by David Gross
She drained half of the wine from her glass in one smooth motion. Far from seeming crude, the gesture was natural and homey. Tal thought more than ever that she reminded him of Maleva.
“I see,” said Tal, not knowing what else to say.
“To be honest, I expected you much sooner. Or else I expected you to go rushing off in search of Rusk. Revenge!” She lifted her glass like a sword.
Tal just stared at her. Each time she opened her mouth, she flabbergasted him anew.
“Actually,” he admitted, “a friend of mine talked me out of that.”
“Good friend,” she said, finishing her glass and raising it for a refill. Tal poured again. “You’ll need good friends if you plan to keep your curse a secret. But you can’t keep it that way forever, you know.”
“Yes,” said Tal. “That’s why I’m here. I want to know more about—”
“You want to know more about moonfire and why you can’t buy any,” she said. This time he was not surprised. “That part is simple. It won’t work for you. You could drink a barrel of the stuff—if it weren’t a sacrilege, that is—and the best it might do is cure your sniffles or maybe make you glow in the dark for a while.”
“But Maleva said—”
“Maleva said it would control your shapechanging for seven moons.”
“Right.”
“But only if you worship Selûne.”
“Yes, that was the deal.”
“It wasn’t a deal, Talbot. Mind if I call you Tal?” She was sipping on her wine now, but her cheeks were already pleasantly flushed. “She was explaining how it works. It suppresses the call of the moon if you are a worshiper of Selûne.”
“Oh,” said Tal. “That’s not exactly the way she put it.”
“That is exactly the way she put it,” said Dhauna. “It’s just not exactly the way you heard it. Drink some wine. You look confused.”
“Thank you,” he said, following her example and draining half his glass in one smooth draught. He frowned to think he’d come all this way only to hear the high priestess of Selûne tell him the same thing Maleva had already told him.
“Now you look sad. I like you the other way better. Drink some more.”
At that, Tal laughed softly. Dhauna’s banter took the edge off his disappointment far better than more wine could ever do.
“You’re welcome among the faithful,” she said in a less frivolous tone. “You truly are, and not just because the ratio of women to men is approaching eight to one. In fact, I think you will find eventually that your place is among us.”
Tal shook his head gently, but she spoke again before he could comment.
“Just not yet,” she said gently, reaching over to pat him on the knee. The gesture seemed far more friendly than patronizing.
“No,” Tal agreed. “It’s not that I mean any disrespect.”
“I know,” said Dhauna. “You’re just a bit of a hot-head, a little too young, a little too wild. Our job is to see that you have a chance to grow out of it.”
Tal wasn’t sure whether he liked the sound of “our job,” but he already knew he liked Dhauna Myritar and wanted to hear what she had to say. He had not done a particularly good job of listening to advice from Maleva and Feena.
“I do need help,” said Tal.
“Then I’ll send you someone,” said Dhauna. “It will take some time to arrange, but soon. In return, you must provide room and board, and you must listen and take what she says seriously.”
“She?”
“One of our initiates,” said Dhauna. “As you might have noticed, most of our clergy are women.”
“Chaney would like it here,” said Tal.
“So would you,” said Dhauna. Before he could protest, she added, “Just not yet.”
They smiled at each other.
“There is one thing that Maleva didn’t tell me,” he said as she sipped some more wine. “I overheard her daughter say something about a Black Wolf heresy.”
Wine spurted from Dhauna’s nose. She caught most of it in the glass, which she set aside.
“Your grace, I didn’t mean—”
“It’s all right,” she said, mopping her chin with a handkerchief drawn from her sleeve. “I should have expected that. Just don’t mention it openly, not here. After all, it is a heresy.”
“Of course.”
“You know what heresy means? It means it’s untrue. Still, it’s a big lie that comes from some little truths. Did you tell Maleva when you were born?”
“Yes, she asked me that. The time, too.”
“Were you born during a new moon?”
“I don’t know. She didn’t say anything more about it.”
Dhauna sighed.
“What does that mean?”
