“I make a hobby of maintaining this map, and find the practice very stimulating,” Mudruffle honked. “You will recognize the river and the main road.” He indicated the blue and black lines. “To this I’ve added settlements, and signs of yoab I encounter in my expeditions. I have also developed a system of paths and trails for my own use, leading northward; I cannot use the main road, for there is a high probability I would be seen, and a high probability my appearance would cause alarm among the natives. Since it seems you also have need of avoiding being seen, I thought my system might be of use to you.”
Willard stared, hypnotized by the toneless falsetto.
Caris cleared her throat, nodding encouragement to Willard.
“Ah. Your routes would be of use, ah…Mud…fellow,” Willard said. “A great help.”
Mudruffle nodded. “As you can see, it is indecipherable to anyone but me, as I never imagined its utility to anyone else. However, I cheerfully offer my service with the map. It would be very stimulating for me to accompany you as far as the Giant’s Gorge.”
The knight blinked. “It—would?”
“Indeed, it would give me great pleasure to be of use.”
Harric felt a pang of pity for the bizarre creature. So bored he maps game trails for a hobby. Looking around the overly tidy tower, he imagined there wasn’t much to do with only the old lady as companion. It would also explain the swept dirt around the tower. But he sensed more to the eagerness than that; this was as close as any Iberg had ever been to a Kwendi, and both Mudruffle and Abellia appeared determined to milk the opportunity for every drop of advantage they could get.
“I am an excellent woodsman,” Mudruffle was saying. “You may not think so by the festive attire I have donned for this occasion, but I assure you I am as well fitted for an outdoor expedition. Perhaps you would like to view my outdoor gear.”
Before Willard could object, Mudruffle’s surface altered.
They watched in varying degrees of fascination or horror as his well-tailored ensemble became a dashing jerkin and hose with a broad belt and a buckle the size of a horse shoe. His squat bowler became a spirited tricorn with pointed brim and feather, and his little steward slippers a pair of high woodsman’s boots with tops turned down above the knees.
Willard seemed stricken between hilarity and alarm.
Harric pressed his lips together.
“As you can see,” honked Mudruffle, “I am amply suited for the task.”
Abellia beamed. “Oh, Mudruffle is always able for making other clothes. I make this suiting a long time past. Mio doso! Here is the Iberg forest hat!”
Willard stammered something about this being “Arkendian forest—more dangerous—”
Brolli interrupted, “I am to believe our generous friend is the excellent guide. We can’t take risk of the main road, and we can’t risk time lost finding passes on our own. We accept your offer, and are to be grateful.”
Willard’s mouth worked mutely. He closed it. He lifted his jar and gulped his drink.
Brolli clearly enjoyed the knight’s discomfiture.
“Sir, I am a proficient woodsman.”
“And he never needs sleeping,” added Abellia, “making best for night watchman.”
“Excellent!” said Brolli. “I will have a nighttime companion. In fact, as Willard and I discussed, I must to return to the guardhouse in the pass below your valley, to watch for pursuit. I wish to watch the bridge for at least three nights, and would to enjoy a companion who can watch in the day.”
Mudruffle stiffened, as if coming to attention. “I would find that very stimulating.”
“Then it’s decided.”
Abellia’s eyes shone with some of that hunger Harric had seen when first she saw the Kwendi. “I am too old for explorings. And I will have my Caris near me some days, and that is all I am wanting. It will be good for Mudruffle!”
And good for her too, Harric mused. She wants Mudruffle to have a chance to pump Brolli about Kwendi magic as much as I want to pump her about witch-stones.
Willard made the best of being cornered by raising his glass to Mudruffle. “Very well, Mudwallow. You accompany Brolli to watch the pass for a few days, and when we leave, you and your map come with us. We only plan to stay a week here, at most, mind. That ought to be time enough to prepare, heh? Of course, my manservant and apprentice are at your disposal during that time.”
