by Sharon Lee
Her eyes had already been closed.
“Blue,” Cedar had said distractedly, touching her hair, her face, her folded hands. “Blue as tael-flowers, her eyes. You would have loved her, Master Lute, if you had seen her—as she was.”
Lute shuddered again, whether in pity or revulsion he did not know.
The boy had declined to wash or sleep, saying it was not so long until dawn and if he was to see Mother Aster and tell her the whole, he might as well be there when she came down.
“Besides,” he said softly, eyes on the dead girl’s face. “She’s home now. It would be graceless, to let her in the night alone.”
Pity locked Lute’s tongue. Leaving the reminder of three abandoned nights unspoken, he had gone to wash.
Washed, and in somewhat better control of himself, he quit the laundry and went to the guesting-room, dread ’round his heart like ice.
“MOONHAWK?” In the candle-glow he saw her, reclined among the pillows, wrapped in the blue cloak that she had not allowed him to remove. Her face was smooth, distant, childlike. Her breathing went in and out with regularity. He could not tell if her state was trance or sleep.
Sighing, aching in every joint, he sat on the pillows opposite, set the candle carefully aside and prepared himself to wait.
A scream wakened him.
Aster was the first he saw as he rushed into the parlor. Aster with her fist shoved against her mouth and her face white as her dead daughter’s. Then he saw Senna, wide-eyed and staring, but not at Tael—at something, it seemed, upon the floor. At something which, now that he noted it, Aster stared as well.
Foreboding flared, too late, and he stepped into the room, looked over Aster’s shoulder—
He had used a leather-hook; it lay by his right hand. The slash it had made across his throat was ragged—and very deep.
His eyes were still open.
“No!” Lute flung forward, went to his knees by the pooled blood, extended a useless hand—and pulled it back, clenched.
“Young fool! There was no need, no need.” The tears were hot, they fell into the pooling red.
A hand touched his shoulder; warm fingers gripped him. Behind him he heard Aster shift and clear her throat.
“Cedar was so undone by my—by Tael’s death that he killed himself. His love was such—”
“No,” whispered Lute, and—
“No,” said Moonhawk, as she gently kneaded his shoulder.
“Cedar killed your daughter, housemother—unintended, but he was the instrument of her death. We have the story, if you will hear it. And we will stay and help you bury them, with every proper rite, if you will have our help.”
“I STILL DON’T understand why he did it,” said Lute, playing a blue counter over his knuckles, disappearing it and reappearing a yellow, a red, the blue again, and, in addition, a green.
Moonhawk fed more twigs to the cook fire and glanced up at the starry sky. “Guilt,” she said softly, “and pain—he did love her, I think. In his way. But his way was too sober for her—the heedless one, remember? The one who laughed at everyone.” The fire flared and she ducked prudently back, keeping the blue cloak tightly around her.
“It happened so quickly—like a bad dream. To see her again . . . to know her dead . . .” She sighed. “May the Mother pity him.”
Lute glanced at her sharply. “And yourself? I find you wholly mistress of your own soul and not sharing it with some heedless, teasing beauty?”
She laughed and tossed her hair back over her shoulders. “My own self and no other,” she said softly. “Poor Master Lute. But while we were together, I did—dream.” She glanced down, in a sort of maidenly shyness foreign to her usual manner. “I was never a free woman, you know. In the Circle, there is—duty. Some of Tael’s memories were—interesting. I shall have think on them more fully, as Sister Laurel would have said.”
“More fully,” Lute echoed and shook his head, vanishing all four counters. “Well, take some advice and stick to my sort of magic in the future. Less dangerous. More lucrative.”
Moonhawk laughed and pulled the pan from the fire. “Eggs, Master Lute?”
* * *
So ends the second tale of Lute and Moonhawk.
Moonphase
THE WOOD BENCH was cool beneath her bare buttocks, the stone cold under her bare toes. No heat came from the empty fireplace, nor light from the empty oil lamps and candelabra. Despite the season the barred windows high in the walls were open.
