Dark of the Moon

by P. C. Hodgell

  "B-but who else knows about this? My God, what a thing to have kept secret all these years!"

  "Oh, the Shanir of my house have always known. We do love a good secret. I remember my great-grandfather chortling over this one while the rest of us tried to imagine the most devastating circumstances under which to spring it on the other houses. Now I sometimes wonder if we've waited too long. But all of this, in a roundabout way, brings me back to my immediate concern. If all the other lords are Shanir . . ."

  "Then so is the Highlord." Kindrie sat back limply, taking in the implications. "Sweet Trinity. Torisen is not going to like this."

  "That," said Ardeth, "is putting it mildly. That is also why I sincerely hope he doesn't find out, at least not before he can bear the truth."

  "And yet you've just shared it with me." Kindrie leaned forward. "My lord, why?"

  "Because I think that, despite everything, you love Torisen. Because I hope that that love will make you want to help me protect him from himself."

  "I . . . don't understand."

  This time Ardeth leaned forward and spoke with unusual intensity. "Listen, my boy. We're not talking here about someone with only a trace of the Old Blood. Consider all the people who are bound to Torisen personally, far more than to any other single lord. Oh, his two thousand Kendar don't look like much compared to Caineron's twelve thousand or even to my ninety-five hundred, but Caldane and I have dozens of blood-kin adding their people to ours. Torisen stands absolutely alone. All right so far. But a Shanir that powerful usually has other traits, too. What Torisen has, if nothing else, are dreams."

  "My lord?"

  "Apparently he senses when one is coming and stays awake nights, even weeks, attempting to stave it off, as he's apparently doing now. That suggests a kind of Shanir foreseeing at the very least. But the dreams themselves are the mystery. I've never been able to determine what they mean; they're obviously pretty shattering. Just before he claimed his father's power, he had one that first drove him out into the Southern Wastes and then nearly killed him. Burr reported that when he and Harn found him, Torisen was raving about silent warriors, massacre, and a son's betrayal. You spoke?"

  "I . . . no."

  "To continue, then, I don't know if these dreams are dangerous in themselves or only in his violent reaction to them. It certainly doesn't help that he wastes half his strength in trying to avoid them. One way or the other, they've begun to threaten his health and possibly his sanity. You've seen what he's been like since the Grimly Holt. So has Caineron. If I knew what these dreams meant, perhaps I could help him deal with them. That's why I need every scrap of information about Torisen that I can get. Burr used to gather them for me, but he isn't my man anymore. Neither are you, of course, but you've been closer to the Highlord recently than anyone else, especially in the White Hills. Perhaps what happened there will finally tell me what I need to know. Perhaps you can show me how to save Torisen from himself."

  Kindrie hesitated, feeling torn. Of course he wanted to help Torisen, but would he do that best by speaking or keeping quiet? Ardeth was the Highlord's oldest friend. Surely he could be trusted; but why was there even a question of trust? What he had seen corroborated the common story about Ganth's death, except that Torisen had let slip that his father had died cursing him, and now Ardeth had mentioned a son's betrayal. There was some mystery about all this, but Kindrie had no key to it. Perhaps Ardeth did. But would it help or hurt Torisen to have the puzzle solved, and would he ever forgive Kindrie for having in effect become another one of Ardeth's spies?

  Ardeth toyed with his cup, covertly watching the Shanir's obvious indecision. There was a secret here. He might be getting on a bit in years, Ardeth told himself, but his instinct for such things was as keen as ever. He also sensed, though, that if Kindrie didn't tell him now, quite possibly he never would.

  Suddenly a figure appeared in the tent opening. It was Burr. Of all times for anyone to interrupt . . .

  "Well, man?" Ardeth demanded, with a shade less than his usual coolness. "What is it?"

  "Lord, just now my lord Torisen was walking the perimeter, and I was following him. Then he stopped to look up at the stars. The next thing I knew, he'd just folded up in a heap on the ground, fast asleep. I got him back to his tent."

