Beyond the Blue Moon (Forest Kingdom Novels)

by Simon R. Green

  “That was kind of you,” Sir Robert said finally. “Pretending to be the Prince. I knew Rupert well. Rode beside him, fought beside him. I’m probably one of the few people left alive who knew him well.”

  “If he were here,” said Hawk, “is there anything you’d have liked to say to him?”

  “If he were here, I’d just say what Ennis said. That I was proud to fight alongside him, proud to be the friend of a real hero. I never got the chance to tell him how much he meant to me. And if he’d stayed … I think he’d have made a much better King than Harald ever was.”

  “But he had to go,” said Hawk. “And in such a hurry, he never got the chance to say how much those friends had meant to him.”

  “Yes,” said Sir Robert. “He had to go.” He smiled suddenly. “There are things we need to discuss, Captain Hawk, Captain Fisher. There’s a rather good coffee shop not too far from here. Does that sound good to you?”

  “Coffee sounds very good,” said Hawk.

  A few minutes’ walk took them to an altogether more salubrious area, much frequented by artists, actors, musicians, and other feted parasites of the Castle. There was an ornate square fronted by fashionable eating and drinking establishments surrounding a small interior arbor. People in their very best came here just to promenade, to see and be seen. In particular, Southern-style coffee shops had become all the rage since the Rift opened, and the most popular, most expensive, and certainly most exclusive was the Southern Comfort. Sir Robert was recognized immediately by the beaming proprietor, and welcomed in with much bowing and gushing of praises. He ignored Hawk and Fisher completely, which only amused them. The proprietor seated them at the very best table, and brought menus printed on cards fully two feet tall. Sir Robert ordered a large pot of coffee, with all the trimmings. Hawk found chocolate gateau on the menu and got quite excited, but Fisher wouldn’t let him order it. Hawk grumbled, and would have sulked if Sir Robert hadn’t been there.

  Nothing more was said about Prince Rupert.

  “Couldn’t any of the magicians help Page?” asked Fisher when their coffee arrived.

  “The Shaman tried,” said Sir Robert. “But the long night put its mark on Ennis’ soul, and repairing a soul is sorcerer’s work. The High Warlock might have been able to do something, but he’s gone. And the Magus didn’t want to know. There are any number of magic-users here in the Castle ready to help Ennis, but surprisingly enough, the cures they offer are all very expensive, with no guarantee of success.”

  “Did any of Princess Julia’s female warriors survive?” asked Fisher, trying hard to sound casual as she sipped her coffee.

  “Sure. The only one I’ve heard of recently is Jessica Flint. She’s a Ranger now. Doing well, or so I understand.” Sir Robert frowned. “Once, I could have named all the great heroes of the Demon War and told you where they were, what they were doing. But they’ve all scattered over the years. Only a very few were able to profit from their valor and their fame. Most went back to their old, everyday lives, while the same people stayed in power. No one cares about the heroes now, except in some drunken tavern songs. And they’ll stay forgotten, anonymous, until the Land needs them to be heroes again.”

  He smiled suddenly. “I, of course, played the hero card for all it was worth. As an arriviste, despised on all sides, I had to use what advantages I had. Now I’m something of an elder statesman. People pay for my advice on all kinds of things. And as long as I keep playing one side off against another, they’ll keep coming to me for my very expensive advice.”

  “But you’re the Landsgrave,” said Hawk. “Doesn’t that position hold any power or prestige these days?”

  “Unfortunately, no. Not since they wasted the last of their influence trying to fix the choice of Questor. No one minded that they tried, only that they failed so ignominiously. A failure has no friends. A lot of the Forest’s Gold and Silver goes straight to Redhart and Hillsdown these days. I am all that remains of Gold and Silver’s voice at Court. I do what I can, and pocket my retainer.”

  “Are you happy?” Hawk asked suddenly.

  “Happier than most,” said Sir Robert after a moment. “I was a hero once, and that’s once more than most people manage their whole life. And if the life I have now isn’t exactly what I hoped or planned for, well, that’s true of most people. I have my memories of my time with Prince Rupert, when everything I did was important, and my life mattered …”

  “If Rupert and Julia were here now,” said Fisher quietly, “what would you advise them to do?”

