The Forgetting Moon

by Brian Lee Durfee

  “You retreated from Wyn Darrè after Father’s death.”

  “We should be rejoicing that Laijon’s return is nigh. Adin Wyte and Wyn Darrè’s ruin was foretold in The Way and Truth of Laijon.”

  “We could have staved off that ruin. Absolution need not happen.”

  “Do not speak against holy scripture. When Absolution comes, the Silver Throne will fight, and not a moment sooner. We will defend our own shores. ‘Keep your swords honed,’ wrote the Fourth Warrior Angel. Battle readiness has been built into the very fabric and culture of this land. Every village in Gul Kana is filled with men who have spent two years in training, preparing for the great and glorious day of Absolution. Tradition has sustained Gul Kana thus far.”

  “Those are the words of Grand Vicar Denarius,” Jondralyn snarled. “He wishes for Fiery Absolution—”

  “We all seek the return of Laijon!” The king spun away from Jondralyn, drawing his sword. He moved to the hearth and poked at the fire with it. Tala knew her brother would brook only so much from his siblings. He could be a miserable, pious, rigid king who distrusted everyone one minute—and affable, congenial, and taking advice from all the next. He was loath to discuss Aeros Raijael’s war in Wyn Darrè, the death of their father, or Absolution. The Way and Truth of Laijon spoke of the war before the return of Laijon. It was prophesied that all armies of the Five Isles would gather in Amadon and engage in battle. The streets would run with blood and fire.”

  Jovan turned, glaring at Jondralyn. “Roguemoore has set you against me.”

  “He is my dearest friend, and one of your own high councillors.”

  “He is not your friend. You think he will make you part of his secret brethren? He keeps you in the dark on a great many things, Jon. He would have you believe the Brethren of Mia are all about defending Gul Kana. But there is more of the sinister to them than you know. He’s already turned Squireck Van Hester against me. Because of that dwarf, I know not who to trust in my own court. In due course I’ll have the Dayknights root every last one of the Brethren from their hidey-holes—”

  “I’ve heard Denarius say much the same. Does he now speak for you?”

  “We all swear fealty to Denarius! Even I, the king who sits the Silver Throne, am to heed his counsel above all others. Or did you forget your studies? Do you not attend worship service every Eighth Day? Or are you now buried too deep in the clutches of that dwarf and his goddess-worshipping cult?”

  “The grand vicar just regurgitates the same worn-out platitudes of the vicars before him.” Jondralyn sounded exasperated.

  “Denarius believed Sør Sevier played a part in Mother’s death when Ansel was born. Father believed it too. And now this foolish Brethren of Mia business lands your once-betrothed in prison. Squireck murdered one of the Quorum of Five Archbishops of Amadon because of Roguemoore’s lies. The dwarf and his wretched Moon Scrolls have turned you against me. The Church of Laijon has clearly deemed The Moon Scrolls of Mia unholy and had them hidden in the vaults. Squireck stole them for Roguemoore and then murdered Archbishop Lucas. As if his father hasn’t been humiliated enough having already been conquered by the White Prince. Squireck’s crimes have plunged the entire kingdom of Adin Wyte into further shame. Or have you forgotten his sins? Have the dwarf and that Sør Sevier traitor, Hawkwood, clouded your mind so?”

  “Squireck did not slay Archbishop Lucas as Denarius and the quorum of five would have you believe. He is a peaceful, innocent man, wrongfully imprisoned.”

  “I’m sure your heart just bleeds for him, now that he has chosen death in the arena. The dignity of a quick death by the noose would be far more than he deserves—”

  Tala’s foot slipped and she slid from her perch. She hit the floor hard, smacking the back side of her head against the opposite wall. “You okay?” Lawri whispered.