  "Well, surely that's a good thing," said Ardeth, impatient for the Kendar to leave. "Trinity knows, the man needs some rest."

  Burr stood there, wooden-faced, rigid with distress. "You don't understand, lord. He's begun to dream again and . . . and I can't wake him up."

  Chapter 13

  Converging Paths

  The River Road, Perimal Darkling,

  Karkinaroth: 24th-26th of Winter

  THEY WANTED her to wake up. Jame could hear them whispering around the bed. Her eyelids felt as if they were glued shut, and her head was pounding. Oh, why didn't they let her sleep? Nimble fingers plucked at her clothes.

  Get up, up, up, Chosen of our Lord! Get undressed and dressed. Tonight is the night!

  "Oh, go away," she groaned. "I'm sick, I'm . . . what night?"

  Giggles answered her. She forced open her eyes. They were crouching all around the bed, peering at her over the counterpane with golden, gleeful eyes. Long fingers like shadows in the coverlet's creases poked at her. Except for their eyes, their bodies seemed no more substantial than those shadows. She struggled up on one elbow, fighting down a wave of dizziness.

  "Who are you?"

  Forgotten us so soon? Shame, shame, shame! Our lord sent for us, called us from our dim world into his dim rooms, up from the depths of the House. Said, "Teach this child the Great Dance, as you taught the other one. One name will do for both." And so we taught you, the new Dream-Weaver. Years, it's been, all to be consummated tonight. Now get up, up, up . . . or shall we get into bed with you?

  "No!"

  Jame swung her feet down to the floor and nearly pitched head first out of the bed. How groggy she felt. Some of it might be due to dwar sleep, but as for the rest. . . . This was like one of those leaden nightmares in which one couldn't rouse oneself enough to fend off some ill-defined threat even as it crept closer, closer . . .

  The shadowy forms crouched about her feet, staring avidly up at her. She clawed her way up the bedpost and stood, clutching it, swaying.

  Ahhhh . . . ! sighed the shadows. They rose about her, tall and lithe, no more distinct than before. Their eyes shone. Now undress and dress, Chosen One. Quick, quick, quick . . . or shall we help you?

  Jame fumbled at her clothes, all the Talisman's deftness gone. It was becoming harder and harder to remember that such a person had ever existed. The fire had long since died, and the air was chill on her bare skin. How cold the House always was. She remembered . . . remembered . . . what? Her head seemed full of dust balls. They were offering her something. A garment. It seemed to be nothing but spun shadows, weightless in her hands, but she thought she remembered how to put it on. There. Except for its full sleeves, it clung to her like a shadow, at the same time leaving bare much skin in unexpected places. Wonderingly, she ran her hands down the length of her body.

  Ahhhh . . . !

  Someone had worn a costume like this before, someone called . . . the B'tyrr? But who had that been? Her head spun again, and she barely kept her balance. Time seemed to be collapsing in on itself, past and present merging, the past swallowing the present. Sweet Trinity, to be a child again, here! To be forced to live through all those lonely, frightening years again . . . They tugged at her with the quicksand grip of nightmares half remembered. She fought them desperately, swaying on her feet, but the poison in her blood pulled, too. The past few years faded away. Tai-tastigon was gone, and the Anarchies and Karkinaroth. This was the Master's House. She was the Chosen, and this was her night. Shadowy hands combed out her long black hair, caressed her, plucked impatiently at her sleeves.

  Ah, don't keep him waiting. Come with us, come! Quick, quick, quick! She went.

  * * *

 
; BURR LED ARDETH AND KINDRIE through the sleeping camp. The Host was strung out nearly two miles in the long strip of meadow that ran at this point between the River Road and the banks of the Silver. Down by the river, witch-weed cast its red glow over the rippling water. In the meadow between the watch fires, fireflies danced. The deep, slow breathing of nearly twenty-five thousand Kendar in dwar sleep made it seem as if the night itself slept. But there would still be watchers and little chance of concealing everything from anyone who really wanted to find out.

