The Sable Moon

by Nancy Springer

  “She should not have to understand! I am a freeman; no law of Vale can make me wed against my will—”

  “Except the law that weds you with the goddess in death,” I reminded him. “Father grasps for power, but Mother seeks only for your life. Go to Tiela, Tirell. Perhaps the maiden is fair.”

  He snorted in scorn. “A daughter of that swarthy Raz? She will be a proper crow. But even if she were as fair as any flower in Vale, I would still cleave to Mylitta.” He had calmed now, and he spoke with a sober conviction that I had never seen in him. I stared at him hard for ten breaths or so, trying to believe.

  “All right, brother,” I said at last. “It is you and Mylitta, then, and I will aid you for all that I am worth.”

  He reached over and touched my hand. I remember that.

  “But go to Tiela nevertheless,” I continued. “You are clever. You will find a way out. Make the lady hate you. I will go with you—perhaps she will wed me.”

  His eyebrows shot up. “The King our mighty father did not say you were to go!”

  “No, but he did not say I could not! I will be gone a week before he misses me.”

  “Maybe,” Tirell muttered. “Go to supper and let me think. Go on, fill your belly. I don’t want any.”

  I left him, hoping he had the sense not to bolt. For sake of company and diversion I went to the great hall. It was filled with courtiers, and they scarcely let me eat between flatteries and petitions. I stayed, even so, for I knew that Tirell needed time to fret in solitude. I sat and listened to the chanting of the bard.

  When the others were yawning I took my leave. I was glad to find Tirell lying on his bed, staring and apparently calm. I handed him some packets of meat and fruit, and he sat up to eat.

  “I have not been entirely sulking,” he remarked, straight-faced. “Before the gates closed I took out a horse, a black, the better to prowl the night. I have hidden him in a copse down by the Balliew. To give me more time with the lass.”

  “You will tell her about Tiela, then?”

  He gestured irritably. “I suppose I must! But you at least could spare me more talk of it until the morrow, hah?”

  I took the hint and kept silence. After quite a while the bedtime noises of the castle ceased. Tirell had changed into black clothing: black tunic and hose, even a black cloak. Only his torque of hammered gold reflected a gleam of light. “So she’ll know who I am,” he joked sourly, but the truth was that we very seldom removed the things, even to wash or sleep. Torques are devilishly hard to get off. Tirell had once observed that being a prince was just a step above being a slave; their collars were of bronze, and ours were of gold. Tirell was often sarcastic that way.

  He paced, impatient to be off. I would have waited a bit longer, in his place, but I couldn’t detain him. So we tied the rope to our heavy bedstead and sent it coiling through the high window. I held it, too, while Tirell went up and over, and I held it long after I was certain he was well gone. Finally I pulled it in, stowed it, and wandered restlessly into the corridor. I went to one of those grim little balconies meant for throwing things down on attackers. Melior had never been attacked, but every building in Vale was a stronghold if it was not a hut. I looked lazily over the toothy wall into the courtyard, and I knew at once that trouble was afoot.

  Chapter Three

  Men and horses were forming ranks amid a glare of torchlight. The men wore the blood-red livery of the King’s personal force, the Boda by name, they who called themselves messengers of doom. I saw the gleam of swords and lance-tips, and amidst it all a tall figure and the glint of a torque and the moonlike glow of an enormous brooch. No one less than the King our royal father himself was riding in the mid of night.

  I gaped for a moment or two and then I ran downstairs, scuttled across the courtyard in the shadows, and got to the stable. I loosed the first proper horse I could find, one of the royal white mares. I vaulted onto it and clattered out just as the gates were closing after the last of the Boda. I shot through on their heels and veered off into the night, riding hard. The rearward men must have seen me, but they did not pursue me. They were probably afraid to tell the King. He was as likely to skewer them as not.

  I rode as directly as I could toward the sacred grove and Mylitta’s cottage, but far aside from the main road, for the King and his Boda rode there; the gleam of their torches was visible for miles. I could only assume that this nocturnal sortie concerned Tirell, and I had to give him what warning I could. I raced along the twisted byways and came to Mylitta’s house at last with a winded horse, over a hedge and a ditch. I pounded on the cottage door. The man peered out at me stupidly.

