Blue Moon Rising

by Simon R. Green

  There was a long silence. Julia stared at the white frothy wedding dress, her eyes cold and hard.

  “Can I go now, Sire?”

  “Rupert isn’t coming back,” said the King quietly.

  “Yes,” said Julia. “I know. You sent him to his death.”

  “I had to,” said King John. “That was my duty.”

  Julia turned her back on him, and left the Court.

  Out in the antechamber, Harald glared coldly at Sir Blays.

  “I know I’m late for your little gathering, Landsgrave; my father insisted on seeing me.”

  “Of course, Prince Harald,” said Sir Blays calmly. “I quite understand. Unfortunately the gathering of friends you insisted on has been under way for well over an hour, and if the promised guest of honour doesn’t make his appearance soon, I fear the party may be over before it’s even properly begun. These people need to see you just as much as you need to see them, Sire.”

  “I’ll be along in a while,” said Harald.

  “It would be better if you were to accompany me now,” said Blays, and Harald didn’t miss the sudden coldness in the Landsgrave’s voice.

  “Better?” said Harald. “Better for whom?”

  “Better for all of us, of course. We’re all in this together, Prince Harald.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “You’d better be.”

  The two men stared at each other warily. Something was changing between them, and neither was sure exactly what it was.

  “That sounded almost like a threat,” said Harald softly.

  “Think of it more as a friendly warning,” said Blays.

  “Like the warning Sir Bedivere so nearly gave my father not an hour ago? If those farmers hadn’t been there, that bloody berserker of yours would have killed him!”

  Blays inclined his head slightly. “A regrettable incident.”

  Harald let his hand drop on to the pommel of his sword. “Is that all you’ve got to say about it?”

  “I’ll deal with Bedivere later.”

  “That’s not good enough.”

  Sir Blays smiled politely. “I’d hate to see our alliance fall apart, Sire, especially after we’ve all invested so much time and effort in it. Right now, there are a great many people waiting to meet you, Prince Harald, all of them gathered together in one place at your request, at no little inconvenience and danger to themselves. I therefore strongly suggest that you don’t keep them waiting any longer. This way, Sire.”

  Harald didn’t move. “You seem to be forgetting which of us is in charge.”

  “No,” said Sir Blays. “I haven’t forgotten.”

  “Without me, everything we’ve discussed comes to nothing.”

  “Precisely. You need us, Harald, and you’ve come too far to back out now. My fellow Landsgraves and I can always leave this Castle and return to our masters. Sooner or later the King’s forces will become so thinly spread they’ll be unable to defend him, and when that happens, the Barons will just move in and take over. They won’t need your help, and they certainly won’t need you as King. Of course, if we have to wait that long, much of the Forest Land will have been destroyed by the demons. And you can be sure that when we finally storm the Castle, you and your father will not be given the option of exile. Do I make myself clear, Harald?”

  “Yes. Very clear.”

  “Good. Work with us, and we’ll make you King. Certainly the Barons would prefer it that way; they can see a great many uses for a constitutional monarch.”

  “You mean a figurehead.”

  “Yes, Harald. That’s exactly what I mean. Now, I think we’ve wasted enough time on unnecessary discussion, don’t you? It’s time to go, your guests are waiting to greet you.”

  Harald’s shoulders seemed to slump a little, and he looked away, unable to face the open disdain in Blays’s eyes. “Very well, Landsgrave. It seems I have no choice in the matter.”

  And then they both jumped as behind them the double doors flew open, and Julia stalked out of the Great Hall and into the antechamber. She slammed the doors shut behind her, swore loudly, and then glared resentfully at the watching Prince and Landsgrave.

  “Ah, Julia,” said Harald quickly. “I’d like a word with you, if I may.”

  Julia shrugged angrily. “Suit yourself.” She folded her arms, and leaned back against the bare panelled wall, frowning at nothing.

  Harald turned back to Sir Blays. “I will join you at the party in a few minutes. I give you my word on it.”

  Blays glanced at Julia, and then smiled tightly at Harald. “Of course, Sire, I understand. Please accept my congratulations on your imminent wedding. I shall speak with you further at the party. In a few minutes.”

