The God in the Moon

by Richard A. Knaak

  As he kissed it, she pulled it back, leading his face to hers.

  Yet, if Nermesa expected more life from her lips than in times past, he was sorely disappointed. Although the kiss was long and lingering, it was as cold as ever. It felt calculated, not caring.

  When they parted, though, Nermesa gave no indication. A smile crossed Orena’s perfect features, one that somehow touched him as triumphant . . . as if with the kiss she believed she had conquered any reluctance on his part.

  “I am so very proud of you, my love. I fear I might have shown what some could mistake as anger when you so suddenly chose to leave on this adventure, but it was merely surprise and concern! I feared for you, I did, my love, and not without good reason, it seems!” She touched his cheek, her fingers as chill as her lips. “Those savages out there! Horrible to think about! But you!” Her eyes narrowed like those of a cat about to devour a plump mouse. “You conquered them all . . . and brought back the greatest bandit in chains! All of Tarantia speaks only of that tremendous deed, my love!”

  Despite her praises of him, Nermesa could only think of the many times that she had so far called him “my love.” Did Orena imagine that by repetition of the term she would make him so? Nermesa did not at all imagine that the lack of love in their betrothal was his fault alone. Orena cared little for him personally. He had hoped that he was wrong, but that was not the case. All her acting was part of an effort to wind him around her finger and convince others that she was something she was not. When he had first come to consider that notion years ago, it had begun the widening of the gulf that now stood between them.

  But a betrothal between Houses did not depend upon love or even liking. It was, if nothing else, a business transaction.

  “I was . . . fortunate. Quentus was not.”

  “Quentus?” She paused for a moment and, to Nermesa’s hidden dismay, he realized that Orena truly did not recall the man at first. This, despite Quentus’s having accompanied them on countless outings as servant. “Ah! Yes . . . poor soul . . .” That was all. For Orena, there was only one topic at hand. “The ceremony to honor you is to take place in the coliseum, is it not? At least, that is what I heard.”

  “Yes. They want to show me off before the people.”

  “And rightly so!” Her eyes grew so wide, so vibrant, that they startled Nermesa, who had never seen them so. “Think of it, my love! The adoration of the population! The envy and admiration of the nobility! You are the favored of the throne and have the ear of men like Pallantides and others of the inner circle! The potential for elevating this into permanent reward is staggering! When we stand there, we stand facing our future—”

  He was not certain that he heard right. “‘We’?”

  Orena paid his interruption no mind. “A celebration must take place afterward, too, of course! We shall hold it here, in our house! It will be the perfect point at which to announce the day of our binding! Then—”

  Feeling as if every brigand in the Westermarck had suddenly fallen upon him, Nermesa cut her off. “What are you talking about?”

  Eyes veiled again, Lady Lenaro smiled. “Why, now that you’ve done with your adventure, we can continue on with what has been too long delayed . . . just as you promised. I know that your dear parents think the same. After the king honors us, it only stands to reason that we make the expected announcement of our marriage! In fact, it would not be out of the question, I think, if we even included him and the queen among our guests . . . and General Pallantides as well, of course!”

  Nermesa blinked, certain that he had gone mad. How else to explain what he was hearing? Orena had turned a twist of fate—a twist filled with tragedy, yet—into a plan intended to further her desires for greater prestige among the nobility.

  “There won’t be any celebration after,” he bluntly stated.

  “Of course, there will be! I—”

  “No celebration . . . I won’t turn a matter filled with the deaths of so many brave men into a ball. I don’t even want this ceremony, but it comes at the decree of my king and Pallantides. I will get through it . . . alone . . . and then the matter will be done. Hopefully, soon forgotten, too.”

  For just the briefest of moments, her eyes threw daggers at him. “You don’t appreciate what chance has given you! This is more than many ever achieve! To waste such potential—”

  “Is better than treading on the bodies of the men who died in the capture. I’m honored to serve my king, Orena, but it ends there.” He stood. “If you’ll forgive me . . .”