  “Where are the prince and Mylitta?” I shouted at him. “Come, tell me, the King is riding!”

  He only stared at me. Probably he didn’t know. “If I were you I’d hide!” I snapped at him, and I kicked my horse toward the grove, hoping … But the King was there before me. He must have had a spy, or perhaps it was that damned visionary cleverness of his. I saw the torches flaring ahead and heard Abas shouting. Even at a distance I could not mistake that grating voice.

  I eased toward the commotion, mindful of the torchlight on my white horse, not to speak of my white linen shirt! But as I drew near I found that all eyes faced the King and his quarry. Tirell and Mylitta stood side by side, with Boda holding them both. They must have been taken riding, for another man held the black horse by the reins. The King stood shouting and shaking his fist at Tirell. Abas was tall, and in the glare of the torches his shadow seemed huge.

  “Thus you obey my commands!” he roared. “Out at night, over the wall, to rut with a peasant!”

  “I would have been back by day,” Tirell replied. His voice was calm, but his face was white and taut with fear. And contempt. Hide the contempt, I urged him inwardly.

  “Out at night … even in the darkest night …” Abas was trembling with wrath and a sort of frantic loathing. “At the mid of night to run from me, to scorn my command …”

  “No, Majesty, he has told me he must go to Tiela!” Mylitta said in her gentle, musical voice. The King stopped his ranting with a choke to stare at her. She stood straight and graceful, meeting his crazed blue eyes with her wide eyes of brown. It was then that she sealed her fate, I believe, though she did not know it. No one dared to gaze at the King so equably.

  I cannot understand how I failed to foresee her mortal danger. Abas’s wrath seemed to have stunned my reason. He was hoarse, panting, scarcely coherent, but he kept shouting, and Tirell listened as I did, numbly. “A dirt-caked peasant…” the King gasped. “Would you scorn a princess for a peasant? Out in the night … You are to have no more thought of her. I will see to it. No more joy in the black night. Night… no hope …” The cadence of mad rage went on with no change for warning. “Thus will I secure you!” Abas shrieked, and whipped out his long ceremonial sword. I set heels to the white mare at the first flash, but far too late. I saw Mylitta fall while I was yet in midleap. She died without a cry, even as Tirell tore loose from his guards and lunged.

  The Boda were all startled and in confusion, some of them trying to restrain Tirell and most of them scrambling away from my charge. They didn’t like to risk hurting me, I suppose, without orders, but I didn’t care if they tried to kill me. I was desperate to get to Tirell before he came up against Abas and that sword. I shoved through the melee, leaned from my mount, and got an arm around my brother’s chest from behind. My eyes met the King’s glittering eyes scarcely an arm’s length away; he was jerking his sword from Mylitta’s body, and his glare froze me in place. My frightened horse tore us away from the guards. Torches were falling and horses were breaking loose in terror and I think Abas shouted again. I held tight to Tirell and to the white mare’s neck, and she galloped off into the lightless woods.

  Tirell was struggling against me, cursing between sobbing breaths. “Shut up and hold still!” I gasped. My arm felt as if it would pull off with his weight. The King and his Boda were after
us. I could hear their hoofbeats. Then the mare shied. A dark shape loomed ahead of us, a blot, a moving vortex of darkness in that darkest of all nights, shifting and rearing and lifting widespread black wings. It blared a challenge I could not heed. I moaned and shut my eyes as we ran wildly past it. From behind I could hear the cries of the Boda and a long, hoarse scream of complete terror. That was Abas; I was sure of it. And I sensed that he had somehow met the black beast before.

  A bit farther on my arm gave way and Tirell fell to the dirt with a thump. I wrestled my panicky horse to a halt. Tirell sat like a stone where I had dropped him.

  “Come on!” I begged, tugging at him. “We’ll both be killed!”

  “Fine,” he muttered.

  “Come on, Tirell!” I was almost weeping, as panicky as the horse, and I tried to lift him. He threw off my grip.

  “Calm down,” he said tonelessly. “They’re gone. Listen.”

  I stood for a moment, panting. It was true that the wood was quiet.

  “But the beast is somewhere about,” I said shakily.

  “So much the better.” He got up. “I’m going back to Mylitta.”

