Dark of the Moon

by P. C. Hodgell

  Beyond were walls covered with what looked like murals. In one of them, the second guard fled from something with many eyes across a darkling plain. On closer examination, the picture broke down into different colors of lichen on the stone wall; but when Jame looked back at it from the doorway, the gap between pursued and pursuer had narrowed.

  There were occasional windows, some barred, others not. Each one looked out on another threshold world deeper inside the coils of Perimal Darkling, worlds on which the Kencyrath had once lived and fought. The scrollsmen had songs about all of them, from green Lury to golden Krakilleth, and Ch'un, where the very stones sang; but not one world was recognizable now. All lay under shadow's eaves. All had begun the slide toward the ultimate interpenetration of animate and inanimate, of life and death, that was the essence of Perimal Darkling. Nonetheless, many of these worlds still seemed to be inhabited. Jame caught glimpses out windows of strange figures moving across distant landscapes or wheeling against alien skies. Nearer at hand, jewel winged insects the size of her fist crawled on a window ledge and raised tiny, shriveled faces to stare as she passed. One of them had features strangely like the third guard's. It flew after her, crying something in a piping thread of a voice, but the snakes snapped it out of the air and tore it to pieces at her heels. The farther in she went, the stranger and more terrible the "life" forms became, but not all of them were limited to one world or one suite of rooms. By breaking down the barriers, Gerridon had laid the Chain of Creation open practically from one end to the other.

  All that remained was to break down the final barrier between Perimal Darkling and Rathillien. Soft areas like the Haunted Lands might serve, but how much more devastating it would be if the Master could create a beachead linked directly with the House and this corridor opening into all the fallen worlds—Trinity, just as Tirandys had done in the palace of Karkinaroth. The priests should have prevented that. Gerridon must have ordered the changer to confine them to their temple so that they could still manage it but not interfere with his plans.

  But the priests weren't managing. They were apparently dead or dying, and the temple in consequence was rapidly going out of control.

  "Of course!" said Jame out loud and hit the ledge of the window out of which she had been blindly staring.

  If the temple went, so would both the palace and Gerridon's primary beachhead on Rathillien. Tirandys must know that. In fact, he had probably arranged it by sealing the priests in without adequate provisions. Such an act might well come within the scope of his orders if Gerridon hadn't been any more explicit than when he had told the changer to put venom in Jame's wine. So Tirandys had again honored his bitter code of obedience and at the same time had done what he could to bring about the downfall of the lord who had betrayed him. Oh, Senethari, clever, unhappy man. Who would ever have dreamed that the paradox of honor could have so many sides?

  But if the temple destroyed itself and the palace while she was still here in the shadows, she might never get back to Rathillien. Time to move on. Outside lay a dark, glistening landscape that looked and smelled like raw, spoilt liver. The window ledge had begun to bleed where she had hit it. Clearly, she must be very far into Perimal Darkling. God help her if she had to go much farther.

  Somewhere nearby, someone moaned.

  Jame moved toward the sound. It came again—low, hoarse, urgent. Something crawled on the floor in the shadows ahead. There seemed to be a tangle of half-seen shapes there, slowly writhing.

  "Ahhh . . . !" sighed an all too familiar voice in the darkness. Feral eyes gleamed. "Your . . . turn . . . Jamethiel?"

  Jame went back a step, throat suddenly dry. "No, Keral. Not yet. Where is Odalian?"

  "The little prince? Stopped crying, has he? Heh! Mother's boy. Doesn't know how to . . . enjoy . . . ah! ah! ah!" Pain and pleasure wove through the changer's panting voice. The shadowy mound heaved. "Ooohhh . . . ! And again, and again, and again. . . . You're still there? Come here or go away."

  "The Prince?"

  "Oh, that way." She could barely see the doorway he indicated. As she passed hastily through it, his voice came after her: "I'll have my turn with you eventually, Jamethiel. We all will."

