“But it won’t play, won’t play for me, no. Not never,” the creature said to itself.
“It’s a kappa,” murmured Tadahiro, barely audible.
A kappa. Yuko felt her heart drop right out of her. Kappas were malicious water spirits that dragged people into the water and sucked all life from them.
“Is that what’s happened? Has he stolen the life out of you?” cried Yuko.
“Not all of it,” he whispered. “Maybe half.” But he sounded less than half alive.
“You can be next,” offered the kappa.
“No, thank you! Don’t you want the biwa to sing to the water music?” asked Yuko, turning toward the gravelly voice.
“It doesn’t sing anymore,” said the kappa, with another deep sigh.
“I can make it sing,” Yuko said. “And he can make it sing better. Better than the one who used to come here. He can make it sing...make it sing so the drops of the water koto will hang in the air to listen.”
There was silence for a moment, into which came the notes of the water koto.
“Even better,” said Yuko slowly, “he can teach you how to make the biwa sing. But not if you make him your dinner.”
“Ehh, he’s half gone already. Let him be my dinner, and you teach me to make the biwa sing.”
“I can’t teach you; only he can.”
A wet, webbed hand wrapped itself round Yuko’s right wrist, and a heavy weight settled itself on her pelvis. Unbalanced, she fell back and hit her head. Fireworks exploded before her eyes. Another webbed hand pinned her left shoulder to the rock. Weight pressed her stomach and chest as well, making it impossible to breath.
“So I fix him up, have you for dinner instead?” suggested the kappa. Unable to breathe, Yuko couldn’t answer, could barely hear Tadahiro say, over the buzzing, roaring sound in her ears,
“If anything happens to her, I’ll never teach you anything. I’ll ask not only the biwa but also the water koto to never sing to you again.”
Yuko felt her wrist and shoulder released, and the weight lifted from her hips and chest. She filled her grateful lungs with air. The buzzing in her ears faded, but it was several moments before her dizziness passed.
“But I’m hungry,” grumbled the kappa.
“Where are you more hungry—in your stomach or in your heart?” asked Yuko, and as she did, more drops of water fell from above, and ethereal notes echoed in the bronze chamber. The kappa crooned back.
“The heart,” it said, suddenly. “Yes, heart. All right. Move over. I’ll fix him.” The kappa pushed Yuko away from Tadahiro, and she heard it blowing steadily and unwaveringly. The noise stopped, and some minutes later, a rustling of cloth told her that Tadahiro was sitting up.
“What are you doing here?” Yuko whispered.
“When I left you, I thought I heard a biwa in the garden. The next day, I managed to slip in when the Minister of Ceremonies came to offer prayers. I asked one of the monks where the abbot used to practice. He brought me to the entrance.”
“Almost exactly the same as me, then,” said Yuko. “Teach me now!” demanded the kappa.
“The first step is learning how to hold it,” said Tadahiro. “You can see in this darkness? Good. So watch where I rest the body of the biwa. Do you have the plectrum? The piece of ivory to strum it with? Ah, good.” Tadahiro drew the plectrum across the biwa’s strings once, then stopped to tune it. He strummed again, and the biwa sang out resonantly in the bronze chamber.
“Now you try.”
“Can’t. Won’t sing for me.”
“It will. It wants to sing for everyone. It will sing for the lady. Listen.” Yuko felt the biwa, placed gently in her lap. Tadahiro’s hand closed on hers, passing her the plectrum.
“Try ‘The moon on the moors of Toya,’” he suggested. “You play that one well.” Yuko played, and in the rests, the water koto answered her. When she finished, the kappa sighed. Yuko hesitated, then presented the biwa to him.
“Rest the body in your lap,” she said. “The way I did.” The kappa strummed once. The sound was tentative, but musical.
“Ahh,” said the kappa.
“It takes a while to learn to play like the lady does,” said Tadahiro.
“Stay and teach me.”
“We need two instruments,” said Tadahiro. “One for me to use and one for you. I need to bring another.”
“All right. Go fetch one.”
“Unfortunately, I can’t bring another one unless I take the one you’ve got now,” said Tadahiro.