  "Still, let's not make Caineron a present of any more than we have to," murmured Ardeth, putting a hand on Burr's shoulder. "Walk slower, my friend. Now, who saw you helping the Highlord back to his tent?"

  "Luckily, it happened just beyond the Knorth encampment. Only his own people saw, and not all that many of them."

  "There, you see? Things aren't so bad. Now slow down."

  The Knorth camp was at the far southern end of the camp, and the Highlord's tent was very nearly at the southern perimeter. Sentries patrolled beyond it. Beyond them, a thin crescent moon rode over dark meadows and the silken sheen of the river. Everything seemed peaceful, until a shaggy form rose up in the tent's shadow, growling softly.

  "Be quiet, Grimly," Burr hissed. "How is he?"

  The Wolver straightened up and stepped out into the firelight. Somehow, he looked less hairy than he had a moment before.

  "Worse. We had to gag him."

  He held open the flap and they all went in. Torisen's tent was much simpler than those of the other lords; it consisted of only three chambers, one inside the other. Donkerri jumped up as they entered the innermost room. He was clutching a piece of firewood and looked terrified but ready to do battle. When he saw who they were, however, he dropped the wood and burst into tears. Burr took him in charge.

  Torisen lay on his cot. His arms had been tied down and a piece of cloth forced between his teeth. His pale face was wet, and the bedding beneath soaked. Apparently Burr had come closer to drowning his lord than waking him with a bucket of water. The Highlord was twisting slowly in his bonds. His eyes, open only a slit, showed nothing but white.

  Ardeth sat down beside him and gently pushed the damp hair off his forehead. "My poor boy. Was he this bad, Burr, when you and Harn tracked him down to that city in the Southern Wastes?"

  "No, lord," said Burr. "This is much worse: like what happened then combined with Tentir, nightmare on top of poison."

  "Before we gagged him, he was raving about shadows with golden eyes," said the Wolver, "and he mentioned venom again. Venom in the wine. Burr has told me about Tentir. Could this have something to do with the wyrm's attack there?"

  "It's possible. The old songs say some odd things about the effects of wyrm's venom. Of course, there are some poisons available even here on Rathillien that can tie a Highborn into fancy knots, especially if administered in wine over a sufficient period of time. How long have you been the Highlord's cupbearer, boy?"

  Donkerri backed away, blinking, stammering. "I-I didn't do anything, lord. I wouldn't! I belong here."

  Ardeth regarded him coolly. "It was just a question. Don't take everything so personally, boy."

  Torisen made a stifled noise. His teeth ground into the cloth, and his head began to rock back and forth.

  "It's starting again," said Burr hoarsely.

  Ardeth steadied the young man's head. He hesitated. Then, obviously consumed with curiosity, he cautiously loosened the gag. Everyone braced himself, hardly knowing what to expect. Torisen surprised them all. In a low, rapid voice, he was muttering one word over and over again:

  ". . . don't, don't, don't . . ."

  * * *

  THE COLD, GRAY HALLS—no longer entirely empty. Indistinct figures stood in obscure corners, sat in moldering chairs. They were all so terribly thin. Only their eyes moved, following Jame as she passed with her escort of shadows. She stared back at them. Surely she had seen many of their starved faces on death banners in the Master's Great Hall. Then the faint breeze changed, and they all vanished.

  Now hangings rippled against the wall, so threadbare that the stones beneath showed plainly through them. The faded carpets, too, scarcely hid the pavement they covered. Jame's feet rang on them as if on naked stone. It seemed to her dazed senses that shapes flitted about her now, casting no shadows on the cold floor. A hiss rose, faint but vehement:

  The Dream-Weaver, the Soul-Reaver! Traitor, cursed be . . .

