Dark of the Moon

by P. C. Hodgell

  "Never mind." He picked her up. She was surprised at such strength in one so slight.

  "Size isn't everything," he said, just as if she had spoken. "Neither is strength. But then you should know that. Hang on."

  He carried her through the archway back into the gray halls. From his swift, sure stride, it was clear that he knew exactly where he was going.

  "Prince, what did you call that man?"

  He went on a few paces without answering. Then, "Bender is one of his names. It will do."

  She could have sworn that Odalian had called the fugitive Terribend, but that was the name of Tirandy's brother, the one who had disappeared from song and history at the time of the Fall. Bender? That sounded familiar too, but she couldn't quite place it. If only her head would stop spinning . . .

  The Prince put her down on a bed. She looked around in amazement at the apartment's rich furnishings. Had he taken her back into the palace, or was this some oasis among the House's bleak rooms? She guessed the latter. White wine splashed into a crystal cup. Odalian stood for a moment by the fire, frowning at the glass. Then he brought it over to the bed and thrust it almost roughly into Jame's hands.

  "Here."

  She drank thirstily, noting without really paying attention that it had the same unfamiliar after taste as the wine she had drunk earlier, only this time the tang was much sharper. Her head swam alarmingly.

  "Wine on an empty stomach," he said, sitting down on the edge of the bed and taking the cup from her. "I don't suppose you remembered to pack any provisions for this mad expedition of yours. No, of course not. You never did take a sensible interest in food."

  She stared at him. The way he spoke, the way he moved, both were so very familiar and yet surely she had never met the Prince before. She had only known what he looked like because of Lyra's clumsy portrait, and that had barely suggested anything beyond his general coloration. Wait a minute . . .

  "Odalian's eyes are brown," she said, drawing herself back in the bed away from him. "Yours are gray, like mine. Who are you?"

  Those steady gray eyes regarded her as if through a mask that was Odalian's face. "You don't remember me. Good. But you've probably at least guessed what I am."

  She nodded, her throat suddenly dry despite the wine. "You're another changer. What have you done to the Prince?"

  "I?" He gave a sudden harsh laugh. "Personally, very little. I came to see him the night he sent his message to the Kencyr High Council asking for help. He thought I was Torisen. We can approximate virtually any form, you know, until the shadows get too much of a grip on us, as they have on Keral, whose acquaintance I believe you renewed in the Ebonbane. At any rate, I told the Prince that I had decided to confirm him as a full ally of the Kencyrath before our forces met. He was pleased, especially when I offered to seal myself first to the pact by blood rites. Once I had tasted his blood willingly given, I was able to take his form."

  "But not exactly."

  "No, not quite. The eyes have always given me trouble. It takes many rebirths in the farthest rooms of the House to make one . . . er . . . malleable enough to get all the details correct, even with the full blood rites."

  "But too many rebirths result in something like Keral, who can no longer hold any true shape," said Jame, trying to sound defiant. "It seems to me that you changers have a pretty limited usefulness."

  "Oh, yes. Our prime only lasts a millennium or so, by Rathillien standards. Good endures, I'm told. Well, perhaps. But I know from experience that evil eventually decays, as my lord Gerridon is beginning to learn. But we were discussing Prince Odalian. He was understandably surprised to find himself face to face with even a flawed copy of himself, and even more amazed when a moment later he was taken in charge by three of his own suborned guards. Then I opened the barriers between Karkinaroth and the Master's House, and they took him into the farthest rooms. There they left him, chained."

  Jame shuddered. "My God, what a vicious thing to do!"

  "Yes, wasn't it? But my lord Gerridon insisted. 'So the little prince wants to be a Kencyr—like you. Very well. Grant him his wish.' So I did. My lord has . . . strange whims sometimes."

  Jame stared at him, struck by his tone. "Why, you hate this, don't you? You loathe what you've done. But why do it at all? Why is it so important that you take the Prince's place?"

  "Poor Jamie. No one ever explains anything to you, do they? If Gerridon had the last time, you might not have panicked, and he would still have both hands. I won't make that mistake. You see, there's been a revolt among the changers. Some of them have taken over the Waster Horde and are leading it against the Kencyrath. Others of their number have tried several times now to kill both you and your brother: you, because of the blow your death would deal to the Master; your brother, because at present he alone seems to be holding the Kencyrath together. If the rebel changers should finally succeed in eliminating him, before or even during the final battle, the Horde will surely defeat the Host."

  "But wouldn't that please the Master?"

  "In itself, yes, but then the rebels plan to use the Wasters to take over all of Rathillien to serve as a base against their former master. That prospect does not please my lord at all. He intends to pit his two enemies—the Kencyrath and the rebel changers— against each other. Whoever loses, Gerridon wins. But at the moment he's far angrier at the renegades than at the Highlord, so I have been ordered to sacrifice every man in the Prince's army if necessary to support the Host against the Horde."

  "B-but the real prince would have done that, too."

