived, bound in a stifling world of convention and obedience? Would Tori try to make her into another Lyra? To be a pawn sent here or there as politics demanded, to warm this man's bed or bear that one's children, to live in stuffy halls for the rest of her life. Jame shivered. But a great deal could happen before then. She might even manage to get herself killed. Somewhat cheered, she turned and saw Graykin sitting on the floor against the wall, sharp chin on sharp knees.

  "You knew she would tell me, didn't you?"

  "She tells everyone when she remembers," he said in a muffled voice. "She remembers when she sees me."

  "Look, Graykin . . ."

  "Don't you mean Gricki?"

  "No, I do not. You're no more responsible for your bloodlines than . . . than I am for mine. Look, running around like this may be good for the circulation, but I'm starting to get cold. Can you find me some clothes?"

  He gave her a sharp look. "Some of Lyra's, d'you mean?"

  "Trinity, no." She took off the mask and dropped it on the floor. "Some of yours will do."

  Graykin started to laugh, then saw that she was serious. "Wait here." He jumped up and disappeared down the hall. In a few minutes he was back with an armful of clothing, including one undergarment for which Jame had no use whatsoever.

  "Very funny," she said, handing it back to him.

  She put on the rest: soft black boots cross gartered from instep to knee; black pants; broad black belt; loose black shirt; even a pair of black gloves.

  "There," said Graykin, surveying her. "The perfect outfit— for a sneak."

  Jame raised an eyebrow at him. "As you say. Perfect. Graykin, will you take me to the temple?"

  "As you say . . . lady."

  He led her there by a tortuous route, full of unexpected twists and turns. Jame smiled. Clearly, he didn't want her to master the intricacies of the palace anymore than she would have welcomed a rival in the Maze back in Tai-tastigon. She fixed each turn in her well-trained memory.

  Then Graykin cautiously opened a door, and there stood the temple in its nine-sided chamber. Jame estimated that it was at least forty-eight hours since she had last been here. In that time, the light sphere suspended from the ceiling had grown dimmer and the patches of dead grass larger. Worse, a continuous ripple of power warped the air like heat over a sun-baked rock. Graykin stopped at the door. Jame went slowly up the temple as though making her way through treacherous currents. She called, but this time no voice answered from inside. The bar was still in place. If only it had been a lock, she could have mastered it, but this required at least Marc's great strength. Dangerous, dangerous. . . . She backed to the door.

  "Graykin, you'd better keep an eye on this place in case I don't get back. At some point, the temple door will start to disintegrate. Then you and Lyra had better get out of the palace fast before it comes down on top of you."

  "Yes, lady." Graykin sounded impressed despite himself. "But where are you going?"

  "You said my friends aren't in the palace. Could they have been taken out to where the army is gathering?"

  "No. The Prince has bolted shut all the doors but one, and I've been keeping an eye on that."

  "Damn. As far as I know, then, that only leaves one place they could be: in the shadows."

  They had left the temple room and were walking back into the heart of the palace. Suddenly Graykin caught Jame's arm. Before them, the hallway dimmed and distorted, shadowy depth within depth.

  "That wasn't here before," said Graykin in a low voice. "The darkness is spreading. And you want to go into it?"

  Jame wrapped her arms about her, shivering. "No. I don't want to at all." In fact, a small, cold voice seemed to whisper in her mind, it could be a terrible mistake. "But what choice do I have?"

  Graykin regarded her with astonishment. "Why, you really don't know what you're doing, do you?"

  "Very seldom," Jame admitted with a sudden wry grin. "If I did, I probably wouldn't be doing it, but as far as I can see, the alternative is to spend the rest of my life standing in a corner with a sack over my head. I'm serious about Lyra, by the way. Watch out for her. She may be a cruel, stupid child, but she's one of us. See you later—I hope."

  She walked into the shadows.

  Chapter 10

  The Lurking Past

  The White Hills: 14th-16th of Winter

  AT DUSK on the fourteenth of Winter, the Kencyr Host came to the place where the road bends nearly due east following the curve of the river. That night, it camped beside the ancient paved way. At dawn on the fifteenth, it forded the Silver and marched south through the untrodden grass into the rolling, forbidden land.

