Shadow Moon

by Chris Claremont

  But he wasn’t without resources himself, as his questing hands came up with a tall carafe of sparkling water. She thought him blinded by both soup and bowl, unaware that his InSight gave him a painfully perfect view of the scene, as she took hold of more things to throw at him. The brownies came once more to his defense, peppering Elora with the smelliest pieces of fish and cheese they could grab, while he plugged the mouth of the carafe with his thumb and gave it a hearty series of shakes.

  He moved his thumb away just as she turned back to him, the contents of the carafe spraying forth as though from a fire hose, to strike her full in the face. Her eyes reflexively screwed themselves tight shut, hands waving ineffectually before her in a vain attempt to deflect the spray, but her mouth gaped wide. It was too tempting a target. Another quick shake of the carafe excited the last of the water, and then he shot it full between her teeth. She made glug noises, the same as if he’d dunked her underwater, then hit the flagstones herself as Franjean pulled on one ankle while Rool pushed on the other—far easier than it sounded, considering all the spilled food and drink had rendered the floor slick as ice. It was a graceless landing, hard on her bottom, and it prompted a caterwauling wail of outrage that speedily resolved itself into a cry for help.

  “Guards!” she shrieked. “Vizards! Help me!”

  Thorn considered this his cue to make a hasty exit. The girl recovered her wits with daunting speed. Fast as he moved, and for a Nelwyn he was breaking records, she hammered him full in the back with a trencher and barely missed with another carafe. He plucked it from the air just before it struck the corner of a wall, skidding down and around himself to duck out of the line of fire, cradling the etched crystal against his body as though it was a child. He found himself an alcove, where he was sure not to be run over, then wrapped himself snug in his Cloak. Any searcher—even one gifted with Talent—could stare right at him and see only bare stone.

  The decanter was still mostly full, so he took a precious few moments for a drink. He felt a burning on his face and his mouth twisted with the harsh taste of vinegar and salad spices. He didn’t want to consider what needed plucking from his hair.

  Elora wasn’t following. Too much effort, he supposed. Insofar as her targets were concerned, out of sight must mean out of mind.

  “Caught you fair,” said Rool, laughing. Though he’d been in the thick of battle, he, of course, was untouched, and as dapper as ever.

  “Would have been worse, but for you. I’m grateful.”

  He started to access InSight, for a look at Elora’s situation, but the brownie’s words erased the need.

  “She’s sulking. Amazing noises, really, wouldn’t have thought anything living could make such howls.” Thorn nodded; his own children, even as babies, had never shrieked so. “No wonder she has Night Herons flocking to her, must believe she’s one of their own.”

  “That isn’t funny.”

  “Nor is she, Drumheller, though the moment had its humor.”

  “Why isn’t anyone answering her cries?”

  “After all this, you have to ask?”

  “Considering what lies before her these next few days, she could be the most perishing little terror born—”

  “To my mind, Drumheller, an understatement.”

  “—it wouldn’t matter. With so much at stake, her minders would be extra-careful, not less so.”

  There was a flash of teeth as the little manling heaved a sack of something up into Thorn’s lap. “Franjean’s keeping watch, he’ll call if she stirs or anyone else approaches. Not that you’ve any need to worry, Cloaked as you are.”

  “Famous last words, I’m sure.”

  “In the meanwhile we scavenged you a modest repast.” The sack was actually a napkin; Rool had used the silver slip ring to hold it closed. Inside was a very sloppy sandwich, mismatched slices of bread around a half-dozen varieties of meat, plus some cheese and tomato and lettuce.

  “A tad messy,” Rool acknowledged, “but that’s only dirt. Naught I warrant to do a body proper harm.”

  “What, you just grabbed whatever was at hand off the floor?”

  The brownie’s shrug was a most eloquent reply. Thorn drew his knife, sliced the sandwich in half and then one of the pieces in half again. He returned all but a quarter to the napkin and then slipped it into his traveling pouch.