  "Oh yes, but consider the aftermath. If by some miracle the Host actually wins, there Prince Odalian is, ready to claim subject ally status. Torisen is a fair man. He won't refuse after all those Karkinorans have died fighting by his side. And when I have tasted his blood, why, I can replace him. Then, through me, Gerridon of Knorth will again be Highlord of the Kencyrath."

  She recoiled from him. "And when you and your precious Master have accomplished all this, what happens to Tori? Will you chain him up in the shadows, too?"

  "No. My lord may wish it, but I would never do such a thing to one of my lady's children. Of course," he went on thoughtfully, "if these were the full ally rites in which both sides drink, my blood would probably kill him on the spot, just as it would have Odalian if he had drunk first. Considering that changers' blood is corrosive enough to eat through tempered steel, it would be an excruciating way to die. The only worse fate I can think of would be that of a changer tricked into the rites with a Shanir blood-binder. The contest between the two bloods in his system would probably tear the changer to pieces, but I have no idea if even that would kill him.

  "But as for your brother, I promise: no chains in the dark, no death agonies. You see, all parts of a changer are virulent to some degree. My saliva in Torisen's palm cuts will give me at least enough control over him to make his assassination relatively easy. He will die quickly, painlessly, probably within an hour of the rites. My word of honor on it."

  "Honor!" She almost spat the word back at him. "Do you still have any?"

  A stillness came into that stolen face. The eyes took on a silver, inhuman sheen. Jame drew back, suddenly reminded that she was in very close quarters with something very dangerous. Then the changer rose and backed stiffly away until the shadows of a corner obscured his face.

  "Honor," he repeated, in a voice clearly not the Prince's. "Define it."

  Jame was shaken. This was all so familiar, but her head was spinning worse now than ever, and she couldn't quite grasp the memory. "W-we've discussed this before, haven't we?"

  "Many times. But you were a child then. Perhaps, since then, you've learned something."

  Jame found herself stammering something about always keeping one's word, standing by friends, protecting the weak. . . . It all sounded perfectly idiotic blurted out like that, but she couldn't seem to focus her thoughts.

  "Honor," said the changer again in his dark corner. "I used to be as sur
e as you that I knew what it was. One kept one's word. One obeyed one's lord. But then my lord ordered me to do what was dishonorable. I decided the shame was his alone and did as he commanded. I was wrong. But that was my choice, and I must stand by it. That is my honor now, for as long as I live. May I die soon."

  "B-but that's 'Honor's Paradox'!" Jame stammered. "Tirandys, Senethari . . . c-can you die?"

  "Fire will kill me, if it kindles my blood." He gave a self-mocking laugh. "We changers scorned death, and now each one of us is his own pyre, waiting for the first spark. I have often thought about that." He went over to the fireplace, bent, and picked up a glowing ember in his bare hand. "I could hold this until it eats through the skin—"

  "Don't!"

  "No." He tossed the ember back into the flames. "Not yet, while I still have a role to play, and not here. If I ever do fall, let it be far from this foul house. If only there were someplace so far away that my lady Jamethiel would not be sent to bring me back; but she will be, even if I should fall at the worlds' end. My lord Gerridon can't allow any of his loyal changers the luxury of death. He has too few of us left."

  "Too few . . . is everyone else dead or . . . or has the House always been this empty?"

  "For you, very nearly. You have always been confined to the House's decayed present. The rest of us whom the Master favors can move through layers of its fallen past, not that that does us much good. Nothing ever changes. We tried to teach you the trick, but you were too young."

  "Yes, yes . . ." Oh, if her head would only stop spinning. . . . "I almost remember. B-but all those death banners . . . Tirandys, what's been happening here? Why did the changers revolt?"

  "Why, quite simply the Master has very nearly devoured all the Highborn souls that the Mistress reaped for him on the night so many of us fell. That puts my lord Gerridon in rather an uncomfortable position. If immortality alone would satisfy him, he could accept the tainted souls which Perimal Darkling offers as gifts—or rather as bait. The shadows wish to enfold my lord, to . . . to possess him. He served them best as Highlord when he betrayed his people and opened up the fallen worlds. Now they would have him serve them as their creature, their voice. It would be only justice for him to lose the humanity which he has bartered away in his followers, but he is far too clever a man to make so great an error—I think. If he wishes to remain both immortal and human, he must have more of his own kind to feed on, or he can turn on the Kendar and changers."

  "Y-you still have your soul, Senethari?"

  "Yes, however warped. All of us do who willingly took part in the Master's treachery. That was to be our reward. The changers who have rebelled did so because they were afraid that as my lord's hunger grew he would go back on his word and find a way to feed on them, too. As for those whose souls the Dream-Weaver did reap, most have become unfallen sacrifices to buy Gerridon his immortality. My brother Terribend is one. Poor Bender. He weakened for a moment, and his soul was stripped from him. Ever since, he has fought to regain it and to bring Gerridon to ruin; but the Master is stronger than he and keeps his soul hostage. He won't believe that he and I have the same goals. In a sense, the Dream-Weaver herself is another one of Gerridon's victims. She was only his tool and may yet save her compromised honor by choosing to disobey him. I would gladly give what remains of both my honor and soul to see that."