  At this season, the hills were green and yellow rather than white, and the sky was a clear, eye-aching blue. Tall, coarse grass waved on the summits. Below, the hollows bristled with a kind of brier that grows tinder dry in the fall but no less sharp of thorn. Laced through the barbed branches were white flowers, which looked quite pretty from a distance, but, at closer range, resembled tiny, deformed skulls. At dusk, a billion crickets sang and mist gathered in the hollows.

  The first night passed without incident.

  The second day they pushed on as quickly as the terrain permitted, but at sundown still found themse
lves uncomfortably close to the old battlefield. All day, they had been stumbling across bones in the high grass, missed by those who had searched the hills immediately after the fight. These they gathered, in case any of them were Kencyr, for a later pyre. That night, some told stories around the watchfires of the unburnt dead while others remembered the grief and shame of Ganth Gray Lord's fall. Many of the older Kendar were survivors of that last bloody battle. All felt uneasy and unwilling to sleep, despite their exhaustion.

  Donkerri did sleep, but poorly. He dreamed that he again stood shivering by the fire in the Highlord's tower quarters after his grandfather had disowned him. "I'm not good at forgiving those who spy on me," said Torisen. "Ask Burr. But I will try if you promise never to do it again."

  "But you never went bone hunting at Kithorn, "the other boys jeered at him. "Baby, baby, blood-blind, blood-blind, blood-blind . . ."

  Donkerri woke with a gasp to the sound of the taunting chorus. But no, it was only the crickets. He hadn't been cast out, not utterly. Torisen had taken him in, and here he was now, safe in the Highlord's tent. He still belonged somewhere and, somehow, he would still find a way to prove himself. Donkerri wrapped that thought around him and slept again, comforted.

  In his own tent, Lord Caineron was commiserating with would-be-lord Korey. No, it wasn't right that the Highlord had put that blockhead Demoth in charge of the Coman. Once the family would never have accepted so deliberate an insult. Wasn't it sad how the standards of honor had fallen.

  Randir looked across at Caineron's lighted pavilion and wondered with scorn what stupidity the man was up to now. All that power, in the hands of a fool.

  Brandan walked among his own people, exchanging a quiet word here, a tired smile there. For perhaps the hundredth time, he wondered what he was getting them all into, following this young, possibly mad Highlord of a broken house.

  The Edirr twins sat beside a brazier in their tent, discussing women and, as usual in private, finishing each other's sentences.

  In his own richly appointed tent, Ardeth pored over his maps as if counting the leagues to the Cataracts over and over would somehow lessen the distance.

  Holly, Lord Danior, slept.

  To Torisen, restlessly walking the northern perimeter alone, came the boy Rion, almost in tears.

  "Lord, lord, come quick! Great-great-grandpa Jedrak wants to see you. I-I think he's dying."

  The Jaran standard had been raised on a hilltop some distance away, almost outside the eastern perimeter. Everyone had instinctively chosen the summits and upper slopes, leaving the lower reaches to the remount herd so that it might drift from slope to slope, grazing under the watchful eyes of the dozen or so Whinno-hir who had accompanied the Host. Torisen passed rapidly below the herd with Rion trotting beside him. Above, fires dotted the hillsides. Below, mist swelled up in the hollows. Then they were climbing again toward the watchfires through the silent, waiting ranks of the Jaran's people. Torisen noted that many of them were rather old for military service, and then remembered that most of these Kendar, even the former randons, were scrollsmen and scrollswomen first, and warriors second.

  Kirien emerged from the main tent carrying a fine linen cloth, which he carefully spread on the ground under the Stricken Tree banner. A long sigh rose from the darkness. He drew a knife, nicked his thumb, and let a drop of blood fall on the center of the cloth. Then he handed the knife to Rion. The boy jabbed vehemently at his hand, producing a spray of blood, most of which he managed to get on the cloth's center. He gave the blade to the nearest Kendar and burst into tears.

  "I'm sorry," Torisen said to Kirien. "I came as quickly as I could."

  He followed the young man into the large tent's innermost chamber. Jedrak lay on his pallet, his sharp profile visible through the cloth laid over his face.

  "Poor old man. He should never have come on an expedition like this."

  "So we all told him." Kirien covered the brazier near the old lord's bed, letting the shadows enfold him. "He would have his way, though, always—except this one last time."

  "Rion said he wanted to talk to me. Do you know what about?"

  "Two things. First, he didn't want to mix his ashes with those already thick on these accursed hills."

  "That's easily arranged. We'll be clear of these lands by the day after tomorrow at the latest. His pyre can wait until then."