  Tattered clothes, haggard faces—they were less distinct even than the motionless figures had been; but Jame could see now that they were the same folk, only younger and less emaciated. Their bone-thin hands were making the ancient Darkwyr sign—against her.

  "No!" she cried, trying to clutch at them. "That wasn't me! I never hurt you, I never hurt . . ." but the breeze changed again, and they melted out of her grasp like mist unraveling.

  Shadowy fingers pulled at her. Golden eyes gleamed. Why are you dawdling, naughty child? The dead are dead. Come, come, come!

  She went, stumbling a bit with shock. The venom in her blood must have opened the abyss of the past to her, to see if not to touch. If so, she was the only true phantom here, a ghost from the future, drifting through the murky shadows of what had been.

  More halls, more rooms. They passed a large chamber in which the floor fell sharply away around the walls, leaving a small central island. Something moved sluggishly in the pit. A loathesome stench arose and a sound like the monotonous muttering of curses. Jame hesitated, troubled. She vaguely remembered something about a cage without bars, but was that the bare island or the malodorous pit that surrounded it—and the cage of whom? Her guides plucked impatiently at her again, and she went on.

  More rooms, more halls. As the fitful breeze blew, flickers of ghostly life came and went.

  They passed another chamber, deep, high-vaulted. At its far end loomed an enormous iron face with flames in its mouth. Fire light glowed red off the ranked weapons that lined the walls. A breath of air, and the armaments were mounds of dust on the floor, the face a noseless, rusting hulk; but on an anvil before its ash-filled mouth lay a sword. The air about it wavered with heat, making the serpentine patterns on its newly reforged blade seem to quicken with uneasy life.

  Then they were beyond the room, going down a corridor, around a corner and down a stair into the Great Hall of the Master's House.

  Jame hesitated on the threshold. Surely she had just heard a faint thread of music. There it was again, the merest whisper. Wisps of color moved around the edges of the vast dark hall, and something white shimmered in the center of the floor. A woman, dancing? Patterns of force wove about her, reached out, fed. The music faltered, and the bright colors faded.

  Then Jame understood. Of all the memories that the House held, this was the oldest, the darkest. "Don't!" she cried, and darted forward to grab the Dream-Weaver's arm. For a moment, she thought her hands had actually closed on something. The faintest glimmer of a face turned toward her, then dissolved in the breeze she herself had brought with her rush across the floor.

  "The past cannot be changed."

  Jame spun around toward that faint but distinct voice. Someone stood on the stairway. She could see the steps through him, and yet felt his presence more vividly than that of any other object in all that vast hall. He looked very tall and lordly, clad in the splendor of elder days; but shadows fell across him, and she couldn't see his face.

  "I go ahead to prepare the way," he said. "Follow soon."

  He turned and went up the stairs. With each step, Jame saw his retreating form more clearly, as if he were climbing out of the well of the past, drawing closer to her even as he moved away. The silver glove on his left hand flashed, then the lintel of the doorway hid him. The sound of his footsteps, still climbing, echoed in her head.

  Sweet Trinity, Gerridon.

  Jame turned to bolt and stumbled into the arms of her golden-eyed guides. They dropped a cloak on her shoulders.

  Here
, here! A present, child, an heirloom full of life!

  It was made of black serpent skins sewn together down two thirds of their length with silver thread. The snakes' tails, coiled together in a knot beneath her chin, twitched. The sense of nightmare rose again, overwhelming her. Surely this had all happened before. They would lead her to the stair, and she would climb after the Master up, up toward red ribbons, beyond . . .

  There was another ghost in the hall. Jame saw it indistinctly by the far wall, standing in shadow. It seemed different from the others she had encountered, but her scattered wits couldn't quite grasp in what way. The others had seen it, too. They whispered together with a sound like the wind singing through river reeds. Then a silver ripple of laughter moved among them.

  See, child, see, a gift for your betrothed! Now dance with us, dance for us, and gather this wilted flower for your lord!