She needn’t see the walls, canted inward as they rose, to understand the meaning of the word prisoner, though it was a word unsaid by the Sisters and the Mother herself.
“You will be assigned more appropriate duties after you recant, Mendoza,” they’d told her, already stripping away the dignity of the name that had come to her unbidden the first time she’d bled.
Mendoza, they called her now. More properly, Priscilla Delacroix y Mendoza. And what of Moonhawk?
She sighed, felt her dry skin shiver, and went to Lessons of Intent to remove her concentration from the discomfort and center it on the reality.
The reality she found was motion and what it meant. The breeze was motion—
Within the light breeze that chilled her bare breasts were odors of the evening: dinner smells from the dining hall for the Maidens-in-Training, the hint of expensive herbs burned by wealthy supplicants down on Mother’s Row, the occasional acrid touch of metal and smoke from the foundry on the edge of the bay downriver.
It all meant that the wind was from the west, and the night would be colder than last, and that in the morning they would take her to the Mother’s Chamber to say a confession she would not make.
“You will recant,” had said the Mother. “You will admit that you never heard Moonhawk calling, that you have always stolen your power from others, and that you were wrong to do so. You will be assigned to more appropriate duties, and given a Name-in-Keeping.”
In the meantime they had left her here to meditate, for three days and nights, having left her only the earrings given her by a dead grandmother; Witches knowing better than to trifle with a gift of handwrought silver.
What they had taken! They’d taken amulets of power, bracelets of strength, stones that concentrated will. Then they’d subjected her to spells of unmaking, to other thefts . . .
Priscilla sat stiller now, thinking of the watchers. She’d know from the first moment that they watched, known that they’d taken Moonhawk’s bracelets with trepidation, known they’d taken Moonhawk’s Amulet only when the Mother and her Three Sisters had stood watching, only when the full Circle had cast spells of restraint and quiet. They’d stripped her then of everything but the earrings. Even her privacy was gone: the only light in the cell suite was the small constant green of an imported glow-ever beside the ancient waterless slot latrine.
To think that they’d feared her so much! If only she had the bracelets, even now—
She shivered. Even now she needed food. She needed drink. She needed Moonhawk as never before and Moonhawk had been forced away from her by the Council.
A tear came, and quickly she regretted it. No water here, no food. They wanted a weak and beaten, near-nameless Maiden, not Moonhawk-in-Training. Every tear was in their favor.
Now the breeze brought something else: the distant hum of voices, and now more, and then the City’s temples were all heard, each chanting Tenth Chant.
Priscilla felt her throat seek the words and was surprised by it—she’d sung no chant since she’d been thrown here. She clamped her mouth on the words, but then relented. Tenth Chant Wardsday was Moonhawk’s Chant.
She began then, low and quiet, eyes raised in the darkness. But all was not dark: high up was the silver glow of moonlight on the cold stone walls.
Priscilla had held the original of the chant in her own hands in the Library when she’d been permitted the boon of study of her namesake. She covered the trail of history entire: Moonhawk had helped build the world she lived i
n, had helped create the chants, had designed spells, had defined powers—Moonhawk had been there over and over when the Temple needed help. Priscilla had caressed the pages of those chants, had seen that the words were penned by two hands, not one—and she’d never gotten an answer to that question of why the other hand was a masculine hand. Sister Dwelva denied it, as she denied so much.
Sister Dwelva refused to discuss the notation on the side of the chant, in that second hand:
Here’s a truth, for the survivor bold,
always take silver, rather than gold,
it’s less the weight and more easily sold!
NONSENSE, even arrogant—
Yet the front of the page was purity itself, words and feeling so perfectly meshed . . .she sang harder.