  He bowed to the Prince and to the Princess, and left the antechamber. Harald looked at Julia, and frowned worriedly. Her head was bowed, and her eyes stared blindly down in quiet desperation. There was a simple, tired, defeated look to her that touched Harald strangely. In all the time he’d known Julia, he’d never once known her to give in to anybody or anything. But now all the strength seemed to have gone out of her, until she had nothing left with which to hold the hostile world at bay. He moved forward to stand beside her.

  “Julia, what’s the matter?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Something’s wrong. I can tell.”

  “Wrong? What could be wrong? In two weeks’ time I’m marrying a man who’s going to be King!”

  Harald hesitated. He knew instinctively that if he said the right thing now, he could win her over to him in a moment, but say the wrong thing, and he’d lose her for ever. He was surprised how much not losing her mattered to him.

  “Julia, things will be different between us after we’re married, you’ll see. I know how much Rupert meant to you, but you’ll get over him. Whatever happened, I’m sure he died bravely and honourably. As soon as this business with the Darkwood is over, we’ll take a troop of guards and search the Forest until we find out what did happen to him. And then, together, we’ll take a vengeance the Forest will never forget.”

  “Thanks,” said Julia quietly. “I’d like that.”

  “He is dead, Julia.”

  “Yes. He is.” Julia stared listlessly at Harald. “I’ve known that for ages, but I could never quite bring myself to believe it. I didn’t want to believe it. For a long time I kept hoping, but there’s no hope left now. Not after all this time. No hope … I should have gone with him, Harald, I should have gone with him!”

  Harald took her in his arms. She tensed, and then relaxed against him, her head resting on his shoulder.

  “If you’d gone with him,” said Harald, “the odds are you’d have been killed as well. He knew that, that’s why he made you stay behind.”

  “I know that,” said Julia. “It doesn’t help. I wasn’t there to stand at his side, and now he’s dead. Rupert’s dead. Every time I think that, it’s like someone hit me in the gut. It hurts, Harald.”

  “I know, Julia. But you’ll get over it, once we’re married.”

  It was the wrong thing to say, and Harald knew that the moment he said it. Julia stiffened in his arms, and when she lifted her head to look at him, her face was cold and unyielding. Harald let her go, and stepped back a pace. He searched for something else to say, something that would bring back the closeness they’d felt, but the moment had passed. Harald shrugged mentally. There’d be other times.

  “What did Sir Blays want?” asked Julia evenly.

  “He was reminding me I’d agreed to attend a party of his. I really ought to be getting along, I’m late as it is.”

  “A party? Why didn’t I get an invitation?”

  Harald raised an eyebrow. “I thought you had a woman’s army to train?”

  Julia smiled sweetly. “I thought you had a dungeon to visit?”

  Harald laughed. “Touché, my dear. The dungeons under the moat are something of a family joke. Father’s been threatening me with them for as long as I can r
emember. The more upset he gets, the more he dwells on their gruesome details. I suppose there are still cells of some kind under the moat, but nobody’s used them for centuries. Our dungeons are little more than holding cells; once the prisoners have been to trial we send them out to work off their sentences on the farms. Why waste manpower?”

  “What happens when they run away?”

  “They can’t. The Court magician puts a compulsion on them before they leave.”

  “Never mind all that,” said Julia, suddenly realising just how far Harald had led her from her original question, “About this party …”

  “You don’t really want to go, do you? You wouldn’t enjoy it, you know.”

  “No I don’t know,” said Julia, rather nettled at being openly excluded from the party. Not that she actually wanted to go, but… “Who’s going to be at this party?”

  “Oh, the Landsgraves, some High Society, a sprinkling of others. I’m not too sure myself. Trust me, Julia, you wouldn’t enjoy it. And anyway, this is one party where admittance is most definitely by invitation only. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must be going. I’ll talk with you some more later, I promise.”