“Well, it means either you were born under a black moon or you weren’t. We don’t know, since Maleva enjoys being mysterious. That works well with the people where she lives, but it’s annoying to civilized people like you and me.”
Tal chuckled.
“That wasn’t a joke,” she said, frowning.
Tal wiped the smile from his face, but he felt a blush rise to his cheeks.
“But that was,” said Dhauna, shaking her head mirthfully. “Don’t be so gullible.”
“You don’t seem very much like a high priestess,” said Tal.
“You don’t seem very much like a werewolf,” she replied. “Not tonight, at any rate.”
“About the Black … thing … business,” he prompted.
“If you were born during a black moon, a new moon, then it might be easier for you to learn how to ride the moon. That’s our poetic and mysterious way of saying, learn how to control the change.”
“Why didn’t Maleva tell me about that?”
“Well,” said Dhauna, “perhaps she was trying too hard to persuade you to join the temple.”
“That can’t be it. She was really trying to help me. I can’t believe she would just leave out telling me that I can control the change.”
“You haven’t proven that you can,” said Dhauna. “Not everyone succeeds at it, especially those bitten by wolves, boars, and the other savage beasts. Those who suffer the benign lycanthropy have it much easier.”
“Benign lycanthropy?”
“Werebears, for instance,” said Dhauna. “They are not as susceptible to the call of the Huntmaster.”
“You mean Malar, don’t you?”
She nodded.
“He’s also called the Black Wolf, isn’t he?”
“Sometimes my attendants listen at the door,” she said. “Don’t embarrass me.”
“Sorry.”
“The temple of Selûne does not actively oppose the Beastlord,” she said. “We’re not friendly with his followers, and some of our clerics take it upon themselves to defend folk against lycanthropes—with our blessing, naturally—but we concern ourselves primarily with other evils.”
“Like Shar and Mask,” suggested Tal. He had read that the clerics of Selûne were especial enemies of the goddess of darkness and the god of thieves.
“Exactly,” she agreed. “There are so many dark gods, and we of Selûne’s faithful must devote our energies to thwarting the minions of her foes.”
“And Malar is not one of her foes.”
“No,” said Dhauna. “Not in the same way.”
Tal had a glimmer of insight, a half-formed idea that dissolved even as he tried to make it take shape. Somehow he realized that he had almost grasped a hidden truth, but it had slipped away. Its passing left another, lesser question.
“Maleva is not in good standing with the temple, is she?”
“No,” allowed Dhauna. “Even though we are old friends, she has chosen a different path.”
“Because she wants to oppose Malar.”
This time Dhauna’s sigh was full of weary resignation. “The matter is more complicated than you know, for reasons that I won’t share with you.”
Tal thought about what she had said. “You said �
�won’t.’ ”
“I did.”
“One of the Old Chauncel—the old families who run Selgaunt—one of them would have said ‘can’t.’ ”
“But that would have been a lie, Tal.”
He smiled. Perhaps he had not found all the answers he had hoped for, but he trusted this Dhauna Myritar, and through her he trusted Maleva more than ever, despite her mysterious ways.
“Thank you,” he said, standing up to bow to the cleric. “May I visit you again some day?”
She rose and offered him her hand, raising one sly eyebrow. “Are you already considering joining us?”
“No,” he said, “but perhaps we could sit and drink some wine.”
CHAPTER 7
THE ARCH WOOD
Tarsakh, 1371 DR
Darrow turned the key and paused to listen. He heard nothing from the other side of the door, so he carefully pushed it open.
Inside, shafts of daylight slanted from the ceiling thirty feet above. The intervening floors had been torn away except for a wide ledge on each side, forming a crude double balcony in the vast room. Perhaps once these had been receiving halls and parlors, bedchambers and libraries. Long ago, the Malveens lived here. Since then, it had been cut open to serve as a catacomb for unwanted cargo.
The upper ledges were filled with shipping crates and pallets of barrels, as was most of the ground floor, where they formed a twisting maze. Built upon the huge central beam was a peculiar double crane for raising and lowering the stores. Its intricate design spoke of gnome craftsmanship, and Darrow guessed it still worked, even after years of neglect. In the dim light, it looked like a lightning-struck tree, one half leaning to rest on the southern ledge.