As the chant came stronger to her throat she saw that page again in the moonspot, felt she caressed the words and paper yet again—
“It was Lute, my dear,” came the voice in her head. “It was Lute who made me write that one down. Lute who knew the value of silver and saved me through it. It was Lute you looked for, all unknowing, when they trapped you—aiiieee, girl; they have never let me at Lute again in all these centuries! And what shall we do for you now that they’d make you lie or have you stoned for truth?”
Priscilla never broke chant but she grasped her left wrist frantically, knowing the while that Moonhawk’s bracelets had been torn away by magic and force—she’d first heard Moonhawk speak to her when she’d grasped the bracelet at Blood-test and had never been without it again until now—
“Look on the moon, youngster. It carries silver and its path is a bracelet about the planet. You have worked hard for me and it has cost you. Think on me . . .”
Outside, the chanting faded away. But Priscilla’s eyes saw the moon gleam and she continued the chant, felt herself growing warmer.
“You’ll need energy, tomorrow, too. You’ll not be stoned if I have my way of it. If only you could touch the moonlight . . .”
There was a new sound as the city quieted after Tenth Chant. The bars and taverns were closed now, except at the spaceport’s foreign zone; the houses were darkening, but there was a new sound—a sound of birds maybe, or rats!
It was not good to dwell on rats. Priscilla knew this. But Moonhawk’s voice had told her to think on Moonhawk . . .
The last time she’d been truly filled with Moonhawk’s vision and force she’d killed a woman and stunned another senseless. She’d left her post at the Temple and traveled—without permission—to the seedy bar where a Sintian man was about to give stolen Temple secrets over to an outworlder. And when she’d recovered the secrets, she’d let the surviving outworlders, mere spaceship crew—and the thief himself—go.
And she’d given her word—Moonhawk’s word—that they would be safe. The single death had been atonement enough, for the dead woman had been the cause of the theft in the first place.
But Circle had wanted more: they’d wanted a show of power. They’d intended to turn the thief or thieves over to the crowds for a proper stoning, to quell the cyclic complaints that the Temple ran far too much of Sintian life.
Show of power? Instead now they would show power by sending her to be stoned for heresy if she refused to recant, or send her to the Temple of Release to be night comfort to the men and women who’d lost their spouses if she did.
“Politics, young one, politics. You did well for one unused to that level of command. Our whole order is based on proper use of intuition and the balance of life: but since the first coven was consecrated, there’s always been that other—the greed of power, of personal importance. They’d not believe that I would let the starship people go, but what had they done? Accessories, accidental as they were. And the man? What good stoning him when the true trouble lay dead—aye, so you used a little too much force? It was at my behest, and the woman was dead before she arrived—that was in her eyes. But you hadn’t time to see that—they’ve trained you for ceremonies instead of duty! If only they’d train you properly, let you find your love . . . even if it isn’t Lute. I looked for him there, with your eyes, but he is not yet seen. They sing my praises and let me loose with virgins . . . they alter history for convenience and forget the truth—that I was sent on Quest to get me out of Circle because I demand Balance in my dealings and expect the same of others. The whole thing was politics, this time, and I had no time to warn you, that’s all.”
“But what of the Temple property! Temple secrets! It was important!”
The words sounded hollowly throughout the big room.
“Temple secrets!” mocked the voice in her head. “Samples of what they call the ‘catalyst molecule’ is what, in exchange for trading rights. They think it can make a Witch out of one without power. Old secrets pulled from the ship records they hide. Ah, they won’t learn. Politics! You—we—did right to stop the theft, but then we should have fixed all of the problem. I swear that’s why they haven’t given me a smart girl to choose—until you—for three hundred years!”
“Given! Don’t you choose?”
“I won’t discuss it with you now. Later, if there’s a way. We must get you strengthened! You must touch the moonlight!”
Priscilla stood then, knowing it was useless. She was slender—scrawny said some, until they saw her standing with Moonhawk’s aspect upon her—and fairly tall. But the moonlight was still a half-dozen or more elbow lengths over her head, and the slant of the walls made it impossible for her to climb that high.
