Once In a Blue Moon

by Simon R. Green

“I can talk to the mine owners,” said Prince Richard. “Persuade them to pay for the necessary work, make sure they don’t pressure you to dig so deep again. You should be safe enough. But will your people go back into the mine, now they know there’s kobolds?”

  “Of course,” said the Mayor. “That’s the job. Mining has always been dangerous.”

  Richard nodded. “Just because you’ve killed the monster . . . it doesn’t mean you’ve won. I remember.”

  The Mayor nodded, then went back to his people to give them the good and the bad news. Leaving Richard alone with Peter and Clarence, who suddenly didn’t seem able to meet his gaze. Richard laughed briefly and put his arm across their shoulders.

  “Of course, you do realise that you were the ones who did the sensible thing, right? I should have been killed. Those were suicide odds.”

  “We should never have left you,” said Peter.

  “We can’t all be heroes,” said Richard.

  “Are you really going to talk to the people who own the mine?” said Peter.

  “I don’t need to,” said Richard. “My family owns it, through several intermediaries. Why do you think the Mayor wrote to the Castle in the first place? I’ll do what I can. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go find some food and a lot of drink, and hopefully a village wise woman who knows which herbs will help fight off an infection. I feel like shit. And I want to take a look at those traumatised miners before we leave. Hearing how we did might help them.”

  He strode off down the slope, head held high. His friends watched him go.

  “How can you hate a man like that?” said Peter.

  “I don’t know,” said Clarence. “But it’s probably worth the effort, if only to keep him from getting big-headed.”

  They laughed quietly together, and followed their friend down the slope.

  • • •

  Some three weeks later, they finally made it back to Forest Castle. They took the long way home from Cooper’s Mill, going by the pretty route, partly because Richard felt the need for his various wounds to heal up and partly because he wanted some time on his own, away from the duties and responsibilities of Castle life. Of being . . . Prince Richard. He spent a lot of time on his own, lost in his thoughts, and Peter and Clarence mostly left him to it. They knew he had a lot to think about, including his forthcoming arranged marriage to the Princess Catherine of Redhart.

  Besides, they had a lot to think about too.

  It had been a hundred years since the Demon War, and the Forest Castle had changed a lot since those days. No longer bigger on the inside than it was on the outside, which had always been its best boast for fame, the Castle was now a huge, sprawling place, the size of a large town or even a small city, with thousands of rooms. But now it was more a museum of a past way of life than a working Castle. Power had passed the Forest Royal line by. The current King Rufus was a much-loved, occasionally respected constitutional monarch. Real power in the Forest Land now resided in the elected House of Parliament, a much grander and far more modern building set quite deliberately some distance away from the old seat of power, in the proud new city of Forestall. Much of Forest Castle stood empty now, abandoned and deserted. The King had to pay for the Castle’s upkeep out of his own pocket. Which was almost as empty as the Castle. Thank God for tourists and guided tours, King Rufus had been heard to mutter when he wasn’t driving them out of the more private areas with oaths and curses, yelling at them for dropping litter or trying to steal some of the smaller items of interest, or for just generally getting in his way.

  The tourists didn’t mind; in fact, for many years, most said it wasn’t a proper tour unless you’d been yelled at by the King.

  No one was at all clear what would happen once the Royal coffers officially ran dry, because King Rufus wouldn’t talk about it. Presumably, when Richard finally became King, he’d have to start selling things to raise some money. He’d already started (very quietly and secretly and just a bit guiltily) making a list of things he could do without. Just because something was old and historically significant and very valuable, it didn’t necessarily mean it was a thing of beauty and a joy forever. Certain particularly ugly family portraits had already made the list.

