Dark Moon Daughter

by J. Edward Neill

  “See. This is why he always skips breakfast.” She smiled at Garrett, who sat quietly beside her. “The sun has forgotten what you look like, dear Saul, and most of Gryphon has, too.”

  “Perhaps, but look at this.” Saul’s table groaned beneath the weight of his elbows. “See these glyphs? These are the oldest ones.”

  “What do they say?” She stood and set her chin on Garrett’s shoulder.

  Saul shuffled through a stack of paper and plucked a frayed leaflet from the pile. “Here it is; my translation. Dank kept this cellar in order so someone else could follow his work. Garrett might find this especially interesting. I saved it for his return.”

  “Well, what does it say?” she pried again. “Keep us waiting too long, and the cobwebs will grow on us, not the books.”

  “Garrett will remember, but perhaps you might not,” said Saul. “Dank once said there were ‘five works.’ Five, not just the one in Malog.”

  “Works?” She squinted.

  “Works of Archithrope. Objects of the old world.”

  Until then, Garrett had seemed only mildly interested. Yet when the word Archithrope rolled off Saul’s tongue, she felt his shoulders stiffen beneath her.

  “I remember,” said Garrett.

  “Perhaps I should be glad I do not,” she added.

  “This is one of Dank’s catalogs.” Saul waved his hand over the page. “I translated as much as I could. Listen; it says here the object we destroyed in Furyon was known as the Orb. That makes sense, but there is more. It says there were two others, an Eye and a Needle, whose locations were never named. Lastly there were a Book and a Tower, both misplaced during the war between Niviliath and Archithrope.”

  “Misplaced?” she wondered aloud. “You mean destroyed.”

  “Probably,” said Saul.

  “Better that we do not know.” Garrett’s shoulders loosened. “Better that no one knows, the Furies most of all.”

  “Agreed.” Saul nodded.

  “So why bring it up?” she cut in. “Are there not any better books down here? Seems a bit morbid, this Dank of yours. No wonder Rellen looks sick whenever Saul mentions him.”

  Saul turned the page and flipped his parchment full of notes over. “If you think that is interesting, look at this one. This page tells about…”

  “I think we should take a walk,” she interrupted. “Here it is, summer, and we are down here dredging up bad memories.”

  “But…” Saul looked wounded. “I thought Garrett might…”

  “Another time.” Her smile melted his frown. “I need fresh air. Maybe you do, too. Come, Garrett, leave him to his nosing. Perhaps tomorrow, Saul. You and Rellen have claimed enough of Garrett. I should like to spend some time with him.”

  If Garrett wanted to stay in the cellar, she could not tell it. She tugged once at his sleeve, and he rose from his chair. “Tomorrow,” he said to Saul. “Bring the book upstairs.”

  “Yes. Tomorrow.” Saul looked pleased.

  Glad to be rid of the dust and darkness, she led Garrett out of the cellar. She curled up a twisting stairway, pushed a moldering door open, and exited into the grand hall, where lunch was being served. “Poor Saul.” She winced at the midday light shining through the high windows. “He lives for his books. He has all sorts of stories he wants to share. Most are pleasant, but some not so much.”

  “He found his calling,” said Garrett. “We should be happy for him.”

  Right as ever, she thought. “I guess when you put it that way…” she said.

  In the hall of Gryphon Keep, she and Garrett walked along the wall, far from the lunchtime festivities. The scents of pie and freshly-baked bread wafted from the three tables in the hall’s center, where some thirty guests were seated. The lunch was a meeting of the local lords, a serious affair, she assumed, but laughter was in abundance, as was the clinking of cups. Drinking again. She shook her head as she and Garrett made their way for the main door. With all the wine in their bellies, it is a wonder all these lords and ladies ever get anything done.

  “We should go to the courtyard,” she whispered. “They will not want to be disturbed.”

  “Or perhaps to market.” Garrett rubbed the flat space where most men’s bellies would be. “All the reading made me hungry.”

  No matter her white dress and Garrett’s stark black surcoat, few but the servants saw them striding along the far wall beneath the windows. Sunshine poured in through the rafters, warming the floor and brightening all of the room’s tapestries, and yet the thirty lords and ladies had no eyes but for each other. But look. She glanced to the tables once more before leaving. My love is not laughing...or smiling at all. Poor Rellen. We will cure you of your sadness, and soon.

  * * *

  Rellen Gryphon sat at the head of his table, rolling his spoon through his soup, which had gone cold long ago. All around him sat his guests, politicians who had journeyed to Gryphon to banter about the betterment of Graehelm. From the west and south they had ridden, from the Grae capital, from Grandwood and Ardenn, and from the lands of Farid Lunes. But Farid is not here, nor King Jacob, nor Nicolaen, he lamented. Only the greyest of them, the richest and fattest.