  And with that he hurried out of the antechamber, before she could ask him anything else. Julia glared at his retreating back. Just for that, she would go to his damn party, and heaven help anyone who tried to keep her out. She frowned thoughtfully. A party the size this one would have to be couldn’t easily be hidden away. Somewhere, there was a servant who knew, and who could be persuaded to talk. And then … Julia grinned. What with one thing and another, she was just in the mood for a little rowdy gatecrashing. She chuckled earthily, and strode off to look for a weak-willed servant.

  Prince Harald strode casually down the dimly lit corridor, his hand resting lightly on the pommel of his sword. His footsteps echoed dully back from the oak-panelled walls. From time to time, as he drew closer to Lord Darius’s quarters, a guardsman in full chain-mail would emerge from some concealing shadow to challenge him, only to fall back upon recognising Harald’s grim features. The Prince ignored them, but was quietly impressed by the thoroughness with which Darius protected himself. Obviously he didn’t intend for his little party to be interrupted, and by setting his guards in ones and twos he avoided the attention that a large number of men would undoubtedly have drawn. As it was, Harald estimated that a full troop of guards stood between Lord Darius’s chambers and the rest of the Castle, acting as both an advance-warning system and a strategically placed fighting force. Harald smiled slightly. The rebellion seemed well planned, if nothing else. He was quite looking forward to seeing who would be waiting for him at the party.

  Two tall, brawny guardsmen stood before Lord Darius’s door. They wore a featureless leather armour, with no colours to indicate allegiance. Their faces were impassive, but their eyes were cold and distrustful, and they held their swords at the ready as Harald approached them. They inclined their heads slightly as they recognised the Prince, but made no move to step aside. Instead, the taller of the two guardsmen indicated with his sword a small table to his left. Harald moved forward, and picked up a plain black domino mask from a pile on the table. He looked at the guardsmen, and raised an eyebrow.

  “With the compliments of Lord Darius,” said the guard. “A Masked Ball, in your honour, Sire.”

  Harald chuckled softly. “Masks, how delightfully apt. But I don’t think I’ll bother, myself.”

  He tossed the mask back on to the pile. The guard sheathed his sword, picked up the mask, and held it out to Harald.

  “The Lord Darius was most insistent, Sire,” said the guard. “Nobody gets in unless they’re wearing a mask.”

  “He’ll make an exception in my case,” said Harald. “Now stand aside.”

  The guard smiled, and shook his head slowly. “I take my orders from the Lord Darius,” he said calmly. “Just as you do, Sire. Now put on your mask.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  “Then I’ll put it on for you … Sire.”

  Harald hit him just below the breastbone with a straight finger jab, and all the colour went out of the guard’s face. He bent slowly forward, as though bowing to Harald, and then fell to lie still on the floor. The other guard lifted his sword and stepped forward, only to freeze in place as the point of Harald’s sword pricked his throat. The guard lowered his blade, and tried hard not to swallow. He’d heard the Prince was good with a sword, but he’d never seen anyone move that fast …

  “Who do you take your orders from?” asked Harald, his voice calm and quiet and very dangerous.

  “You, Sire,” said the guard. “Only you.”

  “Glad to hear it,” said Harald. He stepped back a pace, and sheathed his sword. “Open the door for me, guardsman.”

  “Yes, Sire.” The guard glanced quickly at his companion, who was still lying on the floor, curled helplessly around the bright agony in his chest, and then moved forward and knocked twice on the door. There was the sound of heavy bolts being drawn, and the door swung smoothly open. Harald stepped over the fallen guardsman and strode unhurriedly into Lord Darius’s quarters.

  All conversation stopped as Harald entered the Hall. The great babble of voices died quickly away to nothing, the musicians stopped playing, and the dancers froze in their places. Even the roaring flames in the huge open fireplace seemed muted by the sudden silence. Harald stopped just inside the doorway and looked about him. A vast sea of masks stared impassively back.