  Most likely, she would not. Nevertheless, Nermesa strode into the house and through the corridor without glancing back. His betrothed, thankfully, did not summon him back. Had she done so, Nermesa could not have promised to hold his temper in check.

  As he neared the door, though, he again saw Telaria. Orena’s sister peered carefully after him, then, as Nermesa neared, muttered, “I’m sorry. I—I couldn’t help overhearing about Quentus. He was . . . You always seemed like brothers . . .” A tear streaked the left side of her face. “He was always so good and cheerful and never wanted to hurt anyone ...”

  Nermesa’s anger dissipated. He put a hand on her shoulder, causing her to gaze up into his eyes. The concern, the softness that he had not seen in Orena’s, was there. It overwhelmed him that Telaria, who should have been far less interested, understood exactly how Nermesa felt.

  “Thank you, Telaria,” he murmured. Her hand rose to squeeze his. Nermesa fought back his own tears, which had suddenly threatened to burst free. “I’m sorry you won’t be able to come to the ceremony. My parents would have liked to have seen you.”

  She started to reply, but then Orena’s strident voice called, “Telaria! Come here! I want you! Now!”

  The younger woman immediately broke free of him. Her eyes had a wide look to them that startled Nermesa. “I have to go!” Telaria blurted. “I have to go!”

  She scurried down the hallway. Nermesa’s brow furrowed as he watched her run almost frantically toward the terrace.

  “Your horse awaits,” a voice suddenly announced. Morannus stood by the doors, his abrupt appearance worthy of a ghost. The Gunderman gave him a sympathetic look.

  “Thank you.” Nermesa was more than happy to leave. He exited quickly, trotting down the steps outside. The servant who had earlier taken his mount stood ready with the stallion. As the noble mounted, Morannus closed the door.

  Nermesa urged the animal on. However, he had only made it midway to the gate when the absence of weight at his side made him tug on the reins. To his misfortune, he saw that he had left his sword inside. It was tempting to abandon the weapon, but then Orena might use that as an excuse to come visit him at his own home, where she would no doubt make her case to his more amenable parents. The very thought of that made Nermesa quickly turn his mount around and return to the Lenaro house.

  The servant had vanished, so Nermesa tied his horse to a nearby shrub. He leapt up the steps to the door. Nermesa almost knocked, then thought better of it. There was a chance he might be able to steer clear of further trouble. Slipping open the door, the knight peered inside, then walked quietly down the hall toward the terrace.

  Orena’s voice rose from ahead. Nermesa grimly pressed on. He fully expected to have to confront his betrothed again, but then noticed that her voice came not from the terrace, but rather from a chamber to his right. So much the better. If a continuation of their argument could be avoided, Nermesa would be grateful.

  The sheath was exactly where he had left it. Nermesa did not waste time reattaching it, deciding that such a minor thing could wait until he was far away.

  As he started back, Orena’s voice rose higher, almost becoming shrill. However, not until he heard Telaria’s tentative one responding did he grow interested.

  The door to the room in which the sisters likely were was right next to him. Nermesa glanced around, but the servants were oddly absent, even Morannus.

  Then, a harsh slap echoed in the corrido
r. Nermesa stiffened as he realized that the violent sound had come from where Orena and her sister spoke.

  He heard Orena say something, then Telaria responded in what was almost a gasp. There was another slap, this one even louder and more severe than the first.

  From Telaria, Nermesa heard a whimper.

  Conflicting emotions raged through Nermesa. He struggled, but, in the end, he could not control himself any longer. Grabbing the handle, he flung the door open.

  Telaria knelt on the floor, sobbing. The left side of her face was red, but not from the tears.

  Orena stood over her, face contorted into a monstrous visage of anger, her right hand open and raised high.

  The two women looked in his direction. The gazes of both widened.

  “Nermesa . . .” uttered Orena. The horrific expression vanished abruptly, replaced by the cool mask with which he was far more familiar. She saw his own expression and noted his eyes shift from her to her sister and back again. Reaching down quickly, Orena said, “You should be more careful, Telaria, slipping like that! You could have broken something ...”