Darrow raised the cup of continual flames and stepped inside. He stepped on something that crunched under his foot. He kicked it into the light and saw the desiccated body of a rat.
“Huntmaster,” called Darrow, mindful to call the Malveens’s guest by his title. “My lord Malveen wishes to see you.”
He waited a moment for a reply before venturing farther into the warehouse, among the ruined treasures of the waterfront. Some of the wares were stamped with the Harbormaster’s seal of confiscation. Others were damaged or otherwise imperfect, like a pallet full of dusty bolts of Shou Lung silk, stinking of smoke and mold.
“Huntmaster!” called Darrow. “Rusk! ”
No answer came, but Darrow caught the scent of roasting meat. Following it, he heard the crackle of Rusk’s cooking fire and worried briefly about the danger of an open flame amid so much dust and wood. At last, he spied Rusk’s lair in the far corner of the warehouse.
The big man had lost weight in the four months since his injury, but the stump of his left arm was completely healed. He sat cross-legged before his fire and watched Darrow approach, making no move to rise.
“Lord Malveen summons you to the baiting pit,” said Darrow.
“Summons me?” snarled Rusk. He tore a rib from what appeared to be a roast dog and sucked the meat from the bone. He offered some to Darrow, who blanched and politely waved it away. “I’m ready to return to the lodge. I should be summoning Radu here. Still,” said the Huntmaster, “it would be something to see the place again.”
“You’ve been there before?” said Darrow. “The arena?”
“Who do you think stocked the place?” Rusk said gruffly. He wiped his greasy hand on one leg and stood up.
“I assumed Lord Malveen,” Darrow said, “or perhaps his mother, the Lady Velanna, had ensorcelled the beasts.”
“Twenty years ago, ‘Lord’ Malveen could barely light a candle with a brand.”
“My lord is the most powerful sorcerer in Sembia,” said Darrow.
“You pathetic sycophant!” Rusk laughed heartily. “He’s charmed you, hasn’t he? That’s what the second ward did when we broke in.”
“No,” said Darrow, but he wondered whether it was true. He had been so grateful that Stannis spared his life since his indiscretion about the wine that he never considered the possibility that his master was anything but a kind and merciful lord.
“Stand still,” commanded Rusk. With a touch of the talisman on his brow, he chanted a spell.
“No!” Darrow ran to hide behind a stack of crates. Before he made it, he felt a faint tingling sensation, and he heard Rusk’s mocking laughter.
“Come out, you foolish lamb!”
“My master won’t let you—” A sensation of gentle, cold fingers touching his skin came over Darrow. It felt like standing naked in a light snowfall. Whatever magic Rusk had cast, it was done.
“Be silent,” said Rusk. “Your bleating annoys me. Let’s go see what you think of your master now.”
As Rusk had promised, Darrow saw his master in a new light as they entered the arena. It was all he could do to hide the revulsion he felt when he saw the blubbery folds of the monster’s body lapping over the couch. His piscine stench was overpowering, but worse was the stink of death just beneath it, insinuating itself into Darrow’s nostrils, into his very pores.
Stammering fear replaced the awe he once felt in his master’s presence. Try as he did to hide it, it must have shown on his face. Stannis observed him with growing interest.
“Have you been interfering with my servant, Huntmaster?”
Rusk shrugged, barely suppressing his own mischievous smile.
“Look at me, Darrow,” snapped Stannis. “Look at me now!”
Fearfully, Darrow obeyed. An instant’s glance into the roiling depths of his master’s eyes restored his faith. His moment of doubt and horror became a confusing memory. He knew only that Rusk had tempted him to some beastly offense against his glorious master.
“That’s better, is it not?”
“Thank you, Master,” said Darrow. “I crave pardon for my … confusion.”
“Think no more about it, dear boy. Now, to the duel.”
