Maze of Moonlight (31 page)

Martin was suddenly staring at the harper. Christopher saw suspicion in the lad, suspicion rooted on both fear and wonder.

“Will you trust me?” she said.

Christopher did not hesitate. “With my life.”

“Then come.”

Christopher had never been fostered out to a distant baron's household: old Roger had raised him. As a result, Christopher knew Aurverelle and portions of Malvern as well as he knew the halls of his castle. But Natil led him towards the thick trees and overhanging branches, and he found himself riding into an opening large enough for a horse and rider.

And opening he had never seen before.

Natil led her companions onto a path carpeted with leaves and soft moss. It led straight ahead and into the green distance.

Christopher was staring. “Where did this come from?”

“It has always been here,” Natil replied calmly.

“That's absurd. I've been in this forest a thousand times. How could I have missed it?”

Natil glanced back at him. “Well . . . perhaps you were not looking for it, my lord.”

They rode, and the shadows of the afternoon slipped towards dusk. But, occupied as his thoughts were with Furze and what might have happened to Paul delMari, Christopher could not help but think of Vanessa and wonder why Martin had said nothing about her. It had been almost a year since she had taken the road to Saint Blaise: surely there would be some news of her.

Conscious that the already delicate balance of the alliance was steadily becoming even more delicate, Christopher was unwilling to confess his obsession to a practicing sodomite, but as the miles passed, he began to become annoyed. Dammit, Martin's family had as much as been given ownership of the girl. Surely, after all that had happened, the lad would have something to say about her.

But no, nothing.

Selfish bastard.

A chitter from his saddlebag answered his thought, and he started with a gasp. Natil turned, staring, then laughed as Christopher unfastened the bag and extracted the monkey. It grinned at him and clambered up to his shoulder.

Christopher sighed. “Two riders . . . and two monkeys,” he said. “Thank you for reminding me.”

***

Late in the afternoon of the second day, Christopher, Natil, and Martin rode out of the trees and onto the pastureland that stretched eastward from the edge of the forest. But even in the shadows that the Aleser Mountains flung far to the east—a premature dusk—Christopher could see that the normally lush grass was brown and withered, the gullies dry, the streams sluggish. Spring had brought a drought, and it was a bad one.

“It's about five leagues to Furze,” he said.

“Five leagues,” said Martin. He looked at the sky, plainly worried. “There's a little light for now, and there'll be a moon tonight. We could ride.”

Christopher wished that Martin would demonstrate as much concern for Vanessa, but he looked to Natil for advice. She nodded to the horses. “We should not ride fast, my lord. The animals are weary.”

“I have no intention of riding fast.” The monkey on his shoulder looked relieved. “But I do want to find out what happened at Furze. And if the free companies are about, I don't think I want to do that in full daylight. Can you read the patterns, harper?”

Martin started, then suddenly stared at Natil.

“They are clearer, my lord,” said the harper. “But they do not look at all reassuring.”

There were no roads here—none indeed were needed—and they rode straight across the rolling fields and into a falling darkness in which herds of thirsty cattle were a rustling, stirring shadow, and herders' huts and dugouts gleamed now and again with the faint yellow of rushlights and hearth fires. A moon barely touched with gibbous waning lit their way, but the shadow that was Furze was not pierced by its light. Growing larger as they approached, it remained dark, black, impenetrable, lit only occasionally by sparks of red that arose, flared, then subsided like a failing heart.

Near midnight, they left the horses and the monkey in the shelter of a dry canal and approached on foot. Keeping to the shadows, they crept about the perimeter of the city until they came to a gatehouse. The gates, though, were gone: the massive, bronze-bound doors were lying on the ground ten yards from the wall, shattered and broken.

Christopher pointed to the city. “Can you see?” he whispered to Natil.

“I can,” she whispered back. “There are a few survivors. The gate is guarded. Those who did this are . . . elsewhere.”

“Where?”

“I am not sure.” She closed her eyes, her brow furrowed. “It will take time.”

“Then let me be mad a little longer,” said Christopher. He drew his knife. “There's a guard, you say?”

“One.” Natil's eyes were sad, their light troubled.
The work of men.