  His guests’ discussion of law, taxes, and the mundane goings-on of the realm rattled in his ears, deafening him. This was his table, his hall, his city, and yet so little of the meeting had anything to do with Gryphon. Much more interesting was his soup, and the reflection of himself therein. The dark broth made for a sad portrait, he mused. His fair complexion looked muddled, his blue eyes seeming black, and his youth swirling away with each ripple. In the soup I look like I feel, he thought. What would father think if he saw me like this?

  The meeting plodded on. After devouring their meals, the visitors rose and milled about the room, drowning in it dullness. Rellen stayed put. He glimpsed Andelusia and Garrett making for the courtyard, and he wished he could join them, though as master of the hall he dared not excuse himself, tempting as it is.

  After a while, his guests ceased pestering him with their inquiries. His demeanor was too obvious, his half-hearted attempts at politeness too plain. Alone at his table, his thoughts began to shift to darker things. He daydreamed of war and death, of dead Furyons blanketing the earth, and of his father, cold and dead in the dungeons of Nentham Thure. Eventually even the sunlight failed to brighten the shadows beneath his eyes. He felt sick, and I must look it, too. My guests whisper about me. They think I cannot hear, but I do.

  It was then, even as he dwelled in darkness, a stranger wandered from the crowd and plunked into the chair just beside his. And who is this? He wondered, only half-interested. I must have missed him during the introductions. The fellow was a diminutive sort, a full head shorter than Rellen. His tunic was a gloomy, weather-beaten shade of burgundy, while his sandals were worn almost to nothing. As the stranger pulled his chair closer, Rellen knew he was not a nobleman. Not like the others, he sensed. Not stuffy enough. Dressed like a shepherd, not a lord. Did I invite him? Maybe it was mother.

  “Do you need something?” he asked at length.

  “All this pomp.” The little man’s voice was nasal, almost shrill. “My king would never enforce such dreary rituals upon his subjects.”

  “No? Lucky you,” said Rellen.

  Uninvited, the stranger settled in his seat and propped his bony elbows atop Rellen’s table. “You mean to say you do not enjoy this? The sniping? The chattering? The bickering about whose pockets are deepest? Well, you and I agree on that much.”

  Another day, and Rellen might have appreciated his newest guest’s candor, but not today. “Who are you?” he asked. “Not from Ardenn. Not one of Farid’s. You said, ‘my king.’ You must be from beyond Graehelm. Why are you in my hall?”

  The frail fellow sat upright in his chair and folded his hands atop the table. “I am Jix. I hail from Thillria. My king is Orumna. If you would believe it, he sent me here to find you, Master Gryphon.”

  “Thillria?” He almos
t laughed. “Me? Why?”

  “Because you are quite famous in Thillria.”

  “I am?”

  “Oh indeed you are.” Jix grinned with brittle teeth. “Your deeds upon the fields of Mooreye are known to many of my countrymen. Of you and your lieutenant, Ser Garrett, heroic tales have been written. Oh, I know you well, Rellen Gryphon. If not for you, the Furies would have stormed across Triaxe until they came to Thillria. For all our pride, every one of my countrymen knows Chakran’s empire would have ground us into dust. So yes, we know and love you, Lord Rellen. The trumpets of Castle Aeth would surely shatter the clouds if you were ever to walk in my king’s gardens.”

  Jix’s entire speech made Rellen feel absurd. He hated the memory of Mooreye, scene of so much death and suffering. To hear it glamorized made his stomach turn. No one who was there could ever call it glorious, he thought. The only winners were the crows.

  “You are a long ways from home.” He set down his spoon and took stock of the little man. Skinny, he observed. Dirty from the road. No sword. No standard. Green eyes and yellow teeth. “What was your name again?”

  “Jix. I am sometimes the steward of Castle Aeth, sometimes its messenger, but always the servant of my lord and master, King Orumna. I am pleased to meet you, Lord Gryphon.”

  “Call me Rellen. No lords or Gryphons, just Rellen.”

  Jix shrugged. “As you wish. Are all the rulers of Graehelm so informal?”

  “No. Only me.”

  “So be it.” Jix leaned back in his chair. “Master Rellen, you asked me why I was here. I will get straight to it before your guests come a wondering. My king has a problem which needs tending to. As no Thillrian can help, and as the Knights of Triaxe are enjoying their much-deserved afterlife, your name was foremost on my master’s mind.”

  His goblet halfway to his mouth, he set it down without sipping. “You want help? From me? Why in the world would a Thillrian in need think of me?”

  Jix’s smile, merry as sunshine a moment ago, faded from his beardless face. “Because there is no one else, Rellen. You and your compatriots are our last hope. Thillrian superstitions run deep, you see. Our fears are ancient, and because of them no man amongst us will dare to confront this trouble of ours. It might seem simple to you, something to laugh at, but we need someone of your talents.”