Willard toasted his jar to the man at his right, who was Harric, and Harric raised his to Mudruffle, and so on around the table, in the manner of an Arkendian toast. Caris caught Harric’s eye across the table, once again full of mysterious urgency. He gave a small nod in acknowledgement, which seemed to relieve her.
“To Abellia,” Willard said. “And to an excellent Iberg brew!”
“GODS LEAVE THEM!”
“And to Mudruffle,” said Brolli, “for a map through the mountains!”
“GODS LEAVE HIM!”
“And to Caris for bring us together!” said Abellia.
“GODS LEAVE HER!”
*
Mudruffle served bowls of hot brown soup from the kitchen, along with plates of crusty bread and a hard sheep’s cheese. Harric ate his in one of the high-backed stuffed chairs before the hearth, since there was no room at the table for him. And though Caris had attempted to rise from the table before the food came, Abellia demanded the story of how she landed Willard as her mentor, so she could only cast him another glance of frustrated urgency.
Something must have happened with Willard, Harric thought, and whatever that was could probably wait. She took the old knight’s gruffness too seriously. Under the spiny shell was a soft heart and a good man. They didn’t sing ballads about him for nothing.
Harric had almost finished his meal before he realized a lady occupied the stuffed chair opposite his. Since the chair was silhouetted against the western window behind it, she’d been framed in darkness without him noticing.
“Beg pardon, lady,” he said, standing. “I—didn’t see you enter.” He bowed, a little flustered, as she had clearly been there all along. Peering into the gloom, he suddenly recognized the slippers and the hem of the faded gown, and caught his breath in shock.
“Good evening to you, my dear son.”
“Mother—!” He bit the words off, too late. Willard and the others had heard, and gone silent. They stared from the table at the window.
“What’s the matter, boy?” Willard said.
“Nothing, sorry,” Harric said. “Just a stone in my boot. I beg your pardon.”
“I also speak to stones in my boots that way,” said Brolli.
Willard snorted, and the joke dispelled the tension, but Caris’s look was full of worry. She quirked her head in query from across the room, but he forced a smile and shook his head to show nothing was wrong. When he sat out of view behind the screen of his mother’s chair opposite, however, he had to set his bowl aside to keep his trembling from spilling the soup.
His mother simpered. “They can’t see me, so you don’t dare talk to me. They’ll think you mad. And you most surely won’t bring out that evil stone while you are here where your friends might see it.”
Harric’s mind scrambled. How could she enter a tower so full of magic? “Leave me alone,” he hissed, barely audibly.
She leaned forward, eyes aflame. “Cast the stone away, Harric. Its spirit corrupts your mind. Soon it will be too late.”
“Hah. What’s the trouble? Have I finally found a weapon you fear?”
“Fool! That stone poisons you. Its spirit worms into your dreams. Have you not noticed?”
“You yourself taught me the Unseen Moon is part of Nature, like the other moons. It is neither good nor evil, except as it is used by good or evil people. Why the change of story?”
“I was wrong! In the afterworld I see the Unseen as it is, and it is corrupt! As a spirit I know so much more! I must protect you.”
He barely contained his fury in a whisper. “Now I kn
ow you’re lying.” He slipped his hand in his shirt toward the stone, and she recoiled like a wolf before fire. “You are afraid.”
“I fear for you!”
Harric peered over the top of her chair at the table where the others had lowered their voices. Willard sent a worried glanced in his direction.
Harric ducked back and lowered his whisper. “No. I think I am beginning to understand, Mother. This stone, this fragment of the Unseen Moon, is somehow dangerous to you. Something potent in the spirit world.”
She snorted, tried to recover her composure with a haughty sneer. “Fool. The spirit in that stone has blinded you to reason.”
“I think you’re jealous,” Harric whispered. “You can’t stand the idea that I’ll be better than you—that with the trick of invisibility I’ll one day exceed your name as a courtiste. In fact, I think that might be how I truly banish you—by besting you in your own profession.”
He drew the stone from its sleeve with a feeling of control and power he’d never felt over her, and it intoxicated as much as the terror blooming on her face confirmed all his hopes.