  Tala rubbed her head. Talk of Fiery Absolution scared her. But to hear that Squireck Van Hester, the Prince of Saint Only, the fallen prince of a conquered country, the man once betrothed to Jondralyn when the two were but children, a man whom Tala adored like an older brother, had chosen the arena put a lump in her throat. Of all things, Tala hated the arena most. Squireck, though decent with a blade, was not gladiator material. She remembered herself at five years old, sitting on Squireck’s lap, him eighteen, tall and lanky, entertaining her and Jondralyn with stories of Mannfrydd the dwarf jester. Such an innocent, simple, and happy young man Squireck had been, and that good-natured quality had followed him into adulthood. But that was before his kingdom had come under war. That was before he’d been convicted of murdering Archbishop Lucas. At the time it had been the most infamous crime in all the Five Isles. It was said that Squireck’s father, King Edmon Guy Van Hester, conquered ruler of Adin Wyte, lord of Saint Only, was so overcome with grief over his son’s crimes that he moped about the halls of Saint Only in rags and a broken crown, his throne abandoned to ruin, his Lancer Guard destroyed or scattered to the winds by Aeros Raijael’s armies. So deranged with grief that he’d cast his family and advisers aside and now supped with curs and swine, lounging in his own filth at the foot of his empty throne. Rumor was, he’d professed that he’d rather have died at the hands of the Sør Sevier fighters than live under the shame of Squireck’s murderous betrayal.

  Tala’s heart sank with the weight of knowing her family was fractured. Her older siblings hated each other—Jondralyn, increasingly full of honor and chivalry, tried to bridge the gap between them when she could, but Jovan trusted the grand vicar and quorum of five more than his own kin. Tala wished her parents were still alive for a few reasons: first, to bring their family back together; and second, to keep their country from crumbling under Jovan’s rule. She knew Jovan’s unshakable, rigid faith gave his character its hard, unforgiving side. He could be narrow-minded, stubborn, and uncompromising where religious principles were concerned—and because of it, he was losing control of his court to the grand vicar.

  “Let’s go,” Lawri urged. “It’s getting dark. Our path will not be as well lit.”

  Tala noticed her cousin’s shoulders were covered in dust. “You’re filthy.” She brushed the back of Lawri’s tunic, then brushed herself, too, and quickly realized something was missing. “I dropped my dagger.” It was not at her belt.

  “Leave it.” Lawri turned, heading back the way they had come. “It’s too dark.”

  “It was a gift from Roguemoore.” Tala dropped to her hands and knees, crawling back to where she had slid from the sloping wall, carefully feeling along the floor. It was carpeted with dead bugs and who knew what else under her searching fingers, but she didn’t want to leave the dagger behind. Finding it, she stood quickly, relieved. The dagger with its thin jeweled hilt felt snug and proper in her hand. “Here it is,” she announced. But Lawri did not answer. “Lawri?” she called out for her cousin. Lawri was gone.

  A chill wind blew across Tala’s face, and she felt the hairs prickling at the nape of her neck. Either her mind was playing tricks on her or the shadows, a few paces beyond where she stood, now moved. “Is that you, Lawri?”

  Something rustled softly, a movement in the dark.

  “Lawri?” Tala kept her eyes fixed on the place where the shadow hovered, a clot of blackness, like a hole had been punched into the dark.

  “Answer me, Lawri.” Tala felt the menacing glare of unseen eyes, as if the darkness were taking solid form. Then next to her was a shapeless, shadowy blur. Tala twisted her slender body to avoid the phantom’s clutch. Then it had her. Trembling in every limb, Tala tried to squirm away. But the shadow held her fast by the wrist.

  “The secret ways of the castle are my lair.” A voice of low and subtle tone issued forth, the sound neither male nor female, but soft and hissing. Tala thought about stabbing at the apparition with the dagger, yet fear gripped her. She could hear her own heavy breath as she struggled to free herself. “Lawri!” she cried out.

  “Be still,” whispered the shade, its tightening grip now painful
. “My blade thirsts.” The shadow pulled her close as if reading her thoughts. “Alas, killing you now would serve us not. So get from these passages, girl. Never venture here again.”

  Tala couldn’t breathe. She could barely make out the outlines of the one who held her. The dark figure wore all black and a black hood. A wan beam of light crossed over the hood and brushed the figure’s eyes, which glittered faintly like water shimmering under the moonlight. It seemed those two sullen slivers of light glinted with malice.

  “Heed what I say.” The voice was silky from under the hood. “A warning, this, and you won’t feel it for some time, but I just stabbed you.”