“No. This one is for me. The other man left it here. Mine now.”
Yuko suddenly remembered the monk’s words. “This biwa has a destiny. It has to go where it needs to go,” she said.
“It needs to stay here,” said the kappa.
“No, it’s done what it needs to do—it brought you a teacher. But it needs to find someone else now. Its music is like the Buddha’s voice—it reaches out to all the world, and where its sound reaches, sufferings cease. Let the instructor take it; he’ll bring you back a rosewood instrument better suited for a beginner.”
The kappa grumbled, but Yuko heard him thrust the biwa toward Tadahiro.
“You stay, though,” the kappa said to her, and his hand clamped down on her ankle.
“No, she needs to come along with me,” said Tadahiro firmly.
“No, no, no, no!” said the kappa, tightening his grip. “You won’t come back. No lessons, no biwa, no dinner—no good!”
“I promise we’ll come back,” said Yuko. “And you won’t miss us, because you’ll be composing.”
“Com...pose...ing?”
“You hear the music of the water koto all the time. Contemplate the pattern of its notes and sing them to yourself until we return.”
“Notes....”
As the kappa repeated the word “notes,” two more drops of water echoed like tiny bells or chimes in the chamber of the water koto. The kappa chirped an echo.
“Yes,” said Yuko. “Bring together many notes.”
“If you do, I can teach your song to other students,” said Tadahiro. “The kappa’s water koto composition, for the biwa.”
“Hoho! Water koto composition, for the biwa!” exclaimed the kappa. “Yes!” He released Yuko’s ankle. “Go, go! But come back.”
In the darkness, Tadahiro’s free hand found Yuko’s and squeezed tightly. On unsteady feet, they waded into the pool and toward the path to the outer world on the other side, while behind them the kappa sang to the water koto.
Trial by Moonlight
by Robin Wayne Bailey
Robin Wayne Bailey is the Nebula Award-nominated author of numerous novels, including the Dragonkin series, the Brothers of the Dragon trilogy, and the Frost saga, among others. His science fiction stories were recently collected in Turn Left to Tomorrow, and his work has appeared in many anthologies and magazines. He lives in Kansas City, Missouri. Visit him at his website: http://www.robinwaynebailey.net
Readers of the first Lace and Blade had the delight of meeting Lady Elena and the highwayman Ramon Estrada, each harboring their own secrets. In this poignant and action-filled sequel, Robin draws us even deeper into the mystery of their entwined lives.
The Lady Elena Sanchez y Vega sat upon a white horse atop a high hill in the three-quarter moonlight and watched the coach that rolled smoothly along the southern road from Santiago de Compostela and Vilagarcia toward Pontevedra. A pair of lanterns dangled from the front of the coach, shedding amber light on the black, lacquered woodwork and on the hard-packed road. The team of four perfectly matched black horses trotted at an easy pace, while the driver gazed watchfully ahead and from side to side.
A moment later, a second coach appeared on the same road, its lanterns swinging back and forth in the darkness as its horses clopped along. The glow of the lanterns glinted on the side of the coach and hinted at a shape that might have been a crest. A pair of riders followed close behind.
Elena frowned as sh
e studied the strange caravan. Who would brave the forested roads of Galicia so late at night? she wondered. From her high vantage, she could hear the creak of the wheels and the fall of the horses’ hooves. A shade rustled in the window of the second coach, and a feminine face peered briefly out. The lamplight illuminated sharp, dark eyes that seemed, impossibly, to stare directly at Elena.
A low growl in the trees drew Elena’s attention away from the coaches and reminded her of her true business. She sniffed the air. Cursing herself, she touched the clasp of her cloak, but before the garment could fall away, her horse whinnied and reared.
At the same time, a black shape sprang at her, knocked her from her saddle. She hit the ground with bone-jarring force.
Yet, even as she fell, her hand went to the waistband of her trousers, and she curled her fingers around the butt of a pistol. Dazed, she took quick aim. The shape sprang at her again, red eyes burning with hunger and anger, jaws slavering. It reached for her with claws as long as her forearms.
Elena fired.