  “I’d tell them to do the right thing—whatever it costs, whoever gets hurt. Be the heroes they used to be. Because God knows the Land needs all the heroes it can get right now.”

  “What about you?” asked Hawk. “You were a hero once. You mattered.”

  “Politics corrupts,” said Sir Robert. “And I lost my way long ago. You can’t mortgage your soul as many times as I have and still call it your own. Let us change the subject. Let us talk of King Harald’s death.”

  “Are we going to have to pay for this consultation?” asked Fisher.

  “Advice costs money. Information you get for free.”

  “Who do you think killed Harald?” Hawk asked bluntly.

  “He had a lot of enemies,” said Sir Robert, pouring himself another cup of coffee. He stared down into the cup as he added two teaspoons of sugar and stirred slowly, slowly. “Many of his enemies he made by choice. He was a hell of a politician when he was just a Prince, but once he became King, he seemed to just throw all his old skills away. He could have made deals, compromises, for the good of the Land, but he wouldn’t. He was King, and he was determined to be King. A lot of people had good reasons to want to kill him. Particularly his Queen, Felicity. She had a lover. No one knows who, which in a Castle like this is nothing short of a minor miracle, but everyone knew there was someone. Harald had to have heard. And the last thing he needed, personally or politically, was any shadow of doubt over the parentage of Prince Stephen. Especially after they’d been childless for so long. But apart from that, you could point a finger anywhere in the Castle and find an enemy of Harald’s on the end of it.”

  “Including you?” Hawk asked.

  “I remember Harald fighting in the last great defense of Forest Castle, when the dead piled up so high, we used them as barricades,” said Sir Robert slowly. “He fought well. He was a hero then. Saved my life once, though I don’t know if he noticed, or ever remembered. I would have followed that man. But King Harald was someone else. It was as though he’d put all his effort into becoming King, and didn’t know what to do with it once he got there. All I ever saw was a man determined not to give up one ounce of power to anyone else, and to hell with the rights or needs of his people. I believed in democracy. That made me his enemy in his eyes.”

  “Where were you when the King was killed?” asked Fisher.

  “Meeting with a pro-democracy group who’d expressed an interest in hiring me. Turned out they couldn’t afford me.”

  “I thought you believed in democratic reform,” said Hawk.

  Sir Robert smiled. “I’m a professional politician. I have no personal opinions anymore except those I’m paid to have. But democracy of some kind is coming. Everyone could see that except Harald. The idea is in the air, and it’s not going to go away. The monarchy was doomed from the moment Harald allowed the Magus to open the Rift.” He looked steadily at Hawk and Fisher. “I’ll give you one piece of advice for free, though it goes against my nature. Watch your backs. There are a lot of people in this Castle with good reasons for wanting Harald’s death to remain a mystery.”

  Hawk and Fisher smiled slightly, painfully. “We know,” said Hawk. “Trust us, we know.”

  Sir Vivian Hellstrom, the feted hero of Tower Rouge and High Commander of the Castle Guard, sat alone in his quarters reading a book that didn’t interest him. He’d always been alone, even as a child. People were afraid of him because of who his parents were, and what h
e might become in time. His only friend was his brother, Gawaine, and Vivian always envied Gawaine’s easy charm that turned aside fear and made friends out of enemies. But Gawaine wasn’t there to look after him anymore. So Sir Vivian did his job, commanding guards who admired and obeyed him but never liked him, and when he wasn’t needed, Sir Vivian went home to his sparsely furnished quarters, and sat there alone, waiting to be needed again. Because being needed was the next best thing to being wanted.

  The book was yet another treatise on the one bright moment in his life, the holding of Tower Rouge. The publishers had sent him an advance copy, respectfully asking if he’d check the facts for accuracy, and perhaps write them a recommendation. He was halfway through and wasn’t impressed. They had the bare facts right, but they obviously had no real understanding of the people or the powers involved. Not surprising, considering that none of the major protagonists, including Gawaine and Vivian, had ever agreed to be interviewed. Sir Vivian thought the past should stay in the past. Let the people have their songs, and their legends. For one brief day he’d been a hero, and he would share those memories with no one.