  The room beyond was even darker. A pale form lay spread-eagle on the floor, surrounded by tittering shadows that poked teasingly at it. It stirred and groaned. Jame drove back the shadows and knelt beside it. Fair hair matted with sweat, a blanched young face, puffy with tears . . .

  "Odalian? Your Highness?"

  His brown eyes opened, glazed at first, then widening with horror as he focused on her. "No." He tried to twist away, but his bonds held him. "No, no, no . . . !"

  What in Perimal's name! Ah, Tirandys had tricked the young man into the blood rites while wearing her twin brother's face.

  "Hush." She tried to touch his cheek, but couldn't feel anything there. Trinity, now what? "Hush," she said again as he still flinched away. "I'm not Torisen or the changer. I'm a friend. I've come to take you home."

  He repeated the word silently, first in disbelief, then again in wonder, and burst into tears.

  She could just barely see him in the gloom, but as far as her sense of touch went, he wasn't there at all, just as with Graykin earlier. Ah. She had been in Perimal Darkling ten days longer than Graykin, but the Prince had been a prisoner here at least sixteen days longer than she, and in farther rooms. She reached for the chains that held him down and touched cold metal. Good. They at least were within her grasp.

  Around them, shadows rustled, crept forward. Jame felt the cloak move on her shoulders. The snakes fanned themselves out over both her and the supine prince. Their heads rose in a weaving, hissing fence that struck at every shadowy form that edged too close. Under their cover, Jame picked the locks that held Odalian down.

  When she helped him to rise, she found to her surprise that now she could almost feel something. He seemed to be taking on a shaky solidity that grew as she concentrated on it. Was she bringing him forward in time or going back to meet him? Tirandys hadn't said what the trick of time travel was here in the House, only that she had been too young before to learn it. Well, maybe now she was old enough, if just barely.

  Complicating matters in escaping was the House itself, which apparently didn't want to let them go. They were followed from room to room by creeping forms and booming inhuman voices calling urgently to each other in remote chambers. The snakes hissed and snapped. Their knotted tails tightened uncomfortably around Jame's neck. They crossed the slippery stones with difficulty and bypassed an empty, inviting chair. Here was the barred window, beyond, the arch. Then through the outer rooms of the House back to the Great Hall.

  Jame had long since figured out that it had been stupid of her not to check the door into the palace from this side. Such portals might not be visible from all angles, but they didn't usually just disappear, lock, stock and keyhole. Luckily, this one hadn't either. She and the Prince stumbled through into the palace hall beyond.

  Things obviously were not well in Karkinaroth. Tremors ran continually through the floor, and cracks climbed the walls. At the end of the hall, a chandelier swung uneasily, tinkling. Fragments of crystal rained down through a cloud of plaster dust.

  Abruptly, the serpent tails relaxed their hold, and the cloak tumbled to the floor with a meaty thump. The snakes hastily sorted themselves out and whipped back into the shadowy corridor, heads stretched out with urgency, long black bodies all moving with the same undulant ripple. Jame started to go after them, but just as they whisked back through the door into the Master's Great Hall, the floor shook again, and the door vanished along with all other shadowy traces of Perimal Darkling, So much for Master Gerridon's new beachhead on Rathillien.

  Odalian gave a cry. Chunks of plaster fell around them, and then the roof beams came down with a crash. For a moment, Jame couldn't see anything. Since she couldn't feel anything either, she rather assumed she was dead; but then the dust began to clear. They were standing up to their wa
ists in a pile of rubble. The debris had fallen straight through them as if they weren't there.

  Wonderful, thought Jame. More complications.

  She hauled the Prince clear, feeling the wreckage drag at them more with each step. At least they seemed to be readjusting. The next piece of plaster to fall hit her shoulder with a painful thump, fair warning not to stand under any more collapsing architecture. She was also beginning to get a more secure grip on Odalian. The chill of his flesh struck her even through her thick d'hen. She stripped off the jacket and draped it over his bare, trembling shoulders, despite his feeble protests.