  “You always do that.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “More often than not, you’ll take most of a perfectly good meal and stuff it in that silly bag.”

  “Likely to be hungry later. We all might.” If they were, it wouldn’t be the first time he’d pulled something from its depths to save them. He always considered the pouches the first practical use of his Talent; the day he’d made them was the one the High Aldwyn had given him the bones and his blessing. The day, thinking back on it, that Kiaya realized he would ultimately leave home and her. He’d wondered at her melancholy that afternoon, and for the first time she hadn’t confided in him. His Talent would have easily pried the truth from her; he still wasn’t sure which left him more aghast, the temptation itself or how nearly he came to yielding. And so, he came to learn that even the purest light, the most noble intent, cast a Shadow and could be used for ill. That had been the true lesson of the day.

  “It’s very good,” Thorn said, forgetting his manners and speaking with his mouth full, “the bread especially.”

  “Do me a favor,” he asked then, after clearing his palate with a hefty swallow of water. “While one of you watches Elora, I’d like the other to scout out whoever else is up here, servants and attendants and the like. See what we’ve to contend with.”

  “She isn’t enough?”

  “I’ll wait here.”

  “Once again, we do the work, while our cruel and pitiless taskmaster…”

  Franjean’s voice trailed off. Something in Thorn’s face took away the treat of mocking him.

  “It’s not so bad,” the brownie offered.

  “If you can’t muster wit enough for a decent lie, it’s worse by far.”

  “What will you do?”

  “Think.” A fractional pause, a hiccup of the heart. “Remember.”

  When last he’d seen Elora Danan, he was still twice her size and more. Round, rosy cheeks beneath a cap of unruly red-gold hair, flame-colored like a forest in high fall. Not so much fat to her frame as with most babies, but she’d had a far harder life for that first, fateful year. Two things were evident right off, an awesome strength—mostly of will at that point, since her body was still learning how to properly work—and a laugh to match. The baby had a raw delight, with everything and everyone she saw, a natural charm so fierce and overwhelming that none who met her could withstand it.

  He’d loved her from the first, as much as if she’d been his own.

  The strength remained, his bruises could attest to that. But not the laughter. Here was a harridan who didn’t know the meaning of the word. He heard the sound of crashing and for the blink of an eye used InSight to merge his vision with Franjean’s to see what was what. She’d upended the trolley and trampled the food to ruin; now she was methodically smashing every piece of plate and crystal. Breaking it to bits and then grinding each bit to powder. Shrieking all the while at the top of her lungs.

  She had height on him now, standing half again as tall as he, with the promise of more to come in both leg and torso. When she reached her full growth, she’d be impressive even by Daikini standards. Unfortunately, at this point, she was plump. She’d lost none of her baby fat and put on more besides. Round face, bulging torso, as lacking of physical grace as she was in spirit. Hers was a face more used to sobs than smiles, from hurts Thorn suspected were generally more imagined than real. Her eyes were all closed and squinty, like a pig’s, her mouth cast in a perpetual pout.

  Where Anakerie had been dressed for comfort, Elora’s costume was purely show. Layer u
pon layer, each wrapped and tied and buckled into place until the child could hardly move.

  Doll clothes, he thought, for a doll princess.

  “I never should have let you go,” he said aloud, with a quiet sorrow. He let his head loll back against the wall. “I’d done all that was asked of me, I thought I was finished and you were safe. I thought I could go home, live my life—who was to know?”

  He didn’t need Franjean’s ears to hear her; given the right wind, she could doubtlessly be heard on the ground.

  “I hate you,” she screamed. “I hate you all!”

  “This certainly explains the tower,” Franjean noted. For a disorienting moment, until Thorn disengaged his InSight, he looked up at himself through Franjean’s eyes.

  What a mess, was the thought that came to him. A distressingly forlorn picture, of a sad little man clutching a crystal carafe as though it was his own heart.

  “You’re not watching?”