  Prince Richard had to play politics, whether he wanted to or not, to keep the Royal line popular with the people so Parliament couldn’t get rid of it. Richard wasn’t even sure he wanted to be King, but he most definitely distrusted what some Members of Parliament might do without the checks and balances provided by the throne. He had wondered, during his travels on the road, whether certain elements within Parliament had deliberately agreed to Redhart’s suggestion of an arranged marriage in the Peace Treaty just to distract him and keep him out of Parliament’s collective hair. But no—as much as he hated to admit it, not everything was about him. It was much more likely that Parliament had agreed to the Royal marriage as a way of bringing in new money, from tourism and merchandising. Richard sighed. He didn’t want to marry a foreign Princess he’d never even met; he’d always said he would only ever marry for love. Choose his own bride, and to hell with Royal etiquette. But deep down, he’d always known that was just a hope and a dream. He knew where his duty and his responsibilities lay.

  But, on the other hand . . . if this Catherine were to break off the marriage through her own decision, and march back to Redhart in a huff . . . Well, no one could blame him then, could they? Provided he was very careful not to get found out. The marriage could still be part of the Peace Treaty, even if it was never actually enforced. Just . . . called for. In the future.

  Richard could actually see the taller towers of Forest Castle rising up beyond the trees, when Peter and Clarence rode up and set themselves on either side of him and insisted that he pay attention to them through a series of loud throat-clearing noises. He looked at them amusedly, while they took it in turns to bluntly demand that he share with them whatever it was he was brooding about. Richard told them what he’d been thinking, on various matters, in some detail, until they begged him to stop. Peter sniffed loudly.

  “You might see things that way, Your Princeness, but I’d take a Member of Parliament over a Lord or Lady any day. Inbred bunch of whiners. Not all Forest politicians are bad apples. In order to be allowed to stand for Parliament, you have to have done something, some great thing of outstanding merit. Be a successful warrior, or magician, or merchant. You have to have proved yourself worthy, already made your mark in service to the Land. Can’t expect people to vote for you if they’ve never heard of you. And these days, if you want to be a soldier or a warrior or a hero, you can’t just strap on a sword and march off looking for someone to fight. You have to join the Brotherhood of Steel and get properly trained.”

  Clarence snorted loudly. “You say that like it’s a good thing. I’ve heard things about the Brotherhood. Mystical indoctrination, that’s what I’ve heard! And overly harsh discipline, in their precious Sorting Houses. Even sexual predators . . .”

  “Bullshit,” Peter said calmly. “Every big organisation has its enemies, eager to spread lies and propaganda. Those already in power have a vested interest in not losing it to anyone else. I enjoyed my training in the Sorting House before I came to the Castle. Never saw any of the nonsense you’re talking, Clarence. Made me the man I am today.”

  “My mind reels with sarcastic responses,” said Clarence.

  “One does hear things,” Richard said carefully. “The Brotherhood is one of those ideas that came up from the Southern Kingdoms. It set up here to operate as a general sorting house, working out who had a talent for what and then placing them accordingly. To invest some moral backbone in the country. But now the Brotherhood has a hundred of these schools, these Sorting Houses, spread across the Forest Land, turning out more and more warriors every year. What will we do with them, once there aren’t any more border skirmishes to soak them up? And even you must admit, Peter, that not all the Sorting Houses have good reputations. There are rumours . .
.”

  “Yes, well, that’s true of everything and everyone,” said Peter. “You should study the real history of how things used to be, before the Brotherhood of Steel was established. Warriors picking fights and goading each other into duels, just to show how brave and talented they were and to show off in public. People are always happy to see blood spilled, as long as it isn’t theirs. Things got out of hand really fast, by all accounts, with blood feuds eating up whole families . . . Now, thanks to the Brotherhood, that kind of thing is only allowed in the seasonal Tourneys, under strict rules and conditions.”

  “The Grand Tourney is due anytime now,” said Richard. “That means I’ll have to make an appearance, as a soon-to-be-married Royal. The crowds love all that stuff. I hate these big public appearances; good-natured smiling and waving all day really take it out of you.”

  Clarence brightened up. “I love Tourneys! Lots of action and heroics to observe, and make notes on from a safe distance, and sing about later. Good-looking girls everywhere, easily impressed by a good rhyme and a noble accent. And all kinds of exotic foreign dishes at the food stalls!”