As before, Radu stood patiently on one side of the fanged pit. He held his sheathed sword lightly in both hands, and his eyes were closed.
Voorla stood near the bars of his prison without touching them. With a slow twist of his head, the troll cracked the bones in his neck. He stretched his huge green arms and flexed the muscles in his shoulders. Voorla was ready to fight.
Two cells away, Maelin sat on her bunk and watched dispassionately. Darrow had already told her of the match, so she knew it was Voorla who would be released into the ring. In the months of her imprisonment, she had become resolved to the fact that she would receive no chance to win her freedom.
When Stannis raised the gate, Voorla surged forward. He snatched a cutlass from the row of weapons and hurled it across the pit.
Radu opened his eyes at the sound and turned just far enough to avoid the sword. He drew his own blade and cast away the scabbard as the cutlass struck the wall hard and snapped in half. Before the broken halves could hit the ground, Voorla hurled a spear after it.
Again, Radu moved just far enough to let the spear pass harmlessly by. He strolled around the pit, seemingly unconcerned at the continuing stream of missiles.
The third was a short sword, tumbling end over end like a showman’s knife. Radu deflected it with his long sword, using both hands to brace his sword against Voorla’s powerful throw.
“I had expected a more courageous display,” said Rusk. “A true hunter does not kill from afar.”
“He calls himself a warrior,” said Stannis, “not a hunter.”
“Is that what your brother calls himself?” said Rusk. “A warrior?”
“Not at all,” said Stannis. “He does not speak of his talents at all, but I suspect he would be succinct if put to the question. Radu is a killer.”
In the pit below, Radu began to demonstrate the veracity of his brother’s definition. He closed with the troll. With a quick lunge, he pierced the monster through the calf. Dark blood appeared on Radu’s blade, but the wound closed as quickly as it was made.
Voorla hefted a glaive and swung it one-
handed. Radu tumbled past the troll’s tree-trunk legs, springing up back-to-back with the monster. Without turning, he reversed his grip on the long sword and shoved it back into the troll’s thigh.
Voorla wailed. Blood poured from the wound, then trickled and oozed until it stopped.
“He won’t get anywhere that way,” observed Rusk.
“Indeed,” said Stannis, “but watch.”
Voorla chased his opponent around the ring. Radu did not flee so much as lead the raging troll, narrowly avoiding each savage chop of the glaive. At last, the troll’s blade sliced a hank of silk from Radu’s jacket.
“Oh, my,” said Stannis, reaching out for another glass of wine. Darrow was so transfixed by the battle that he missed his cue. He fumbled with the crystal decanter and placed the goblet in his master’s flabby hand.
“Are you worried at last?” asked Rusk.
“Dear me, no,” said Stannis. “I think our entertainment is almost finished. That was his favorite jacket, a gift from Pietro, our youngest brother. How Radu dotes on the boy.”
Rusk grunted dubiously, but the master’s words proved prophetic. Radu reversed his retreat and whirled effortlessly inside Voorla’s guard. With a wide, two-handed cut, he swept the troll’s left hand from its arm.
Voorla howled and scrambled after the severed limb. If he could touch it, hand and limb would rejoin in a matter of seconds.
Radu reached the hand first, spearing it on the tip of his long sword and flicking it into the fanged pit.
Voorla screamed, chopping wildly with the glaive. Radu skipped aside but gave no ground. He was done taunting his foe.
When the glaive struck the sand where he had stood, Radu leaped over it and drew a bloody line across Voorla’s brow. The brief flow poured into the troll’s eyes.
As Voorla blinked, Radu struck another two-handed blow into the troll’s forearm, but not far enough to sever the troll’s heavy thews. Voorla jerked back before Radu could withdraw his blade, pulling the swordsman close and pushing him to the ground.
Voorla shouted triumphantly as he pinned Radu with one heavy foot, then raised his arm for the killing blow. Radu’s face remained impassive as he held onto his sword, twisting it to the side to cut through the remaining sinews of the troll’s arm. Before the muscles could repair themselves, the glaive fell from Voorla’s twitching fingers.