  “She’s dead,” I whispered.

  “I know it.” His voice was dispassionate, and in the darkness of the wood I could not gauge his mood. I stood feeling very small in the night.

  “Remember her as she was, brother,” I pleaded. “She has been—trampled, since.”

  “Luoni take our father!” he cursed in a cracking voice, and he strode off. I caught the white mare and went after him, but I had not gone far when I met him mounted on the black, riding hard toward the west. Except for the gleam of his torque he was only a racing shadow beneath the trees; I almost thought it was the black beast. “What now?” I called to him.

  He did not answer, so I sighed and sent the white laboring after him. We galloped out of the sacred grove and up the Hill of Vision, up to where the White Rock of Eala stood gleaming like bleached bones in the starlight. Tirell rode headlong under it. I went around.

  “Are you going to Grandfather?” I shouted.

  He did not answer. He urged his horse recklessly down the Hill, and I followed more slowly. I was not afraid of losing him any longer, for the Wall blocked his path. Presently I saw a speck of light. Daymon Cein was awake in his hut, it seemed. I rode up to find Tirell standing and studying the Wall. Grandfather came out in an old white nightgown, carrying a rushlight in his hand.

  “So, lads,” he said quietly, “the trouble has come.”

  Tirell turned slowly and stared at him, a fey, perilous stare, almost threatening. “Had you seen that she would be killed?”

  “No, lad, I am sorry.” Grandfather’s voice was full of pity. “I saw your love and rejoiced in it, but the King’s thoughts and actions are hidden even from himself. Only lately his fell deed has awakened me from my sleep.”

  Tirell stared at him a while longer, then shifted his cyan gaze to me. “Go back,” he said flatly.

  “To our gentle father?” I chided. “He would kill me sooner than greet me. Thank you, but no. I am going with you.”

  “I want no company where I go,” Tirell said. His face was set in a white mask with his eyes burning through it like cold blue flame. I had known his anger many times, anger that passed like storm clouds before a high wind. But I had never seen such a locked and tortured rage in him. I shivered, facing him. It was as if my brother had become a stranger to me, or perhaps someone whom I knew all too well.

  “Where are you going?” I asked.

  “To Acheron. To my death, if death pleases to take me. I am done with Vale.”

  I felt my hair prickle. “The Wall will not let you pass,” I said, a little too quickly.

  “Ah, but it will.” Tirell turned back to Daymon. “Will it not, Grandfather?”

  “It might,” Grandfather replied, almost serenely. “But it has been prophesied that when this wall is breached the doom of Melior will be at hand.”

  “Better yet,” Tirell snapped. “Do it.”

  “Wait a bit. Even in Acheron you will need some provisions.” Daymon went into his hut, and I hurried after him.

  “Grandfather,” I whispered, “what is going on? Are you both mad?”

  “Perhaps,” the old man acceded. “But where is he to go? Back toward Melior? He will be taken before he tops the Hill. At least the Boda will not follow him into Acheron.”

  “But Tirell is not fleeing for life!” I cried. “Did you not hear him welcome death?”

  “His rage speaks. But life is not so easily thwarted. Wait and see if he does not live yet a while. May peace come to you, lad. Both of you.” He handed me a packet of cheese and bread and strode back outside with me tagging after. “Hold the horses,” he added.

  I got them by the reins and stood stupidly, waiting—for what, I didn’t know. Grandfather wandered over to a spot by his yew tree and slowly extended his arms. He spoke no word that I could hear, but power flowed through him until he seemed as big as the night. His arms quivered, and the stones of the Wall quivered along with him, then rumbled and fell from their places with a noise fit to waken the dragons in the deep. Grandfather lowered his arms by degrees, looking once again stiff and old. Tirell walked over and methodically began to clear a path through the rubble.

  Dazed as I was by the events of the night, it did not occur to me that we had put Grandfather in péril. Just as it had never occurred to me to wonder why he lived so much alone, at the Wall.…

  I joined Tirell, lifting stones until we had cleared a narrow path for the horses. By the time we were finished the sky had turned from black to gray. I could see the shapes of the mountains looking down on us. Grandfather had long since disappeared—into his hut, I supposed. We led the horses through to the far side of the ruined Wall. But before I could mount, Tirell took my arm with no gentle hand.