  The light in the room was growing dim. Sir Vivian looked at the candle on the desk beside him and it burst into flame. Magic came easier to him all the time now, as he got older. He’d never studied it, never wanted it; he’d even denied it to be the one thing he really wanted. A soldier. When he and Gawaine were cornered in Tower Rouge, the magic had been so deeply buried in him that Vivian had been convinced he and Gawaine were going to die. So he fought his enemy with guts and cold steel, standing firm against what seemed like a whole army, and when it was over, and he and Gawaine were still somehow alive though cut to ribbons, they held Tower Rouge, and magic had no part in it at all.

  It had always been important for Vivian to prove himself as a man, unaided by the legacy of his infamous parents. So he became a warrior and a hero. And still no one really liked or trusted him.

  It was at a time like this that Sir Vivian wished he had been a drinking man.

  Until he remembered his father.

  Sir Vivian had a certain amount of faith in Hawk and Fisher. They seemed determined to get to the truth, and more to the point, they didn’t take any nonsense from anyone, including him. Which made them a breath of fresh air in the current Court. Sir Vivian scowled. He tried to like the Queen, but it wasn’t easy. Felicity never let anyone get too close to her. But still, he would see her husband’s murderer found and punished, whatever it took. He had sworn this on his name and on his honor. He tried to be supportive, to protect the Regent from all her many enemies, even when one of them was her own father. Sir Vivian admired the Queen’s strength of character, even if the character wasn’t a particularly likable one. He didn’t know if she knew this, or how she felt about him. He’d never known how to talk to women. What to say. What they liked to hear. That had always been Gawaine’s specialty.

  Sir Vivian still missed Queen Eleanor, wife to the late King John, though she was dead and gone these many years. She was beautiful and charming and very graceful, even to a tongue-tied fool like the young Vivian Hellstrom, who worshipped her from afar and would have died for her. She smiled on him once, upon his return from Tower Rouge. Of course she smiled on Gawaine, too, but even so, there had been something special in that smile, just for him. He carried the memory of it with him always. It warmed his heart, even on the coldest of days.

  He looked around his room, and everywhere candles sprang into flame, filling the room with light. Magic. Useless magic.

  He looked at his door, and a moment later there was a confident but respectful knock. Sir Vivian called for his visitor to enter, and the door swung open to reveal the Questor, Allen Chance. He nodded briefly to Sir Vivian, who nodded briefly in return without getting up. Chance shut the door and then stood at parade rest before Sir Vivian. At least he didn’t have his dog with him this time. Sir Vivian had never been able to look at Allen Chance without seeing the ghost of his father, the Champion. Another son cursed with the weight of a famous father. Sir Vivian had never liked the Champion; a cold-hearted killing machine and borderline psychopath whose only saving grace had been his ferocious loyalty to the Throne and the Land. Fortunately Chance seemed to take more after his mother. Whoever she was.

  “You wished to see me, High Commander?” Chance asked finally.

  “Yes,” said Sir Vivian. “Take a seat.”

  He waited while Chance settled himself in the chair opposite, then put aside his book and fixed Chance with his best steely gaze. “Talk to me about Hawk and Fisher. You’ve spent the most time with them. Can they do the job? Can they succeed where we have failed and uncover Harald’s murderer?”

  “I have every confidence in them, High Commander.”

  “They’re outsiders, ignorant of the complicated politics of our Court.”

  Chance shrugged easily. “Sometimes outsiders can see things we can’t because we’re too close to them.”

  “Good,” said Sir Vivian. “Good. Did you come here alone?”

  Chance blinked, thrown by the sudden change of subject. “Chappie’s waiting outside. I know you two don’t get on. Your guards are making a fuss of him.”

  “And the witch?”

  Chance didn’t bother to hide his surprise. “Tiffany? She’s talking with the Queen at present. Why do you ask?”