The bright flash of her pistol lit up the hillside, and a cloud of gunpowder swirled against the moon. Twisting in mid-leap, the shape gave a howl of pain and crashed into the thick boll of a tree. Then, shaking a great, hairy snout, it rose on powerful legs and turned toward Elena again.
Elena flung her empty weapon aside as she stood up. “You’re the last, Pedro!”
Clenching one fist, she ripped open the neck of her silk blouse. The moonlight warmed her face and throat, the soft cleavage of her breasts. Her heart raced with a wild rhythm. “When I kill you, the lineage of Cortez will come to an end!”
Elena threw back her head and howled, a savage sound that echoed from the top of the hill and through the trees. Fire ignited in her belly, burned her from the inside out. Her pale skin ripped open, toughened, and sprouted thick fur. Her bones reformed, grew larger, and her muscles throbbed with arcane power. She transformed, and the change brought both agony and joy, pain and pleasure. All her animal senses came alive.
In the Spanish night, the two werewolves charged at each other. Claws flashed amid snarls and howls. Blood sprayed the leaves and grass. One tried to break away; the other jumped on its back, sank teeth deep into shoulders and neck. They tumbled down the hillside, earth and stones cascading around them, until a thicket ended their fall.
Then, one hand stretched toward the sky. Moonlight kissed the claws. A pair of howls, a slashing stroke—
Blood fountained in the darkness.
With a cry of triumph, Elena rose from the bushes. Her hunched shape slowly straightened, and the red glow faded from her eyes. Her wounds, which were many, knitted, closed and healed. She looked down at the human body of Pedro, the last lieutenant of the sorcerer, Cortez, and prayed that a legacy of evil was done.
~o0o~
Ramon Estrada rode quietly along the old coast road north of Pontevedra. A gentle breeze whispered in the night and stirred the folds of his pale silk cloak and the loose sleeves of his open shirt. Beyond the edge of the cliffs, the ocean surf boomed. The scent of salt tinged the air.
Tugging on the reins of his white mount, he paused and studied the sky. He knew the myriad stars by name, the many constellations and asterisms.
“There is Arcturus,” he murmured to himself as if greeting an old friend. “And there, Spica.” But it was the waxing moon rising over the pinnacle of a distant wooded hill that drew his attention.
He thought of Elena as he stared into its enigmatic glow, wondered where she was, what she was doing, why she sometimes slipped from their bed in the dark of night. He loved her as he had never loved anyone. He could admit it to himself, if not to her. Yet, they each kept secrets, and those secrets were keeping them apart.
A bright shooting star rushed across the firmament. Ramon Estrada watched it from the corner of his eye and noted the fine trail of smoke that lingered across the heavens. The faintest smile turned up the corners of his lips as the vapor slowly dissipated.
Then, through the boom and crash of the distant surf, another sound touched his ears—the creaking of coach wheels and the clip-clop of horses’ hooves. Vehicles on the road so late at night were not common, but Ramon Estrada took his opportunities when they appeared. Reaching into the waistband of his trousers, he extracted a mask of glimmering silk, placed it over his eyes, and tied it securely. Next, he loosened his sword in its scabbard and checked his pistol.
Ramon Estrada guided his horse to the center of the road and waited. The wind rustled his thin cloak, and the moon shimmered on the fabric. In the darkness, he looked exactly like what the locals of Galicia believed him to be—a ghost.
The coach rounded a curve where the road came nearest to the edge of the cliffs. Pools of yellowish light from swinging lanterns cast a weird glow, and from the center of that radiance, four powerful Friesians emerged, as if through an otherworldly doorway. Behind them came a coach, ornate in its polished lacquer and woodwork.
Beneath his mask, Ramon Estrada raised one eyebrow and silently congratulated the coach’s owner. The supernatural appearance of the strange contrivance surpassed his own.
Still a distance up the road, the coach stopped. The horses snorted as the driver rose cautiously to his feet, whip in hand, and stared at Ramon Estrada. For a long moment, all was quiet as driver and highwayman studied each other. Then, the driver made warding gestures with his free hand.
“Fantasma!” he called. “Begone! We have no business with spirits this night!”