Alone, Christopher worked his way slowly up to the opening in the wall. A shape in the darkness just within the gate showed the rough outlines of a man, and in another minute, the baron had slipped behind him and laid a blade against his throat. “Not a sound unless I say, or you're dead.”

The man nodded mutely. He was clad in rough leather armor, but he did not have the manner of a seasoned warrior. A townsman, then, Christopher guessed: conscripted by disaster, guarding against another invasion . . . and feeling hopeless about it.

“What happened here?”

“Who . . .”

“Who am I?” Christopher grinned. “I'm Christopher, baron of Aurverelle. The one who's mad.”

“You'd ha' to be, to cam here.”

“What happened?”

“Robbers. Thousands. They cam up from the south. We wan't expecting anything, an' as most o' them wore the Shrinerock arms, we ha' no reason to.”

Shrinerock arms? That meant . . .

Shrinerock?
How?

But Christopher betrayed nothing of his dismay. “And then, once they were inside, they started looting and burning.”

The man nodded. “Orders o' Baron Paul, they said.”

“You believe that?”

“Nay.”

“Good. Don't.”

“An' then, once they'd taken e'erything, they left.”

“Which way did they go?”

“To the south.”

“All right.” Christopher removed the blade from the man's throat. The guard shuddered with relief, looked close to tears. He had seen his town looted and burned, had probably watched his friends or his family die. Christopher was moved to give him a pat on the shoulder. “Carry on, friend. Just remember: you didn't see me. You never saw or heard anything tonight. I wasn't here. Understand?”

“Aye, master.”

“Good man. I'm doing what I can, remember that.” Christopher slipped back into the darkness. Shrinerock. Dear Lady!

They returned to the horses and put several miles between them and the city before Christopher called a halt. The horses were exhausted, as were—with the exception of Natil—their riders. The monkey was cross and petulant, and it squished up its face and rubbed its eyes as Christopher waggled a finger at it. “Don't you wish you'd stayed in Aurverelle?” he said. “You could be throwing fruit at David.”

The monkey looked sad. Christopher gave it some bread and dried meat, plunked a cup of water down beside it. The monkey squatted down and ate.

Christopher himself was almost too tired to put food in his mouth, but in the contest between hunger and sleep, hunger was winning for now. Nevertheless, he ate mechanically, his thoughts on Furze . . . and on Shrinerock.

Natil, too, was abstracted. Sitting cross-legged on the ground, she was staring off into space, eyes closed, mouth set. Abruptly, she came to herself and sighed. “Shrinerock has been taken,” she said.

She had only confirmed what Christopher already suspected. With an effort, he swallowed a bit of bread. “What about Paul and his people?”

“They are . . .” She stood up, peered to the southeast. Ten miles away rose the mountain that gave the castle its name. “They are somewhere near the castle.”

“Dead?”

Her voice was hoarse. Grief? Fatigue? “Many.”

They spent the rest of the night and most of the next day in the shelter of a series of low, tree-covered hills. The sun glared down, parching an already parched land. Christopher fretted, Natil looked strained, Martin fidgeted. Even the monkey seemed more serious than usual, and when Natil offered to play with it, it shook its head somberly.

When dusk came on, they mounted and rode toward Paul's castle, staying off the roads, keeping to valleys and depressions. The outline of Shrinerock grew. This was Vanessa's country: dairyland accents, pastures, cows, the silhouette of the loveliest castle of Adria rising against the sky. Somewhere nearby was the hamlet where she had been born, the little cluster of houses and huts that had first nurtured, then rejected her. Christopher wondered whether her parents were alive or dead. He was not sure that he cared. They had sent their youngest daughter off into the care of strangers and therefore had, in his opinion, renounced all claim to her.

The sound of Saint Adrian's spring was loud in the cricket-sown darkness as they rode into a stand of trees and dismounted. Above them, the mountain was dark, the fortress that surmounted it a collection of white walls and towers and spires that turned silver as the moon rose. Lights gleamed from a few windows.

“Baron Paul and his people are nearby,” said Natil. Her voice was pitched economically: just loud enough to carry above the water, no more.

Martin seemed awe-struck by her certainty. “Can . . . can you find them?”

“I believe I can.”