  The auburn-haired young woman turned her face from Nermesa. “I’m sorry, Orena,” she managed. “I—I was so clumsy.”

  The playacting did nothing for Nermesa. Clutching the sheathed sword, he stepped up to Orena, staring down at her. For the first time, a moment of uncertainty—even anxiety—flashed in her eyes.

  “Never again . . .” It was a command, not a request, and Nermesa was certain that she understood that.

  Thrusting his free hand to Telaria, he helped her to her feet. Once up, though, the younger woman fled from the chamber.

  “Nermesa—” Orena began.

  His furious gaze cut her off. “Never again . . .”

  He left her standing there. As Nermesa returned to the hall, the Gunderman reappeared. Morannus looked a bit distressed.

  “Master Nermesa! Please! If I could but have a moment of your time, it—”

  But the knight went past him, throwing open the main door and all but jumping down the steps. Tearing the reins free, Nermesa mounted. He urged the stallion on with all haste, shouting at the guards at the gates so that the entrance would be open for him by the time he reached it.

  Not until he had left the Lenaro residence far behind did his pulse begin to calm.

  HIS PARENTS DID not understand the alteration in his mood, for Nermesa told them nothing about the monstrous incident. His mind roiled as he considered what best to do, but nothing seemed right. Yet Nermesa knew that he could not leave matters as they were.

  When the day of the ceremony arrived, he was no nearer to a solution. Nermesa hoped that the event would be over quickly, for there was not a shadow of a doubt in his mind that Orena would come despite his wishes. He prayed that he would not create a spectacle because of her presence.

  Nermesa wore his full armor, which had been meticulously polished. In honor of Quentus, he carried the former servant’s dagger in his belt. Nermesa still felt it wrong that he was honored when others had perished. There were those like Atalan who had played their parts; they had as much right to stand before the king as he did.

  But it proved impossible to bring this up with either Pallantides or the king, and so before the crowd gathered in the coliseum, he marched alone to where the king and queen awaited him. The vast, oval structure, with its columned upper level, was impressive. Fifty rows of seats encircling the sandy floor upon which Nermesa trod enabled a great portion of Tarantia’s population to witness any spectacle. Bracketed banners lined the very top of the high wall surrounding the playing field, and heralds stood on platforms every few yards apart, their long, brass horns raised to their lips.

  A fanfare announced his entrance through the grated wooden gates. As a further sign of the significance of his deed, Nermesa was escorted to the center by six Black Dragons, three flanking him on each side. While honored, Nermesa was aware that they were also there to protect their monarch . . . even from the heir to Klandes, if necessary.

  His parents had been given the seats directly before the spot where he was to stand. Nermesa did not have the opportunity to see if Orena had joined them and could have done nothing if she had. Instead, he concerned himself only with the event, which he prayed would be one of the typically short ones King Conan preferred.

  The horns lowered. Drums began to beat, their rhythm matching the march of Nermesa and his escort. He had expected the king and queen to make their entrance afterward to even greater acclaim, but the Cimmerian-born ruler had already led his bride to the center, where they now stood in their finery, watching him approach. It bothered Nermesa that they should await him, but the Black Dragons and the drummers evidently had their set notions as to what pace should be taken, and so he could not speed things along.

  Queen Zenobia wore a gown of dark, emerald silk with a matching cape. A jeweled necklace hung from her neck, the five-pointed centerpiece resting on her chest. She smiled graciously as Nermesa neared. In her slim fingers she held a small, rounded box made of some stone, perhaps rare jade.

  King Conan was King Conan. A score of Black Dragons surrounded him and his queen, but they hardly seemed necessary. An imposing, impressive figure, he looked very much like he could take on every man on the field at once and beat them handily. His garments were identical to the last time Nermesa had been presented to him. At his side was sheathed the very sword with which he had knighted the young noble.