  Darius’s Hall wasn’t all that large, as Castle Halls went, and the two or three hundred people present filled it comfortably from wall to wall. The number was about right for a Castle party, large enough to be impressive without being intimidating, but somehow the masks made a difference. Simple black domino masks predominated, but at least half of Darius’s guests had chosen to wear their own individual masks. Ornate and bizarre, gorgeous and grotesque, the masks watched Harald with a fixed intensity that came close to unnerving him. Their unmoving expressions, their exaggerated glees or sorrows or snarls, were so far from anything human as to be almost demonic. Directly before Harald, to his left, a white-faced Pierrot stood arm in arm with a horse-headed mummer. To Harald’s right, a grinning Death leaned companionably on the shoulder of a shrieking Famine. A Fish stared goggle-eyed, and a Cat winked. And everywhere, simple black dominoes and painted faces and lorgnettes of beaten gold and silver. Harald stared at the masks, and the masks stared back.

  And then the sea of false faces suddenly parted, as two figures came forward to meet him. A little of Harald’s tension drained away as he recognised Lord Darius and the Lady Cecelia, and he moved his hand away from his swordhilt. Darius wore long, heavy robes of dusty grey, whose cut and style fought in vain to make him appear slimmer. His mask was a black silk domino. Cecelia wore an ornate ball gown of blue and silver, studded with semi-precious stones, which covered her completely from neck to ankle without concealing any of her splendid figure. Silver bells hanging from her cuffs and hem chimed prettily with her every movement. Her mask was a dainty lorgnette of beaten gold on a slender ivory handle. Darius bowed to Harald, and Cecelia curtsied. Behind them, the sea of masks also bowed and curtsied. Harald nodded briefly in return, and Darius gestured urgently to the musicians at the far end of the Hall. A lively music sprang up, and the sea of masks was suddenly just a gathering of party guests as they broke apart to talk, or dance, or sample wines and sweetmeats and sugared fruits from the well-stocked buffet tables. Two servants moved forward and quietly closed the door behind Harald. He heard the heavy bolts slam home.

  “Welcome, Sire,” said Lord Darius. “We’ve been expecting you for some time.”

  “So Sir Blays informed me,” said Harald, smiling politely.

  “Did you have any trouble getting here, Sire?”

  “None I couldn’t handle.”

  “Would you like me to get you a mask, Harald?” asked Cecelia brightly. “I’m sure I can find just the thing to suit you.”

&nbs
p; “Indeed,” said Darius. “My guards were under strict orders to provide you with a mask.”

  “They did try,” said Harald. “I convinced them it was a bad idea. Alter all, I am here to be recognised, aren’t I?”

  “Of course, Sire, of course.” Darius gestured quickly to a passing servant, who stopped and presented Harald with a tray of drinks. Harald took a glass of wine, drained it, put it back on the tray, and picked up another glass. Darius waved the servant away before the Prince could try for a third, and then studied Harald warily. Something was wrong, he could feel it.

  “Why did you choose a Masked Ball, my Lord Darius?” asked Harald, sipping at his wine in a manner that suggested only politeness kept him from pulling a face.

  “To be honest, Sire, it was the only way I could persuade most of them to come. No doubt the masks give them a comforting sense of anonymity. There will be an unmasking later, once we’ve all had the opportunity to … get to know one another a little better.”

  Harald nodded solemnly. “Then if you’ll excuse me, my Lord and Lady, I’d better go and mingle with my fellow guests, hadn’t I?”

  “That is the purpose of this party, Sire.”

  Harald smiled, and moved away into the crowd of bobbing masks. Darius and Cecelia watched him go.

  “Something’s wrong,” said Darius slowly, his right hand moving absently to the poison dagger concealed in his left sleeve.

  “Wrong? I don’t see anything wrong, darling.” Cecelia took an elegant sip from her wine glass, and peered quickly round the Hall. “The party’s going splendidly, everyone’s here that should be.”

  Darius shook his head stubbornly. “It’s Harald, the way he’s been acting. He should be more … well, excited, dammit. The people in this room could put him on the throne, if they choose to, but to look at Harald you’d think he didn’t give a damn what they thought of him.”

  Cecelia shrugged prettily. “Dear Harald’s never given much of a damn what anybody thinks. He doesn’t have to, he’s a Prince.”