She tried standing on the bench that was her bed, and that was too short, as well. And if she leaned the bench against the wall?
She tried it, willing tired muscles to push the heavy wood into place near the wall, and then tried to lean it—no. Logic showed it could not work: the bench would wedge itself in and there was no way she could stand on the end of it then . . .
She pushed the bench over; it fell with a crash, the low backpiece splintering noisily.
She stood in the darkness, naked and exhausted, sweat cooling rapidly on her body. She began to shiver and with it came an inner blackness so total—
“I have failed you, Moonhawk! I am too weak, too—” There was no sound, within or without. Whatever the watchers heard or thought was as hidden from her as Moonhawk.
“They will stone me, then, that’s all, and the Circle will continue. Moonhawk can choose a better vessel and all will be well with the world.”
She said that and the words came back to her and then struck her full force. She’d seen stonings twice and had been sickened by them; but now, to have the crowd after her?
There was no panic. She would hang herself, that’s all. She could use the empty lampholder to tie her hair to, tie it around her neck as well, and then jump from the bench and—
“Will you kill Moonhawk?” came the question.
“Never! Moonhawk lives!”
“Precisely. Moonhawk lives. I may withdraw from time to time, and be subject to meddlings, but I live. Lute lives, too, though they deny it. For that matter, Priscilla Delacroix y Mendoza lives. I swear that if you ever in life attempt an unreasonable suicide again I will abandon you forever! They’ve pretty well got me walled out, you know, but then they’ve got a couple dozen full-strength Sisters working on this. Don’t fight them with your magic, child; they must believe it’s all mine! Now, if you can use your head—”
In the darkness Priscilla moved, tripped on the splintered backrest as she looked at the light on the wall. The moon was nearly to the zenith—the touch of silver light might move down the wall another handspan or two but . . .
“Lady Moonhawk, guide me!” said the girl, but she was already moving. She pushed the bench toward the spot of moonlight on the wall carefully. Then she hurried, bare feet soundless on the cold stone, to the backrest.
It was heavy, but it was long enough. She climbed onto the bench. It swayed slightly, but would surely hold. Then she ruthlessly twisted the ends of her hair into a quick braid, and pulled the braid
into the cracked wood at the end of the backrest.
She swayed and missed the spot the first try, and the next—each time wincing as the end of the impromptu pole fell away from its target, straining hair roots unmercifully.
The third time she came close, but her braid fell from the pole. Her arms were cramped and the back of her neck ached. She was sweating and shivering at once as she tugged her hair into the splinters. Somehow it was the other side of that chantpage she saw . . . “less the weight, more easily sold.”
“I’m crazy,” she said. “They’re right. I’m crazy—”
But the fourth time did it. The wide end of the stick landed in the midst of the patch of moonlight and she twisted it in her hands to expose the braid to the silver light.
Nothing happened. She’d expected—
Well, what had she expected, she wondered. Power? Escape? Wings?
She waited. The stick leaned against the wall, taking some of its weight off her arms. She didn’t feel as tired as she expected, but—
“Patience. It seems they’ll kill you if we’re not careful, and you’re far too good to be killed over politics. I’m afraid this round’s going to be a draw. So call on the Moon for what you really need now, and hurry! But never recant. They can take your power only if you give in!”
Priscilla stood, arms over head, staring at her hair in the silver light. Then she began chanting, the properly measured chant of Moonhawk’s own words.
The vision she saw was not of the Moon, nor of freedom, but of a man. Not simply any man, though—a man gaunt of face with fingers so strong they’d crush rock to powder, fingers so gentle they’d caress and tease a breast for hours . . .
Lute! she realized. Lute the Magician. She’d read of him, both good and bad. In the public schools he was a legend and in Temple training he was example. She’d read the tracts explaining away his magic and showing a novitiate how to see through the sleight-of-hands he’d performed . . . the more recent books had him as an amiable charlatan, persuaded of the Goddess through Moonhawk’s True Power. They’d been lovers!