  "Look," she said impatiently, "when I want you to die on my hands, I'll let you know."

  He gave her a shy, sidelong look. "You're very strong, aren't you?"

  That startled her. "Trinity, no, I'm just too stupid to give up."

  He shook his head, haunted eyes focused on something far away or deep inside. "I've never been strong."

  "Oh, be quiet. You've done all right so far."

  They stumbled on through the quaking palace. Plaster powdered their shoulders and made them sneeze. Hangings rippled on the walls, tapestried princes trying to ride to safety. In distant rooms, mirrors shattered. Jame didn't know which door Marc had (she hoped) broken open to let everyone out. The best she could do, she decided, was to get Odalian to Lyra's quarters and hope the roof didn't fall in on them again on the way.

  Rather to her surprise, it didn't, but she was even more amazed when Lyra herself came running out of the inner room to meet them as they staggered into the suite. They put Odalian on a couch and piled every blanket they could find on top of him as well as half the wall hangings. Then Jame turned on the young Highborn.

  "Why in Perimal's name are you still here? Didn't Graykin —er, Gricki—tell you to get out?"

  "Oh, yes." Lyra fussed around the couch. "But I couldn't leave without my prince, could I? Anyway, that huge Kendar said if Odalian could be found at all, you'd probably be too stubborn to come back without him."

  "Marc? He's been here?"

  At that moment, the hall door opened and a golden streak shot across the room. Jame went over backward with a grunt as Jorin barreled into her and then pranced up the length of her fallen body in an ecstasy of excitement. She sat up and hugged the ounce while he rubbed his cheek against hers, purring thunderously.

  "I'd say off hand that he missed you," said Marc from the doorway.

  Jame sprang up and hugged him, too. The big Kendar started to respond, then checked himself. His restraint surprised Jame. She tried to ignore it.

  "But where were you two?" she demanded. "I've been looking in the most ungodly places for you!"

  "Oh, we've been in some strange parts, too, but I'll tell you about that later. We've just been scouting the area around the temple. The walls are starting to collapse down there, and the destruction is spreading. I'd suggest, my lord and ladies, that we leave."

  Ladies. Jame felt the word go through her like a cold wind. "Graykin did find you," she said numbly. "He told you who I am."

  Marc gave her a sober look. "Yes . . . my lady."

  Just then, Odalian began to laugh. It was a terrible sound, edged with jagged hysteria.

  "Don't!" Lyra was saying. "Oh, please, don't, don't . . . !"

  The Prince had seized one of his own fingers and was tugging at it. It stretched, long and thin as a worm. "Just like pulling taffy! Just like. . . ." He burst into another horrible laugh.

  Oh God, Jame thought. She hadn't gotten to him in time.

  The shadows of the House were in his blood and soul now. He had become a changer.

  Odalian began to thrash about on the couch, getting more and more tangled up in the blankets. Jame darted over to help Lyra hold him down. He seized the knife from her boot. The next moment, Marc had swept both girls aside and was kneeling by the couch with the Prince half off of it, holding the young man's wrists in a gentle, unbreakable grip.

  "There, my lad, softly, softly . . ."

  Odalian stopped struggling and dropped the knife. It scratched his arm as it fell. His face turned white.

  "Sorry," he whispered. "I never was very strong."

  Then he shuddered violently and went limp.

  Lyra gave a shriek. "He's dead! Oh, I know he's dead!"

  "Fainted, more likely." Marc lifted Odalian back onto the couch. "A good thing too, poor boy."

  But Lyra was right.

  "I don't understand it." The Kendar stopped trying to find a pulse and sat back, bewildered. "Trinity knows, I've seen more than a few people die in my time, and in some pretty strange ways, but never quite like this. I'd say that peculiar knife was to blame, but it barely touched him."