Still carrying her harp, Natil led them deeper into the trees. Christopher tried to leave the monkey with the horses, but the three had not gone twenty paces before the little creature came scampering after them. It clung to Christopher's neck and refused to be dislodged. It was not an encouraging sign.

The forest was thick, dense, but this was not Malvern. Once, perhaps, this place might have been wild and forbidding, but the years it had spent in the good-natured hands of the barons of Furze had gentled it. Nonetheless, it was a dark place, and the moonlight only patched the forest floor with isolated puddles of silver.

After a time, Natil halted. “The patterns are confused, my lord,” she said. “They have faded so much . . .” She bent her head.

Christopher put an arm about her shoulders. She seemed terribly thin and frail tonight. His demands had been draining her for weeks, months perhaps, but for some reason she was willing to give, to keep giving, to heal and to help so long as there was strength left in her. It seemed at times to be her only reason for existence.

To heal and to help? Natil had once said something about that. Christopher could not recall exactly what.

“Patterns?” said Martin.

“She sees the way the world works,” said Christopher. He was suddenly defensive, unwilling to expose a trusted friend to the judgment of someone like Martin.

But Martin's eyes widened. “Fair One!” he said softly.

Natil shook her head, then led them onward. Slowly, they worked their way around tot he side of the mountain opposite the road to the castle. Here, the ground was steep, overgrown, the trees close together as though shouldering and jostling one another. Not quite Malvern now, but close.

The monkey murmured. Christopher shushed it. “I learned from you,” he said softly, “now you learn from me. Be quiet.”

A gruff voice suddenly, heavy with threat. “Halt i' the name of the baron o' Furze.”

Natil stopped. The monkey snuffled. Christopher suddenly sensed men ahead, to both sides, and behind. They had been surrounded.

“Who comes?” said the voice. A ring of a sword sliding from its sheath. “Speak or die.”

Natil answered, her voice clear. “Natil of Malvern Forest and her friends,” she said, bowing. “Be at peace, and blessings upon you this day.”

A torch suddenly appeared, its light revealing a number of armored men who wore the gryphon and silver star of the delMari family. Their faces were gaunt and grim both, and their eyes were wary. “Messire Paul ha' upon occasion mentioned sa'one by the name o' Natil,” said a man who seemed to be their captain. “An' he gave us also a test. Who wa' your father?”

Natil stood, unarmored, slender, her harp slung from her shoulder. Christopher did not dare put his hands anywhere near his sword, but he decided that if one of the guards even touched her, he would draw it regardless of the consequences.

Her answer, though, startled him. “I have no father,” she said. “My Mother brought me forth, and I am She.”

The guard nodded and sheathed his weapon. “We're honored, Fair One.”

“Natil?” came a voice from deeper among the trees, and Paul delMari was suddenly striding into the circle of light. His face was careworn and etched with grief, but it brightened with pleasure when he saw the harper. “Natil! It
is
you! Oh, dear Lady, beyond all hope!” Paul seemed close to tears as he and the harper embraced. “
Alanae a Elthia yai oulisi, marithea.
”

Christopher stared, as bewildered by Paul's greeting as by Natil's words.

“
Manea
,” said Natil. “I grieve that it took so long to find you.”

“It wasn't supposed to be easy,” said Paul. He shook his head as though infinitely weary. “It's what kept us alive these last days.” But then he caught sight of Martin. “Martin! Come back to us! Is everything turning around?” He caught the boy about the neck. “Oh, in the name of the Lady, welcome and welcome again!”

“Lord baron,” said Natil. “There is a third among us.” She nodded to Christopher. “Christopher delAurvre, lord of Aurverelle.”

“Messire Christopher!” Paul bowed deeply. “A pleasure, sir.”

Christopher took his hand, still confused. “You . . . you know Natil?”

“Of course,” said Paul. “Natil and the other Fair Folk used to come to Shrinerock quite often. We haven't seen any of them in years, but ever since I got that letter from you, my good baron, I had a feeling that the Elves were involved!”

Elves? Christopher looked at Natil, his stomach suddenly clenching. Elves?

Natil looked away, biting her lip.

Paul suddenly became aware of her consternation. “Oh . . .” His hand to his mouth, he looked up at the dark canopy of leaves and branches. “Oh, dear. I . . . imagine I wasn't supposed to say anything about that, was I?”