She cried out in grief and rage. “I give you this last warning! Cast it away, or I shall do it for you!”
Before he could advance upon her, she’d vanished.
Caris’s heavy steps approached from the table. Harric thrust the stone into his shirt just as she rounded the back of the chair before him.
She stopped beside it, face flushed. But instead of anger at his odd behavior, her expression was grim. In her hand she clutched a sharp cheese knife.
“Sorry. I tried to keep it down,” he murmured. “It was my mother. She’s gone now.”
Caris’s jaw muscles bulged as she ground her teeth in anger.
“Yeah, that was my reaction, too,” he said, as she dropped into the other chair to face him. He forced himself to smile. “Willard heard me?”
At her nod, he leaned out from his chair and waved to the others in the eating alcove. “Sorry!” he called. “Just reciting a ballad.” He sat back and winked at Caris.
To his relief, she laughed in spite of herself. “Reciting a ballad?” She socked him in the arm. “I told you to stop doing that.”
“Doing what?”
“Tricking people. Lying.”
He sat back. “Caris, we’re in a ballad. Everything we do is essentially like reciting a ballad. So how was that lying?”
“She came to me, too,” she said abruptly. Her gaze fell to the floor between them. “In the barn.” She glanced up, but had a hard time meeting his gaze.
It took him a moment to understand what she was saying. When he did, his eyes widened in fury. “My mother? When?”
“Before supper. I went to find you. That’s when she found me. She was looking for me again, not you. No fog or anything. But she…said things.” Caris swallowed. She dropped her head so her hair fell forward and concealed her face. She shrugged and gave a badly feigned laugh. “Scared her off, though. Named my sword.”
Ignoring the clumsy diversion, he leaned forward on the edge of his chair and laid a hand on her knee. “What did she say?” When she failed to respond, he muttered a curse. “Don’t tell me. She said I don’t love you. She said I’m playing with you. That you could never be with me.”
Caris shrugged again, confirming his guess and broaching a swell of anger and emotion that spilled from him in unplanned words. “Listen to me. She never, ever speaks the truth, Caris. Ever. I love you,” he said, before he could think. “And I don’t give a flaming shit what she thinks of it.”
He lifted her face with both hands, found her dark eyes filled with tears and confusion, and kissed her full and long on the lips.
She returned the kiss willingly, gently at first, then passionately, one hand raised to his cheek. A salt tear seeped to their lips.
It felt right. It felt like fire and vengeance. Was that what regular people felt?
“Boy?” Willard called from the table. Sounds of scraping benches and scooting chairs announced the end of supper. “Hate to interrupt your ballad recital, but I need you to saddle up Idgit. Brolli’s heading back to the pass to watch our trail.”
Caris pulled back, blushing, glowing with conspiratorial humor.
“Best girl in Arkendia,” Harric murmured. Then to Willard, he said, “Coming!”
With a wink at Caris, he rose and limped for the door.
Brolli loped out before him. “I’ll join you.” The Kwendi chuckled as he preceded Harric down the stairs. Harric was sure he’d seen the kiss, and had some choice comments to make, but Brolli simply noted the food here was better than anything Willard ever cooked in camp.
Harric managed a dazed smile.
“You are well, yes?” Brolli said, looking over with concern. “You were talking to the chair.”
Harric had to swallow a desire to laugh. “I’m just tired.”
“Yes. Get rest, and I see you in a few days when I am returning from my watch.”
*
Harric saddled Idgit and filled her saddle packs with enough grain for at least four days. Mudruffle brought a sack of provisions for Brolli.
“I do not require sustenance as you do,” Mudruffle honked, “so there is no need to provision me. However, I am unable to bend or splay my legs as one must to sit on a saddle, so it is necessary to fasten me to the side of your saddle with a device I have prepared for this purpose.”
Mudruffle held up a knotted jumble of ropes that he looped to the horn of Idgit’s saddle and around the rear cantle. He held up a loop for their inspection. “This is for my feet. If you would be so kind as to lift me high enough for my foot to intersect with this loop, Master Harric, it will significantly speed the process.”