Ramon Estrada answered in low tones, knowing his voice would carry even over the surf and the wind. “But I have business with you, Señor,” he said. “From sunset to sunrise, I own the roads, and all who would pass must pay the highwayman’s fee.”
The driver hesitated. A leather shade eased up over one of the coach’s windows. A woman’s veiled face peered briefly out. Ramon Estrada could not hear her words, but the driver immediately drew a pistol from his waistband, aimed it, and fired. The flash lit up the road. The horses whinnied and pranced, and the coach lurched.
Still blocking the road, Ramon Estrada sat calmly in his saddle. When the gunsmoke cleared, the driver stared, as if unable to believe his eyes.
“I didn’t miss!” he shouted. “I never miss!”
The pale highwayman responded with a sardonic chuckle. “Lo siento, amigo. Now I must double your fee.”
The veiled face withdrew into the coach and the shade descended. The driver growled and slowly put his pistol down, his movements deceptively slow and cautious. Without warning, he flung himself down on his seat, snapped the reins, and cracked his whip over the horses’ backs. Hooves tore at the earth, and the beasts leaped forward. The coach charged straight for Ramon Estrada, the driver’s clear purpose clear to run him down.
Unperturbed, Ramon Estrada drew his own pistol and carefully aimed. The coach came on, closer and closer. A loud explosion—a flash!
The driver screamed as the whip went flying from his hand. His body jerked back against the coach, then tumbled sideways. For a moment, it looked as if he would fall into the road, but he caught the low rail on the side of the seat and voiced a second long cry of pain.
Ramon nudged his mount with his knees, and the steed danced lightly out of the coach’s path. The conveyance raced by in a mad rush as the frightened and wounded driver scrambled to retrieve the dropped reins.
The highwayman knew exactly where he had placed his shot. The driver would not be using that whip, nor his pistol, nor anything else, with his right hand for some time. With half a grin, he tucked his own pistol back into his waistband, turned his steed, and prepared to give chase. But then, he jerked hard on the bridle. His horse reared in protest and stamped the ground as its rider twisted in the saddle to look over his shoulder.
A second coach came around the bend in the roadside. It looked even more ornate, more polished than the first. The lanterns on its rails burned with a deeper, sputtering light, and it moved with a strange silence on well-oiled
wheels with black-clad riders, one on either side, like guardsmen.
Two fine coaches and two riders on the road to Pontevedra at midnight. It was more than unusual. It spoke of some purpose, and Ramon Estrada didn’t think it could be good. He hadn’t noticed it at first, but there was something ominous in these coaches with their black lacquer and black horses.
Galicia was a land of mystery and strangeness. The locals called it haunted, and not without reason. He was not the only one who prowled its hills and cliffs; his recent experiences with the sorcerer, Cortez, provided ample proof of that. Now, as he observed this unlikely caravan, his skin crawled.
It was warning enough for Ramon Estrada. He spurred his horse directly across the second coach’s path, startling its team and its driver. He kept on going, riding into the darkness and into the concealment of a copse of trees.
The leaves, silvered by moonlight, shivered in the breeze. On the road, the coach stopped momentarily. Swords drawn, pistols in hand, the riders searched the edges of the road, circled the coach, but they ventured no further. Finally, the driver called them back, and they continued on after the first coach.
The highwayman rode out of the trees into the middle of the road to watch the last fading glow of the lanterns. He was not a man given to premonitions, but he knew trouble when he saw it.
Somewhere far away, a wolf howled. Ramon Estrada chewed his lip, removed his mask, and steered his horse for home.
~o0o~
With hours to go before dawn, Elena rode quietly into the barn and unsaddled her horse. She had no real hope that Ramon was still asleep; he was as much a creature of the night as she. But if she could wash away the blood before he saw her, it might go a long way toward avoiding an argument. They were having too many arguments lately.
As she set the saddle down, a long shadow crept across the floor of the barn. With the moon at his back, Ramon stood in the doorway. She gave a small gasp and straightened. Then, she frowned. It wasn’t easy to sneak up on someone with her wolfen senses, yet Ramon always managed it.
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