  “I do like the curried sausages,” Peter said solemnly. “For when I want to set my bowels a real challenge.”

  “Let us not forget last year’s great success: the chilli-beef-and-bacon three-bean soup,” said Richard. “For when you want the shit to just explode out of your arse.”

  “You are both so unadventurous,” said Clarence.

  “Will you be appearing in the lists this year?” Peter said innocently. “Showing off your fighting skills in front of these easily-taken-advantage-of girls?”

  “Hell, no!” said Clarence. “I’ve got more sense. If I must fight, it had better be for something more than a lady’s favour. Especially if she’s just blown her nose on it.”

  “You have got to get over that,” said Peter. “I’m sure it was just an oversight.”

  “The Tourneys do seem to serve a useful function,” said Richard. “It’s hard for potential heroes to make their mark these days, what with the general shortage of monsters and demons in the Land. Look how far we had to ride to find some . . . The Tourneys keep our potential warriors busy and preoccupied, and beating the crap out of each other rather than out of innocent passers-by. I don’t know why these hero wannabes always fixate on monsters . . . There’s never been any shortage of human villains in the Land that could do with some serious sorting out. Bankers, landlords, politicians . . . Even the occasional instance of inappropriate magic use.”

  “Right,” said Peter, nodding vigorously. “Remember the Necromancer, last year? Got caught raising up the recently departed to make them do hard labour in the quarries?”

  “The unions soon put a stop to that,” said Clarence. “Skilled labour, is quarrying.”

  “Never any shortage of bad guys for trainee good guys to set themselves against,” said Peter. “All part of the natural balance.”

  “Yes, but where are they when you need one?” said Richard, and they all laughed.

  The woods fell away abruptly, and Prince Richard and his companions found themselves facing the huge open clearing that held the Castle. Cut out of the Forest centuries ago, by persons and means unknown, the clearing remained open despite everything the woods could do to reclaim it. And standing right before the three riders, right on the clearing boundary, was the Standing Stone. A huge, jagged outcropping of dark stone, of no particular shape or design. It loomed over them, standing alone, surrounded by a circle of dead grass. Because no matter how many seeds fell there, nothing would flourish in the shadow of the Stone. Some people said birds and insects fell dead out of the air if they flew too close. Generations of children would come out just to stare at the Stone, and dare one another to touch it. No one ever did.

  Once, the Standing Stone had been worshipped. It still had a definite sense of presence, and power. There were even those who had been heard to murmur that there was something living, sleeping, inside the Stone. An old pagan god, or a devil, depending on which stories you listened to. Richard studied the Standing Stone thoughtfully.

  “When I am King, I will have this ugly thing dragged down and broken up with hammers.”

  “Hush,” Peter said immediately. “It might be listening.”

  “I don’t like it, and I don’t trust it,” Prince Richard said stubbornly.

  “But there are any number of old songs about how important the Standing Stone is!” said Clarence, just a bit excitedly. “Some say an ancient hero lies sleeping inside the Stone, waiting to come forth in the Land’s hour of need!”

  “Then where was he during the Demon War?” said Richard, and no one had an answer for that.

  Richard turned his gaze to the Forest Castle, filling most of the huge clearing and casting its great shadow over the farthest boundaries. To the casual eye, the Castle’s exterior wasn’t actually all that impressive. The stone was everywhere cracked and pitted, and stained from long exposure to wind and rain and passing Time. Wide mats of crawling ivy and a great undulating sea of slate grey roof tiles. Many of the tall crenellated towers had a battered, lopsided look. Crumbling battlements presided over outer walls some three to four feet thick, still standing firm against wars and demons and the endless years. Guarding the Royal line as they guarded the Forest Land.

  Thousands of rooms in four great wings, along with halls and galleries, libraries and armouries, servants’ quarters and stables and courtyards . . . Much of it empty now, of course. Dusty, deserted rooms, full of shadows and memories. Not even any ghosts. Because what’s the point of a haunting, if there’s no one to haunt?