  “I have no stomach for it. She’s wallowing in the mess—as much as that ridiculous costume will allow, which probably explains it as well—having herself a right proper tantrum. At this point, you don’t look a fraction as awful as she.” The brownie shook his head and munched on a radish, pausing after the first bite to add a sprinkle of salt. “If this is how she behaves on a regular basis, I’d want her as far from me and mine as could be managed.”

  “I wonder who she hates.”

  “Should we care, Drumheller?”

  “She has a Destiny, Franjean.”

  “Destinies are not etched in stone, only history. And that, believe me, is mostly lies.”

  “You’re a cynic.”

  “We watch the way the world works. You’d be amazed at what we see. Nobody pays attention to the likes of us, not flesh, not spirit. Like bugs, we’re only squashed if we’re noticed, and we’ve gotten very good at making sure that never happens. Always had my doubts. One girl, and Daikini-born to boot, holding the fate of all the Realms? Please!”

  “They’re all coming here to acknowledge her.”

  “Won’t they be in for a rude surprise.”

  When Thorn said nothing, he added, “Just because some folk are born large of stature, Drumheller, doesn’t make them smart. Quite the opposite. It’s the arrogance of power that corrupts, the belief that because ‘I’ can do anything ‘I’ don’t have to worry about consequences. When you’re backed by the puissance of someone like, say, Bavmorda, you don’t need to be a very good army. She’ll do the work for you, or the fear of her will. Which is fine, until you come up against a foe who is smart. You know why I respect the Daikini? And fear them?”

  “No.”

  “They have no power worth the name, not as the term is understood in the Realms Beyond. Among the Veil Folk are beings of Air and Earth, Fire and Water, who can bend those elements to their will. Firedrakes who can turn a mountain of solid steel to vapor with a single puff of breath. Trolls who can crack the ground asunder beneath your feet and open a chasm to the world’s core. Elves, fairies, goblins, a whole panoply of creatures, the least of whom is a match and more for any human. The face of this globe could be cleansed of Daikini in a single nightspan, and don’t think we haven’t heard it proposed. But in the end no one bothers, because no one truly cares, because—in the heart of hearts of the Veil Folk—they aren’t considered that significant a threat. The Veil Folk can do them so much harm, it’s inconceivable they can do the same in return.”

  “You obviously disagree.”

  “We watch the way the world works, Drumheller. We remember. It does no good to transform your foes into an army of pigs, unless you make sure to dine that night on roast pork. Bavmorda made a mistake, it cost her everything.”

  “And the consequences of that act, Franjean?” Thorn’s voice was very still, the words emerging on the ghost of an outbreath.

  The brownie opened wide his arms, to encompass the whole of the tower and the city beyond.

  Then he screamed.

  What he saw, Thorn only felt. A bubbling beneath his shoulders, as though the wall had turned to gaseous muck. Of a sudden, there was nothing to support him and he felt himself teeter on the brink of some impossible abyss. A maw gaped, a dual sense of implacable resolve and a hunger that nothing could sate, so fierce that given the opportunity, it would gladly consume the world. He pitched himself forward, clawing his way up his own legs—crying a prayer of thanks as he went that they at least still rested on something solid—terrified the floor would begin to crumble after the wall and he would lose what little purchase, and hope, remained.

  He twisted sideways, sprawling full length, noting analytically in that part of him that calmly recorded events no matter how madcap the crisis, that the stone was no longer cool to the touch of bare hands and cheek. It radiated warmth like umber sandstone after a day in the full sun, grown almost hot enough to cook on. He had better purchase now, pushing himself frantically with every limb, in a panicked log roll that would only be stopped by a collision with something in the way.

  He expected that to be another wall—memory told him of one not that far away—but instead upended a pair of feet.

  He used the confusion to regain his own. As one figure went down he scrambled into an all-fours crouch, on fingers and toes, ready to spring toward whatever escape seemed most effective.