  Sir Vivian templed his fingers together and stared over them at Chance. “I’m worried about you, Questor. You mustn’t let that witch get too close to you. A soldier can never trust a magic-user. And who knows what hidden agendas the witches of the Sisterhood follow? Their Academy is closed to men. No one knows what goes on behind their closed walls. What oaths they take, what powers they secretly worship. There are rumors—”

  “There are always rumors,” said Chance angrily. “I went to St. Jude’s, remember? You should hear what some people say about us. Tiffany doesn’t have any secrets. I don’t think she even knows what hidden depths are, let alone possess any. That’s part of her charm. We work well together, High Commander. We complement each other.”

  “I knew your father,” Sir Vivian said slowly. “A strong man. Strong, because he stood alone. Nothing to distract him or compromise his loyalty.”

  “He was lonely and a monster,” Chance said flatly. “He had no life of his own, only a role to play. Never any time for friends or family or human feelings. I won’t live like that. I’m not my father. I’d have thought you, if anyone, would have understood that.”

  “I do,” said Sir Vivian, struggling to find the right words, feeling the conversation slipping away from him. “My mother was the Night Witch. Everyone knows what she did. You can’t trust a witch, Questor. Any witch. They live differently from us.”

  “We’re all different,” said Chance. “That’s why it’s so important to reach out to other people. You should try it sometime, Sir Vivian. Instead of trying to infect other people with your own paranoia. Thank you for your advice, High Commander. May I go now?”

  “Yes. Go!” Sir Vivian gestured sharply at the door. Chance bowed briefly and left, closing the door firmly behind him.

  Well, thought Sir Vivian. That went well.

  He sighed heavily. As always, he did the most harm when he tried to help. And now his harsh words had probably alienated the only real ally he had at Court. He looked down at the book he’d automatically picked up again. The wonderful and marvelous history of Tower Rouge. The one moment of worth in his life. Sir Vivian threw the book aside. Like too many men, he’d made the mistake of outliving his own legend. Perhaps all that was left to him now was to find some enemy’s sword to throw himself onto, to redeem his useless life with a good death. Like the Champion.

  He sat in his chair thinking dark thoughts, alone.

  And deep within him the magic churned and boiled, promising to put everything in the world right if he would only set it free.

  Hawk and Fisher settled down comfortably to tea and cakes with the Seneschal.
His apartments were marvelously luxurious, everything padded and cushioned to within an inch of its life. The man himself was heavier and older than Fisher remembered, and crippled with gout. One heavily bandaged foot lay propped up on a padded footstool. He’d been surprisingly happy to meet Hawk and Fisher, and soon had his plump and red-cheeked wife running back and forth with pots of tea and little delicacies on doilied plates.

  “I don’t get out much these days,” said the Seneschal, chewing contentedly on a toffee cake. “My apprentices can handle most things, and those little magical lights the Magus created for me mean I can send my presence anywhere, so I’m free to spend time with my family, and curse this gout. My healer recommends red wine and red meat, but I can’t say I’ve noticed any improvement.”

  “You look pretty healthy otherwise,” said Fisher. “I’d heard you were pretty badly mauled by demons in the South Wing.”

  “Oh, I was,” said the Seneschal. “I was. Bastards made a real mess of me. But the High Warlock’s brood are hard to kill. You did know he was my grandfather? Of course; everyone does. Anyway, my life’s been a lot easier since I learned to delegate. Used to be I was the only real guide the Castle had, and I spent my whole life trying to be everywhere at once. Now thanks to the Magus’ lights, I can be everywhere at once. And I got married late in life. Three kids. That did a lot to calm me down, and make me take an interest in things other than myself.” He stopped, frowning unhappily. “Everything was going really well. And then King Harald was killed, and the whole place has been buzzing with intrigue ever since.”

  “I notice you haven’t mentioned the Inverted Cathedral,” said Hawk.

  “I try very hard not to,” snapped the Seneschal, with just a little of the bile Fisher remembered so well. “Hate the bloody place. Impossible damned construct, right in the middle of the Castle. My magic means I know where every part of the Castle is at any given moment, no matter how things move or twist around. But not the Inverted Cathedral. I can’t see that at all. It’s like a hole in my mind, or an itch I can’t reach. I’ve never tried looking inside it. Don’t even like getting close to it. It scares the crap out of me, to be brutally honest, which I never am unless I’m forced to it.”