  Tala felt leather armor scrape against her arm, and the shadow was gone like the wind through the leaves. She whirled and fled. She reached the stairs and careened down them, nearly falling, leaping two at a time, until she stumbled out into the spacious red room with the bloodstained altar and benches. The faint pink light of dusk spilled through the windows above, illuminating her cousin’s golden hair at the opposite end of the room.

  “What kept you?” Lawri asked as Tala drew near. “I thought you were behind me—” Her cousin’s face turned ashen. “Blessed Mother, Tala, you’re bleeding!”

  Tala looked. Her tunic and shirt were blood-soaked.

  And thick redness welled from a small hole in her chest just above her heart.

  * * *

  For the Time of the Fiery Demons was a dark time, full of strife and much peril. It is thus commanded that from this moment henceforth, their true name shall never be uttered by the mouth of man. Nor shall any likeness of them be painted or carved. They are to be forever known as the Nameless Beasts of the Underworld. And any who bear the Mark of the Beast upon their flesh are especially cursed.

  —THE WAY AND TRUTH OF LAIJON

  * * *

  CHAPTER SIX

  TALA BRONACHELL

  15TH DAY OF THE SHROUDED MOON, 999TH YEAR OF LAIJON

  AMADON, GUL KANA

  The man dropped. The rope snapped. Squireck Van Hester, the Prince of Saint Only, executed! Tala jolted awake to a profound sensation of horror and dread. She jerked up in bed, heart thundering, dark memories returning in a mad rush.

  It seemed all hope and happiness were now stanched by the vivid recollection of a dark-cloaked figure and the all-too-real wound in her chest. Blood and death everywhere! A haunting panic had rendered her all but helpless since she was stabbed in the secret ways. She searched with trembling fingers for the small scab newly formed above her breast. Her heart quickened at the discomfort she felt of being watched—always watched.

  She searched the darkness of her chamber. A space between the heavy curtains let in a slice of moonlight. She could just make out the familiar shapes of the room and the vague contours of her dresser, chairs, and chest, along with the form of her cousin, Lawri, curled on the divan near the door. A giant stone hearth was built into the far wall. Double doors, barred and latched securely, were at the near wall. Two Silver Guards were always posted beyond those thick wooden barriers. But they were of little comfort.

  She kicked the covers from her bed and padded barefoot across the cold stone. She felt naked in her sleeping garment, a light, loose-fitting pullover shift of dyed silk. But she feared changing clothes. She might wake Lawri in the process. Carefully opening the chest near her desk, she pulled out a length of twine along with the thin dagger Roguemoore had given her. She tied the twine around her waist and fitted the dagger snugly into it. She closed the lid of the chest and snatched the wooden stool from her desk, crossed the room quietly, and placed it directly into the cold stone hearth. The floor of the hearth was swept clean of soot. A fire hadn’t been lit in the fireplace in her memory. Her quarters, so near the center of the castle, stayed warm, even in the harshest winters.

  She stood atop the stool and felt inside the chimney with her hands, searching for the bottom rung of the ladder hidden there. Once firmly grasping the iron rung, Tala quietly pulled herself up. Hanging, she felt around with her toes until she located the underside of the stool’s round seat. Once she felt the tops of her feet were secure enough under the wooden seat, she lifted the stool, bent her legs at the knees, swung back, and flipped the stool onto her bed. The stool was not heavy and landed softly on the thick quilts.

  Flinging the stool to the bed with her feet was a move Tala had performed a hundred times. It was a risk leaving the stool so obviously placed within the hearth. Anybody—in particular Dame Mairgrid—who came calling might find the stool, which would lead to the ladder, which would lead to the discovery of the passageway that joined with the many secret warrens crisscrossing Amadon Castle. And Tala didn’t want that; this passage through the hearth was her only escape from her chamber.

  As she climbed, Tala passed several dark openings in the wall behind her, one a flue, the others tunnels leading to more hidden passages. As she ventured farther, the sounds of mice scurrying about the dark holes sent shivers racing up her spine. She imagined a shadowy figure, wicked blade ready to strike, lurking in every alcove.