  There were several high-ranking officials with the royal couple, but Nermesa was familiar only with General Pallantides. The rest appeared to be military officers and public officials, the most trusted of King Conan’s circle.

  Nermesa’s escort paused just beyond arm’s reach of the king. The drums ceased. A stillness swept over the crowd.

  A slim, robed figure with only a circle of gray rimming his otherwise bald head stepped forward. He unrolled a parchment. His voice, when he began, startled the young noble for its deepness. The acoustics enabled all to hear his words, which were about Nermesa’s accomplishments.

  “Citizens of the realm, people of fair Aquilonia! Let it be known that on this day is honored Nermesa of House Klandes, a hero of the land!”

  The horns sounded. The crowd cheered Nermesa, who wanted nothing more at that moment than to sneak away. He had only done what he could and had survived by pure luck where others had not.

  “Nermesa of House Klandes, son of Bolontes of House Klandes, himself hero of the battles of Shamar and Dartha . . .”

  Nermesa blinked. He had never heard of those battles from his father.

  “Nermesa of House Klandes, who, as a knight serving his majesty, Conan I, did join the western forces and thus become the bane of the Picts . . .”

  The embellishments that followed sounded so outrageous that Nermesa more than once closed his eyes in embarrassment. Even the one that mattered—the capture of Khatak—had been turned into a battle in which hundreds seemed to have fought.

  His gaze accidentally alighted on General Pallantides. The officer met his eyes with mild amusement and sympathy. Nermesa had sat in audiences when Pallantides and others had been previously honored, and he now suspected that the general had felt much the same as he during those spectacles.

  Then, at last, long past when Nermesa thought he could stand it no more, the accolades ended. The robed elder rolled up the parchment and returned to his place with the other dignities. The horns sounded again, and King Conan and Queen Zenobia approached. Nermesa sensed his escort tense as the two came within reach of the noble. He did not understand their concern; not only would he have never thought of attempting to harm his lord, but his sword, sheathed at his side, was bound tight.

  Conan drew his own weapon. Nermesa knelt. The king tapped both shoulders, much as he had done upon knighting Nermesa. Conan then resheathed the weapon and turned to his mate.

  Zenobia opened the box lid . . . revealing a gleaming golden medallion shaped like a roaring lion’s head, ma
ne and all. Although it followed a similar theme in terms of animals, it was even more elaborate than the medal given to Nermesa by Flavian. Black gems made up both the eyes and the nose of the noble beast and small crystalline diamonds composed its teeth. The skill with which it had been crafted awed Nermesa.

  Conan raised the medallion, which was connected to a gold-link chain. He held up the award for all to see. Nermesa expected a speech, but the king simply turned to him and set the chain around the knight’s neck.

  “Rise, warrior,” the former barbarian quietly commanded.

  As Nermesa stood, King Conan slapped a powerful fist against his own chest where his heart was. He then nodded, his eyes meeting Nermesa’s own. In them, Nermesa saw approval, the greatest reward he could have imagined.

  Pallantides suddenly stepped forward. Gazing at the assembled throng, he called out, “All hail Nermesa of House Klandes, hero of Scanaga, captor of Khatak the Black Fox, and knight of Aquilonia!”

  The crowd roared. Nermesa shook. When King Conan actually offered his hand, it was all Nermesa could do not to shiver as the two men shook with one another.

  “Well fought,” murmured Conan.

  The words came blurting out of Nermesa. “Your—your majesty, I only reacted! I only did what I had to do!”

  “Crom, man!” responded the king quietly. “What do you think I always did?”

  He stepped away before Nermesa could recover, Queen Zenobia taking his place. She gave a smile that dazzled Nermesa. This near, he realized that she was not much older than he.

  “Congratulations,” she said. “Aquilonia owes you a debt! For what you’ve done, if there is a boon I can grant, you’ve but to ask it.”

  A sudden thought stirred within him. Nermesa had no idea how it could have formed so complete in such a minute time, but it seemed the right thing . . . if the queen meant what she said. “There is . . . there is one thing, your majesty.”