Harric obliged, surprised at the warmth of the clay beneath his hands. His surface was malleable, yet firm, and not wet, though he was also lighter than Harric anticipated, like dry clay would be. Once he’d hoisted Mudruffle to the appropriate height, Harric guided the flat clay foot into the loop. Mudruffle twined his arms into the remaining knots and loops until he seemed irretrievably bound to Idgit’s side, his feet angling forward under Brolli’s stirrup, his body angling back, with the tricorn forester’s hat tilted forward against an imaginary wind.
“To the untrained eye this method may seem haphazard,” Mudruffle honked. “But I assure you it is the product of careful design and testing. I expect it will prove satisfactory for me and will cause your horse no discomfort.”
Harric raised an eyebrow. Idgit was already peering back in what looked like alarm at the honking bundle at her side.
“Very good,” said Brolli, climbing aboard. He gave Idgit a gentle pat, and Idgit seemed to accept his presence as proof that all was well. As they left, Harric had to laugh to himself. He’d never seen anyone less suited to horseback riding than Brolli, who now hunched over the saddle, great arms akimbo, but Mudruffle would jounce like a piece of ill-packed furniture.
“If we should encounter anyone on the road, I shall assume a rigid pose,” said Mudruffle, “and you can act as though I am a work of statuary.”
The Kwendi laughed and pointed to the north. “Look there! The Black Moon watches our departure. A good omen for our journey!”
Mudruffle jerked as if slapped. “You must not joke of such things. The Unseen is wicked and full of deceits. That would be an ill beginning indeed.”
Harric waved as they entered the switchback trail beneath the fire-cones, chuckling to himself. He would miss the Kwendi’s humor for the next three days.
When they disappeared, and he could no longer hear their murmuring voices, he laid his hand on the stone in his shirt and stalked in the opposite direction, past the white tower into darkness.
“Time to see what else this thing can do.”
What is Seen is temporary, but what is Unseen is eternal.
—Credited to Lupistano Uscelana, Black Moon apologist
29
Father Kogan’s Sacrifice
&nbs
p; The trap door opened, and Miles’s worried face, illumined by candle light, peered down through the hatch.
“The knights is gone, Father. Getting harder to please, though. They’re gonna get mean next time.”
Father Kogan climbed from the trap and closed it behind him. “Still asking for me, then? Thought they’d forget me by now.”
Kogan extended an arm and examined it. The white had dwindled, but stubbornly persisted in places.
“They say they know you’re hid up somewheres in the valley, Father, and that someone must know where, so they’re fixing to make ’em talk.”
Father Kogan frowned. “I don’t reckon they mean you.”
“No. Seems they got their sights set on some others. But I hate to bring misfortune down on anybody else.”
“Time I led ’em away from this valley, then, Miles. I reckon I don’t glow so much no more.”
“Might be a good night for it, Father,” Miles said, a note of eager encouragement in his voice. “I reckon the rest of that glow we can cover with mud and grease, too, so it won’t shine so. I’ll have Marta pack a sack with cheese and sausage.”
“You’re good folk, Miles. Luck smile on you.” Kogan laid a grateful hand on the man’s shoulder, then ducked through the door into the yard.
The night air smelled of new-mown hay, and the stars shone down in perfect clarity. The constellation of Arkus—creator of Arkendia, rebuke of the west, author of the Three Laws—shone down on him. He piously spat at it and muttered, “I’ll help myself, thankee.” Turning his back, he made his way to the barn to give his arms and braids a final scrub, and black them over with charcoal, just to be sure.
From the northeast came the pop of distant spitfires. His hunters, perhaps, camped in someone’s fields for the night. Luck be thanked they didn’t camp at Miles’s or he’d have starved in that cellar.
The Jack of Souls: A Rogue and Knight Epic Fantasy Series (The Unseen Moon - Epic Fantasy Series Book 1) Page 32