  Except that there was nothing to flee from. The wall before him was no more than a wall. The person he’d tripped, however, was another matter entirely.

  “Elora Danan!” he said again.

  She hit him.

  A clumsy sidearm sweep, mostly enthusiasm, backed by very little skill. It caught him full on the cheek and dropped him so hard he had to blink to cycle his vision back to normal. He half expected her to follow up with more, possibly even a volley of kicks, but heard only snuffling sobs.

  She was huddled just out of reach, resting her weight on her hands. The reason for the tears, obvious: she was in a terrible state, so much so that he had to stifle a reflexive burst of laughter. She looked like she had battled from one end of the kitchen to the other and come away marked by every dish present. She was doused in soup and drink, relish of all kinds, smeared with egg and potato and custard, her hair matted, her gown stained to ruin. She must have gotten a particularly intense brew of spices up her nose, because it was running like a waterfall, scarlet and tan streaks of ketchup and mustard marking her face like war paint and her sleeves as well where she’d tried in vain to wipe herself clean. She tried to speak, but pepper got the better of her and she sneezed instead, spraying the floor below.

  “I’m sorry,” he began, “I didn’t mean…!”

  “Filthy little wretch!” Her voice was rough, ill-served by years of tantrums, thickened more by partially blocked airways. “You did that on purpose!”

  He wanted to protest that he’d never do anything to hurt her, but part of his conscience branded that a palpable lie while another muttered darkly, It’s no less than you deserve, my girl.

  “Who are you?” she demanded. “You’re not one of my servants, you’re not dressed like anyone in the palace! You don’t look like anyone I’ve ever known!”

  He thought at first he’d somehow dropped his Cloak but found the spell wrapped as snugly about him as when he’d left the cell. Didn’t matter, she could see right through it.

  She lunged, caught his arm, making sure her nails pinched.

  “Captain of the guard,” she cried.

  “Elora, don’t—” he protested, wholly in vain as she boxed an ear to shut him up. Anyone else would have received a blow in return or lesser spell to teach them manners but he couldn’t bring himself to do either. Through the pouts and the plump, he still saw the child of memory, for whom he’d risked everything.

  So Franjean, bless him, did it for him.

  Brownie daggers weren’t much longer than rose thorns, but they were much, much sharper, and the
warriors who used them trained to find the chinks in any armor. The thickness of Elora’s gown was no protection either, as Franjean’s stab slipped through layers of finely woven cloth to catch the child full in the backside. She howled. A moment later Rool delivered a blow of his own to her heel. They weren’t trying to hurt her; none of their pinpricks would draw much blood, they were more on the order of stings. This was the kind of play the brownies enjoyed among their own woodland barrows, against unwary, unwanted intruders, to make their targets feel as though they’d stumbled across a nest of particularly vengeful and inventive hornets.

  Hands flailing, Elora tried to spin around to deal with these new attacks but was hampered by her garments. She was wrapped so tightly she had no play to her spinal column; she could bend only at the hips and that wreaked havoc with her sense of balance, especially since Franjean used the opportunity to tag her twice more, a repeat to her rear, followed up by a stab to the palm of the hand that swung blindly around to swat him. She overreached herself and down she went, bringing herself more pain with that landing by barking both knees and one elbow than all the brownie stings put together.

  Thorn didn’t want to leave her, but her screams had taken on a more urgent coloration—no longer her usual histrionics but howls of genuine fear—that was sure to attract attention from her minders. She clearly didn’t remember who he was and instinct told him this was neither the time nor place to attempt to establish his bona fides, to her or anyone else. He considered an enchantment to put her to sleep and cast the events of the past few minutes into the semblance of a dream, but suspected it wouldn’t hold on her. That was one of her Gifts; lesser spells rolled off her like water off a duck. Being who she was, of course, nobody dared experiment with any Great Enchantment to see whether her immunity applied as well to them. Finally, if the Red Lions were as good as their reputation, especially given the occasion, sorcery would be the first thing they’d examine her for.