  "I-I don't understand," said Jame, through teeth that had begun to rattle together as if from the cold. "The Master has nearly run through his stolen Highborn souls. He needs more. Why can't he go back into the House's past for them or—or have the Mistress reap more for him in the present?"

  "He can't go back for more because the past doesn't work that way. We can go through the same motions over and over, but they only really happened once, and nothing can change them, not even our foreknowledge of their consequences. The past is past, even when we move freely in it. As for the Dream-Weaver, she has lived almost entirely in the House's former days since she came back from the Haunted Lands. My poor lady may not have consented to the Master's evil, but it was still too great to leave her unmarked. Now when she comes forward to the present, it can only be as the fell creature she has become, which reaps souls with a touch whether she wants to or not, and she can neither give them back nor pass them on. The Master can only use her to bring home his injured changers, most of whose souls, like Kera's and mine, are so deformed by now that they resist even her touch. Gerridon foresaw long ago that this would eventually happen. When he found that opening the House to its fallen past didn't help, he sent Jamethiel Dream-Weaver across the Barrier to Ganth Gray Lord. You were the child that he wanted. Your brother came as an unwelcome surprise, just as, I gather, you did to Ganth. Twins have too much potential of their own. They don't lend themselves well to other people's schemes. Gerridon found that out when he tried to force you prematurely to become the new Mistress. You hadn't fallen then. You haven't yet . . . quite. Perhaps now, you never will."

  His words seemed to break over Jame in waves—swelling, crashing down, receding. She knew she wasn't taking them all in. Only once before had she been drunk, and it hadn't felt anything like this. This felt more like . . . dying?

  You fool, do you always drink everything anyone hands you?

  She tried to rise and fell, an interminable distance, it seemed. Now she was half on the bed, half in the changer's arms. She looked up at him, astonished.

  "Senethari, y-you've poisoned me."

  "Yes. With wyrm's venom in the wine. You drank some seven days ago when you first woke in Karkinaroth, and a great deal more just now."

  "B-but why?"

  "My lord commanded that you be drugged. He wants to take no chances with you this time, you see. It occurred to me, though, that you would be much better off dead, especially since that would end the horror for all of us, too. Oh, not immediately —the Master still has a few souls left to munch on—but soon, unless he's fool enough to take what the shadows offer him. Then too, this is a game that should be played out among my lord Gerridon's own generation, which he betrayed and damned for his own selfish ends. You should never have been brought into it, Jamie. Strictly speaking, you should never even have been born. This is the next best solution. Large doses of wyrm's venom have unpredictable results, however. I don't know if I've killed you or not. You do understand, though, that I've tried to act in your own best interests, don't you?"

  She was still staring up at him with wide gray eyes, but all understanding had left them. The lids fluttered and closed. He held her for a long minute, looking down at her face, then carefully picked her up and put her back on the bed.

  "If the worst happens, child, if you do survive, at least I've taught you the Senethar by my example and honor by my mistakes." He kissed her lightly on the lips. "Welcome home, Jamie."

  Chapter 12

  Night Pieces

  The River Road: 17th-24th of Winter

  THE KENCYR HOST reached the far side of the White Hills well after dark on the seventeenth, after a forced march of nearly eighty miles. That same night, pyres were raised for those who had died in the hills and the pyric runes spoken. Then virtually everyone lay down around the dying flames and slept as if they themselves were the dead. Torisen spent the night wandering restlessly among them. Ashe watched the Highlord pass. Just so, forty years ago, Ganth had stalked among the dead on the slopes of the White Hills, and she had lain there, too weak from loss of blood to call out, watching him pass. Tonight she was silent again, for almost the same reason. Her mangled arm ached dully. She had not shown it to a physician.

  Early the next day, the Host again struck the River Road, which had shifted to the west bank back at the confluence of the Silver and the Ever-quick. The Kendar moved well after their night of dwar sleep. From now on, they would have its benefit every other night, and need it after the forty to fifty leagues they would cover every two days. It was a ruthless pace, but given the foot soldiers' remarkable constitutions, the horses would probably wear out firs
t.

  They were passing between the Elder Kingdoms now, with Bashti on the west bank and Hathir on the east. Thousands of years before, these two colossi had controlled most of the Central Lands; but Hathir had long since disintegrated, and decaying Bashti was a power now in name only. Consequently, the Host overtook very little traffic on the road and almost none on the river.

  The only time the Host met opposition was on the twenty-first when Torisen again led it off the winding River Road to take a shortcut across a corner of the vast forest known as the Weald. Even at the height of its power, Bashti had never succeeded in imposing its rule here, except around the edges. The wood had swallowed armies whole in its time. Huntsmen sometimes did better, but only one in a generation penetrated to the black oaks of the forest's heart and returned alive to report that they were still there. In times of famine, the Weald might have been said to rule Bashti, when red-eyed wolves emerged from its tangled shadows to ravage the countryside and even to stalk the streets of Bashti's proudest cities. But when the wolves came to town, they came as men, still red-eyed, but with fingers cunning enough to pick any lock and a hunger for women not always confined to the stomach.