  Richard sat on his horse, ignoring the quiet impatience of his friends, just . . . looking. All around him the woods were full of life and movement and birdsong. A relief and a comfort after his experience in the Darkwood. There was no way he could have known that such a brief exposure could affect him and his friends so deeply. Neither he nor Clarence nor Peter was comfortable during the night now, though none of them would admit it, let alone discuss it with the others. They all just quietly accepted that they had to have a large banked fire burning before they could go to sleep, a fire big enough to last through the whole night. So its light would still be there if they happened to wake before morning. Like they were children again.

  With good reason to be afraid of the dark.

  Richard urged his horse forward, out of the woods and across the clearing, and Peter and Clarence were quickly there at his sides. Forest Castle loomed before them, growing steadily larger and more impressive the closer they got. When they finally crossed the ancient moat surrounding the Castle, Richard had to admit he was a little surprised to discover that the drawbridge was already down and waiting for them. Even though no guards were visible on duty anywhere. Had someone seen them coming? Normally you had to stand on the far side of the moat and yell your head off, and wait for someone to notice you. Wise people packed lunches for the wait. It was hard to find good help these days. The horses’ hooves were loud and carrying on the quiet, as they clattered across the drawbridge. Richard looked down into the dark and murky waters of the moat. It needed cleaning out again, but that was expensive. Richard’s attitude was that if some enemy should happen to fall in and be poisoned before he could drown, that was fine by him.

  Back in Prince Rupert’s time, a terrible monster had lived in the moat and guarded it against all comers. (The moat used to contain crocodiles, until the day something arrived and ate all the crocodiles, then took up residence in the moat amid the general feeling that if it could eat a moat full of crocodiles, it could certainly guard the Castle.) There was even a popular and very vulgar song about the day the monster and its mate and its many horrible offspring suddenly up and left, some fifty years ago. A very impressive sight, and quite a spectacle, as long as you weren’t standing too close to the moat when it happened.

  Prince Richard rode his horse into the great open courtyard, ready to yell his head off for a groom and a
dismount; and then he sat very still as he saw the Seneschal emerge from the main Castle entrance and head straight for him, accompanied by rather a lot of armed guards. Someone had seen him coming and arranged this reception for him.

  “Run!” said Peter. “We’ll block their way!”

  “Escape while you still can!” said Clarence.

  “You think you’re so funny,” said Prince Richard. “Where would I go?”

  He swung down out of the saddle and threw the reins to Peter. The Seneschal crashed to a halt before the Prince, and the two men looked each other over in silence. They’d known each other all their lives, and the experience had not been a happy one. The Seneschal was King Rufus’ most senior servant, and he liked to give himself airs. On the grounds that he did all the real work in running the Castle. To be fair, he did. The Seneschal was a tall and slender, almost spindly man in his early forties, with a long face and a high forehead, under thinning grey hair. (He liked to blame this on the stress and strain of having to deal with the Royal line, up close and personal, every day.) He wore dark, formal, slightly old-fashioned clothes of a reserved and sombre nature. Including exquisitely tailored gloves and shiny shiny hook-and-eye boots. He tried for a calm and even dour presence when dealing with the Prince, but he nearly always descended into red-faced spluttering. Richard usually felt guilty about teasing the man afterwards. But not enough to stop doing it.

  The Seneschal glared at Prince Richard as though he’d been waiting to talk to him for some time and wasn’t at all happy about it.

  “You said you were just popping out for a quick ride, your highness!” the Seneschal said loudly. “That was two months ago!”

  “Well, if I’d told you it was going to be that long, you wouldn’t have let me go, would you?” said the Prince reasonably.

  The Seneschal started to say something cutting and obviously much rehearsed, and then stopped and looked the Prince over more carefully.

  “What the hell happened to you? Your clothes are torn, I can see dried bloodstains, and there’s a scar down the left side of your face that definitely wasn’t there when you left! You look . . . like you’ve had the shit kicked out of you. Tell me you haven’t gone back to fighting on the border again.”