  “Talents?” he snorted. “If you mean drinking too much, irritating my fellow lords, and failing to marry…”

  “I mean one who has seen sorcery before. I mean one who has bested it.”

  He took a shallow sip from his goblet and stared at Jix. “You are serious? Your king sent you? Who else have you told about this?”

  “None. Only you.”

  “I do not believe you,” he scoffed. “If you are who you say you are, and you desire my help, you would not have come like this, unannounced and underdressed. You would have sent letters. You would have a hundred riders at your back.”

  Jix frowned. “No, Master Rellen, you do not understand. This is a matter of pride for Orumna. He would not bleat Thillria’s weaknesses to the world. He desires this to be quickly remedied. He seeks the finest…nay, the only ones capable of curing what ails him.”

  Again Rellen moved to sip from his goblet, but only a drop remained. I ought to throw him in the moat, he thought. But what if he is sincere? No…impossible. But what if…?

  “Maybe you and I should take a walk.”

  “Yes. More privacy that way,” Jix agreed.

  “Follow me.”

  He looked about his sunlit hall. He saw his guests gathered in small pockets, three and four here and there, drinking, talking, whispering…and speaking ill of their rivals elsewhere in the room. Knowing they would not miss him, he rose and beckoned Jix to follow him to an archway, beyond which lay the stairs to the keep’s second floor. Jix trailed him, scurrying like a mouse at his back, his sandals clicking against the floor stones. Once they were through the archway, Rellen moved behind the coiling stairs. A black and silver tapestry hung near, and the shadows were thick.

  “Now, about these evils,” he pressed. “What sort of superstition could keep a king from protecting his people?”

  Jix rolled his shoulders, took a deep breath, and looked up to Rellen with dark green eyes. “It is simple to explain, Master Rellen. In Thillria, nearest Shivershore, there is a forest like no other. We call it the Nightmare Forest, and for good reason. The trees are sickly, the earth is cold, and the dead wander openly, unwilling to sleep. For centuries, fell creatures have lurked this wood, and though they have always been fearsome, seldom have they troubled us. But now they are emboldened. By the moonlight, they cut from the rank, drooping hollows and creep into the southern meadows. They steal lives with white daggers, and they slit our children’s throats as though they were fruit hanging too low from a tree. These creatures hate all life. Their faces are pale, their bodies naught but pulled flesh and yellow bone. Some say they are blind, that they are driven by smell and hate alone. All we know is that gristle and blood are their suppers, and the wailing of widows their dessert.”

  The way he says it… Rellen’s heart jumped. He believes it. Such a tale belongs in one of Saul’s books, not here in the real world.

  “The Forest was once a sacred place,” Jix continued. “Even now we are reluctant to intrude. We are forbidden by the laws of our forefathers, who buried their dead amongst the tangle of roots and reeds.”

  “A giant graveyard.”

  “Yes, though all the graves are empty.”

  “And you want to destroy this place?” Rellen clucked his tongue. “Why not put it to the torch?”

  “It will not burn. We have tried.”

  Walking dead. He rolled his eyes. Trees that cannot burn. Too far-fetched even for me. “Sorry to say, Jix, I cannot help you. If these dead are what you say they are, you will need more than a few swords, and swords are all Gryphon has.”

  “You do not understand.” Jix waved a dismissive hand.

  “No? Really? Tell me; what would make your king believe the sons of Gryphon could help him? There are a thousand cities in Graehelm, and most of them far closer to Thillria than mine. So why? Why come all this way?”

  A moment of silence prevailed. While gathering his argument, Jix shook his arm, and the shadows behind him wavered as if frightened. “Rellen, we would not ask anyone to do this thing, not unless we could guarantee their safe return. That is why Orumna sent me here…and only here.”

  “Safe return?”

  “Someone must enter the Forest. Someone must walk amongst the dead and remove the source of their power. Only then will they sleep. Only then will our people be safe.”

  Enough of this. Rellen started to walk away. “The answer is simple.” He brushed past Jix, nearly toppling the little man. “No. No, a thousand times over. You came to the wrong place. We cannot help you.”

  He made for the hall, where at least my guests are sane. He heard Jix clicking along behind him, his rotten sandals making an awful noise against the floor. He spun to command the little man to leave, but when he saw the shadow on Jix’s face and the wetness welling in his eyes, his voice fell flat on his tongue.

  “Rellen, please hear me,” Jix begged. “Please…before you speak with such certainty. An entire people depend upon my success. If I fail, if I cannot convince you to lend your aid, my life is for naught. I might as well till my own grave, for only the gallows awaits me.”

  “You exaggerate.” Rellen glared.

  “No. Never. I beg you. Hear me out. There is one, a friend to you, a girl who endured the darkness and survived. She would be able to enter the forest. She could dismiss the dead with just a glance. She alone could take their totem and bring it back. We need her.”