  "Good. Second . . . hush, Rion. What would Grandpa think of you, making a noise like that? Here, lie down and try to sleep. There's a good lad."

  He came back into the light, leaving the boy curled up on his pallet in a corner, choking down sobs. Torisen stared at him. Something about his face, about the way he moved . . .

  "Have I finally lost my few remaining wits or are you a woman?"

  Kirien smiled. "Not quite. I don't come of age for a few more years."

  "Well, I'll be damned. But how on earth have you kept it a secret all this time?"

  "Who said it was a secret? The Jaran have always known. As for the other houses, my mother died giving birth to me, you see. That made both me and my father suspect as breeding stock, so no one outside our own house has paid much attention to either of us ever since, rather to our relief. Not that Jaran Highborn have ever been considered very good matches. Too eccentric, you know. Lord Randir condescended mightily in letting his niece contract to my father. Then she died. I could have been born a three-legged hermaphrodite for all my esteemed grand-uncle Randir knew or cared."

  "And now?"

  She smiled. "I still could be, but since Jedrak declared me his heir . . ."

  "Randir assumes you're male." He gave her a sharp look. "Was I supposed to confirm you, making the same assumption?"

  "Of course not. Jedrak was going to tell you tonight. He wanted your promise before he died that you would support my claim. That was his second request."

  Torisen turned away, running a hand distractedly through his hair. "Of all the crack-brained, senile whims, but even if I were to sanction such a thing . . . surely the Law wouldn't. Jedrak must have known that."

  Kirien gave him a cool, almost scornful look. "We are a house of scholars. Give us credit at least for having done our research. There's nothing in the Law that prohibits a lady from heading a family instead of a lord. In the case of fraternal twins like the Master and the Mistress, the power even used to be shared. It's only since Jamethiel Dream-Weaver fell that so many restrictions have been put on Highborn women, and most of them are pure Custom, not Law."

  "But surely the male Highborn in your house will challenge your claim."

  She snorted. "Which one of them would want to? As I said, we're scholars, each one of us wrapped up in his or her own work. My own specialty is the Fall. You might say that the entire house of Jaran flipped a coin for the post of administrator, and I lost. Great-Uncle Kedan will officiate until I come of age, but short of violence you couldn't get him to stay on any longer. The question is: Will you confirm me when the time comes?"

  Torisen considered this rather blankly. "I hardly know. The idea will take some getting used to, and then things will depend a good deal on how much power I have when you finally come of age. The High Council is sure to raise a howl audible from here to the Cataracts." He smiled suddenly. "It would almost be worth sponsoring you just to see the others' faces. Trust the Jaran to come up with something so unconventional."

  "Unconventional." Kirien glanced back into the shadows toward the bed. When she looked back at Torisen, a tear glinted in her eye. "Jedrak always said that was what he liked best about you, too."

  * * *

  TORISEN PAUSED in the tent's entrance to turn up his collar against the night's chill. The Kendar were still silently paying their respects, a drop of blood each. The border of the mourning cloth was stained nearly black by now. Before the blood dried, the cloth would be folded and placed on Jedrak's chest, to go with him into the flames. In the old days, the blood-bound followers of a Shanir lord would have slain themselves on his pyre.
The rite might now be purely symbolic, but it was still a private ceremony in which the Highlord had no part. Torisen withdrew.

  The Jaran's main tent was practically at the eastern-most point of the camp. Beyond were a few watchfires on the hilltop, then only the moonlit slopes rolling toward the distant Silver, toward the much nearer battlefield. Torisen walked out beyond the perimeter and sat down on the hillside, looking eastward over the diminishing swell of the hills.

  He thought about Kirien. The idea of a lady holding the power of a house still left him thoroughly nonplussed, but then he knew so little about Highborn women in general. Most were kept strictly sequestered and their contracts arranged solely on political lines. He hadn't even met Kallystine before his agreement with her father had been sealed. Ah, Kallystine, so beautiful, so vicious. Would his lost twin sister have grown up into a woman like that? He couldn't imagine. All his life, he had felt haunted by Jame, but in a curiously abstract way, as if by a ghost without a face, without a voice. Only over the past year and a half had his sense of her presence sharpened, especially just before or after a nightmare, so that now sometimes he almost felt as if she were standing behind him. But who or what would he turn to find? The wind teased his hair, breathed down his neck.