  When Tala reached the thirty-second rung, she felt with her hand along the wall to her left. There was a wooden door, closed and securely latched. With a flick of her fingers, it was easily unlocked. The small door swung inward and she slithered through, letting it swing shut behind her. Blackness surrounded her on every side now. Still, she crawled forward, counting the rough stone tiles beneath her. When she reached the twentieth tile, she dug her fingers into the cracks, lifted up the tile, and slid it aside. Underneath was another trapdoor. Tala lifted it up and over, its rusty hinges faintly squealing. The dagger was still pressed tightly against her hip, and at the moment, it felt of little use against whatever dangers lurked in these dark warrens. Tala could see nothing down the new hole, yet she could feel its yawning presence. But she knew from years of experience that this ladder would eventually empty her into the stone hearth located in the bedchamber her older cousin, Lindholf, used when the Le Gravens came visiting. Fishing with her toes, she felt for the comforting cold iron rung. Finding it, she descended. Once at the bottom, she wiggled free of the fireplace and stepped into her cousin’s room, silken nightgown a complete dirty ruin.

  “That was the loudest clatter I’ve ever heard.” Lindholf’s face peered from under his bedcovers, lit candle on the wall behind him.

  Tala crossed the room and sat on the end of his bed. He slid his feet aside, making room for her. “Why are you sneaking around so late?” He wore a bright red sleeping gown and a red cap with a white tassel.

  “You look foolish,” she giggled.

  “It’s warm for nighttime,” he said, tossing the sleeping cap to the floor. “No one can see me anyhow, unless the Silver Guards step in, which they might, after hearing you knocking about so.” He looked to the double doors of the bedchamber. “Let’s hope they don’t summon Dame Mairgrid. I’d be loath to answer to that old crone now.”

  Lindholf had a way of always appearing worried. He only partially had the look of his twin sister. Lawri was pretty and graceful, Lindholf awkwardly thin and gangly. Even the other set of Le Graven twins, twelve-year-olds Lorhand and Lilith, were blossoming into unbearably cute teenagers. Not Lindholf, though: he had a head of short blond curls and a terribly sunken, deformed face. The deformities were the result of severe burns he had suffered as a baby. The scarred flesh covered one cheek up to his forehead and down his neck and had mangled both of his ears. Half the flesh on his face was stiff and dead, the skin cracked, flaking, mottled purple and yellow.

  “From now on, do not go into the secret ways,” Tala whispered. “They are no longer safe. And do not let Glade talk you into any sneaking around when he gets here. I know you’ve planned many adventures for when he arrives. But I don’t think it wise.”

  “Why?”

  Tala pulled the neckline of her silken shift aside, revealing the tiny dark scab just above her breast. “I was stabbed.”

  “Stabbed?” He reached
out and touched the wound, worry in his voice, fingers cold against her skin. “How so?”

  “I was in that passageway you told me about near the western wall between the armory and the abandoned rookery, just above the queen’s pantry. I met a cloaked stranger there who ordered me to stay out of the passages, then stabbed me as a warning. I fear some sort of witchcraft was used. I never felt the blade. Your sister was with me. She saw nothing. I made up a story about falling on a nail. I don’t think she believed me.”

  “Did you see his face, this person?”

  “No.” Goose bumps tickled her flesh as she tried to recall anything of the dark stranger. “I know nothing of the cloaked person or how to find him again.”

  “You should not have gone off a-wandering without me or Glade.” Lindholf was clearly shaken. “We should tell Jovan.”

  “And have him question why I am sneaking about?” Tala asked.

  “He could have the Dayknights hunt for this cloaked fellow.”

  Tala shook her head. “No. He’ll just have the Dayknights and Silver Guard watch me more closely. And that’s the last thing I want.”

  “Probably so.”

  “There’s something else I need to tell you. I heard Jondralyn and Jovan speaking about Squireck Van Hester. He’s chosen the arena.”

  “Arena?” Horror washed over Lindholf’s face. “Squireck has some training, but not the stomach to kill as the gladiators do. He is like me, but twice as tall and frail. I fear he will die horribly, begging in the end.”

  “I pray Jovan will put a stop to it,” Tala said. She stood and moved toward the hearth, feeling the tears well in her eyes. “I cannot bear the thought of watching him be stabbed or, worse, dismembered or beheaded.” She hadn’t seen Squireck Van Hester since he had been imprisoned, but she wanted to go to him now and pray at his feet, pray that Laijon spare him this fate. But he was being kept in the dungeons of Purgatory.