  “Now,” he said, facing me to the south, “make your way between the river and the mountains until you come to Vaire. There is plenty of cover, and it is not too far. Fabron will give you aid, if only secretly. I am sure of it.” His voice was hard. I shook off his hand.

  “I go with you,” I told him.

  “No good will come to you with me, princeling. I am a shadowed thing. Choose your path more wisely.” Tirell’s eyes looked like blue jewels, hard and fixed in their sockets.

  “If you go to Acheron, I go there too,” I said.

  He shrugged coldly and mounted his black. He set off silently and I followed without a word. In a moment we rode into the shadows of strange, twisted trees. But before we had gone far, hoofbeats sounded behind us. I whirled to face the pursuit, but Tirell scarcely moved his head. “What is it?” he asked indifferently.

  “It’s the black beast,” I told him.

  Buy The Black Beast Now!

  Festivals

  Old Style—Feasts of Fires

  1 November—for repose of dead

  2 February—in honor of the Mothers

  1 May—for purification

  2 August—for harvest

  New Style—Festivals of the Sun (Eastern reckoning)

  21 December—Winterfest, a gifting time in honor of the Sacred Son

  22 March—Glainfest, a vernal observance

  24 June—Bowerfest, for the Oak King

  22 September—Cornfest, for threshing

  Eastern Kings

  Herne

  Hervyn

  Heinin

  Hent

  Iuchar

  Idno

  Iscovar

  Iscovar’s supposed son, Hervoyel,

  later reigned as Hal of Laueroc

  Glossary of Names

  ADAOUN: father of all the elves, creation of the First Song of Aene.

  AENE: not, strictly speaking, a name, but the elfin term translatable as “the One”: a power neither good nor evil, female nor male, but all of each.

  ALAN: Sunrise King, Hal’s brother and longtime companion, Trevyn’s father.

  ALBERI
C: Trevyn’s true-name or elfin name, meaning “a ruler of elfin blood,” but comprising many opposites.

  ALYS: the most inclusive name of the Goddess of Many Names, the earth-mother, moon-mother, maiden, and hag.

  ARUNDEL: Hal’s horse, who harked from the Eagle Valley of the elves.

  BAY OF THE BLESSED: the estuary of the Gleaming River, where Bevan set sail for Elwestrand and Veran landed; where the elves took ship, and Hal, the last of Veran’s line.

  BEVAN: son of Celonwy, the moon goddess, and Byve, High King in Eburacon before the sack of that city. A star-son.

  CELONWY: the moon-mother or Argent Moon, one phase of the great goddess. Within the history of Isle, Bevan’s mother.

  CELYDON: the Forest Island of Many Trees. Rosemary’s home.

  CORIN: in the wandering days, Alan’s comrade. Later, lord of Nemeton.

  CRAIG THE GRIM: onetime outlaw, later lord of Whitewater.

  CREBLA: Wael’s true-name, an anagram of Trevyn’s own.

  CUERT: Prince of Laueroc who fled with Veran to Welas.

  CUIN: Alan’s distant ancestor, Bevan’s comrade, first High King of Laueroc.

  CULEAN: the last High King of Laueroc. Killed himself with Hau Ferddas at the time of the Eastern invasion.

  DAIR: an elfin name referring to the oak, for strength. Trevyn’s son.

  DEONA: Alan’s great-great-grandmother, reared in Welden, through whom the blood of the. Cuin found its way back to Laueroc. Cuert’s granddaughter.

  DOL SOLDEN: elfin for The Book of Suns, Veran’s account of the prophecies of Aene.

  Duv: an ancient name of the great mother, the goddess.

  EAGLE VALLEY: inaccessible valley where Hal and Alan found the elves, on Veran’s Mountain.

  EBURACON: the ruined city of Bevan and Byve, surrounded by Forest and haunt.

  ELUNDELEI: moon mountain, mountain of eagle vision, Mount Sooth. On Elwestrand.

  ELWESTRAND: the elves’ strand or the western land, a magical island beyond the sunset.

  ELWYNDAS: Alan’s elfin name, meaning elf brother, spirit brother, Elf-Friend.