  Jame had scooped up the white knife and was staring at it. She began to swear softly, passionately. All her life, she had known about the three great objects of power lost when Gerridon fell. One of them—the Book Bound in Pale Leather—had actually been in her possession for at least two years now. You'd think that that would have made her realize these objects weren't purely mythical. But up to an hour ago, she had been wearing the Serpent-Skin Cloak, giver of life, without once recognizing it for what it was; and now here was the Ivory Knife, the very tooth of death and the original of every white-hilted suicide knife in the Kencyrath, whose slightest scratch was fatal. She hadn't had it when she climbed to the Master's bed and ended up cutting off his hand. This time Bender had taken no chances. This time, she could have had Gerridon's life.

  While all this was going through Jame's mind, Marc was looking from her to Lyra and back again, somewhat at a loss. Here was Caineron's daughter, settling down to serious hysterics, and the Highlord's sister, quietly exercising a vocabulary the scope of which amazed him. But he also heard something else: a series of rumbling crashes, coming closer. The floor trembled underfoot.

  Jame had heard it too and broke off in mid-curse. "Old lad, you were right: time to scamper."

  "Just a minute." The Kendar composed Odalian's body and drew a gold-figured hanging over it. Then he took several brands from the fire and thrust them under the couch. Flames began to lick at the bullion fringe. "Now we're ready."

  Out in the hall, they could see the walls farther down caving in. The palace was collapsing in on itself. The power set loose by the crumbling temple spread both outward like ripples and inward, drawing everything to it. It made Jame's scalp prickle and Jorin's fur stand on end. She had prevented something like this at her god's temple in Tai-tastigon by dancing the rampant power into new channels, but it was too late for that here. Walls sagged and beams crashed down. Plaster dust choked and blinded them. Marc went first, carrying Lyra. Jame followed, hanging onto his jacket with one hand and Jorin with the other.

  Here at last was a door, its bolt lock shattered. The big Kendar thrust it open, and they staggered out into a warm, starlit night. Below lay the city of Karkinaroth, sparkling with lights, and beyond that, the midnight plain, now empty, where the army had gathered. There was no sign of the moon. The Dark had fallen.

  Behind them, the palace groaned. Deepening cracks laced its high, outer walls. They began to collapse inward slowly, as if in a dream. Towers tumbled. Pinnacles broke and fell, streaming golden banners. The whole vast structure seemed to crouch, lower, lower, drawing in on itself, filling every internal space with rubble and shattered treasures. The rumble went on and on, in the air, in the ground, in one's bones, until at last it slowly died out of each in turn.

  Silence.

  Then below in the city, shouting began and the howl of dogs.

  Chapter 14

  Gathering Forces

  Hurlen: 29th of Winter

  THE HOST came within sight of Hurlen on the twenty-ninth in the early afternoon. Torisen reined in. The River Road dipped sharply here. To the left was the Silver; to the right, a series of natural stone ledges called the Upper Hurdles, which cut across the top of the Upper Meadow to the woods some two miles beyond. The citizens of Hurlen usually grazed the
ir sheep here, but not one white back broke the green expanse now. Cloud shadows chased sunlight over the sward down to Hurlen, perched on its cluster of islands where the River Tardy rushed into the Silver. On Grand Hurlen, the nearest island, stone spires showed white, then gray under the shifting light. Opposite it on the far bank rose another, much larger city, this time of brightly hued tents.

  "So the Prince made it after all," Torisen said to Harn. "How many troops, d'you think?"

  Harn peered down the slope, shading his eyes. "Nine, maybe ten thousand. Not bad considering Karkinor has no standing army. Still, we'll see how long this lot stands when things get lively. Amateurs. Huh."

  They rode on with the Host behind them. Here the river bent sharply to the east and swerved back a mile later to rejoin the road. Downstream, where the Silver narrowed slightly, ferries waited on either bank, linked by cables to huge winches. Powerful draft horses also waited in harness, swishing at flies, to set the winches in motion. Hurlen derived its modest prosperity as a sort of dispatching center for goods coming down the Tardy from Karkinor bound either north or south on the River Road.