The Forgetting Moon

by Brian Lee Durfee

  To Tala, the annual gladiator event was, in a word, wrong, lasting for three weeks until only one was left alive. Hundreds of criminals fighting for freedom. The last four invited to dine with the nobility in the grand Sunbird Hall in Amadon Castle during the Mourning Moon Celebration. The citizenry of Gul Kana rejoiced in the shed blood of the lawless who waged battle in the arena. After all, to die in the arena was a shameful death—for it proved one’s guilt.

  Royalty from the breadth of Gul Kana surrounded Tala, bloodlust in their eyes. On the row directly behind her, bearded and hefty, dressed in the white-and-silver-marble colors of the crest of Avlonia, sat Lord Nolan Darkliegh. Next to him was Lord Kelvin Kronnin of Lord’s Point. Lord Kelvin was tall and angular and dressed in leather leggings and a doublet of bright blue, representing the ocean near his homeland. His wife, Emogen, had remained at Lord’s Point, pregnant with their first child.

  Next to Kronnin was Glade’s father, Lord Claybor Chaparral of Rivermeade. Thick-chinned and stalwart, he wore the maroon raiment and silver-wolf crest of Rivermeade thrown over his shoulder. He sat with his wife, Lady Lesia.

  Lawri’s father, Lott Le Graven of Eskander, thin, pale, and freckle-faced, sat next to Claybor. Lord Le Graven wore the yellow colors and lion crest of Eskander. Tala’s aunt, Mona Le Graven, looked truly splendorous next to her husband. She was draped in a richly brocaded gown, her neck and arms bejeweled in ruby and pearl. At fifty-three, she appeared as radiant as her sister, Tala’s mother, Alana, once had. Mona’s youngest twins, Lorhand and Lilith, sat nearby, faces pale with shock at the arena events.

  Next to Mona, two spear-wielding Dayknights stood on either side of the king’s chair, shielding Tala’s older brother, Jovan. Grand Vicar Denarius and the Quorum of Five Archbishops of Amadon—Vandivor, Donalbain, Spencerville, Leaford, and Rhys-Duncan—were seated behind the king, all in their most opulent finery. The holy vicar wore the burnt-orange cassock of his position, silken priesthood robes underneath. From neck to belly, Denarius’ chest was hung with chains and necklaces of every shade of gold. He was bald on top but had a strip of brown hair running around the back of his head. He also had a round red face, puffy jowls, and a large, paunchy stomach.

  The vicar had opened the arena matches with a blessing of peace, then spent the remainder of the day gorging himself at the banquet table not twenty paces behind the king’s suite, discussing trivialities and court gossip with the Dayknight captain, Ser Sterling Prentiss, and four others: the commander of the Silver Guard, Ser Lars Castlegrail; the king’s steward, Ser Tomas Vorkink; the king’s chamberlain, Ser Landon Galloway; and the stable marshal of Amadon Castle, Ser Terrell Wickham. At the moment the vicar whispered conspiratorially with the Dayknight captain. Sterling Prentiss, tall and broad, was an imposing figure in the silver surcoat and black-lacquered armor of his station.

  Seita’s father, the Val Vallè ambassador, Val-Korin, stood near the vicar too. He respectfully bowed when he met Tala’s gaze. He was ever watchful. With their delicately sculpted features, Val-Korin and Seita stood out in the king’s entourage like statues of polished ivory in a thicket of moss-covered boulders. All looked upon the Vallè with a certain measure of reverence. The Silver Throne had a long-standing relationship with their neighboring island of Val Vallè. Val-Korin was one of Jovan’s most trusted councillors.

  “I know Jovan will let us go back to the castle,” Lawri said, pulling Tala’s attention away from the Val Vallè ambassador. “Must we stay even a minute longer? Ask him?”

  “I’d likely get yelled at for asking.”

  There was a rattle of chains as the wrought-iron gates on either end of the arena rose up, followed by a thunderous sound as all ten thousand spectators lurched to their feet. The immensity of the crowd’s roar never failed to leave Tala shaken. The last two combatants of the day strode from under the gates and into the arena. Tala’s heart was instantly in her throat. One of the fighters looked familiar, yet vastly different.

  Squireck Van Hester.

  He was twice the size she remembered. Still tall. Six and a half feet. But not lanky. Not awkward. He was all might and muscles now. His blond hair was long and rested in sweaty strands down his bare back. He wore leather greaves over his pants and a thick leather belt around his waist and little else. A sheathed longsword was strapped high on his shoulders, with leather straps crisscrossing his back. His chest was totally bare but for the square gladiator brand showing red and raw upon the flesh of his shoulder.

  The herald above the king’s suite approached the copper tubes that magnified his voice and bellowed, “The Red Demon of Wyn Darrè versus the Prince of Saint Only!” His announcement was met with silence, for the Prince of Saint Only was the most notorious and hated criminal of an age. To slake their thirst for justice, the crowd had come to see him die a painful death. Like a pack of baying dogs, they began to boo.

  Tala knew everyone in Amadon hated the Prince of Saint Only, fallen son of a conquered king, the one accused of murdering one of their beloved five archbishops, DeVon Lucas. She remembered herself at five years old, just before Sør Sevier invaded Adin Wyte, marveling at the shiny trinkets from Saint Only Squireck spoiled her with. But the Squireck Van Hester that Tala saw now had changed. At twenty-eight, and after over a year of imprisonment, the Prince of Saint Only had grown in stature. Great muscles in his arms coiled and bunched as pulled two long daggers from his belt. He held the daggers by their blades, testing their weight in his hands. That Squireck had chosen to wear so little armor made Tala even more afraid for him.

  The fighter from Wyn Darrè prepared himself too, swinging a curved sword above his head in wide, sweeping arcs. He wore red armor, shined and polished, and the sharpened spikes jutting from his helmet and arm guards made him appear more oghul than man. His armor gleamed like molten stone, his black shield twirling in his hand for show. When the shield stopped twirling, the Wyn Darrè fighter screamed and shouted. He swung his great sword up and then down, swinging it so low it dug into the ground, throwing a spray of dirt high into the crowd. The crowd loved him instantly and chanted, “Demon! Demon! Demon!” The orchestra struck up a big bass sound like thunder set to the rhythm, deh duh, deh duh, deh duh. A little girl leaned over the railing just above the Wyn Darrè gladiator. She was grabbing handfuls of bright flowers from a copper ewer and tossing them gaily into the air, where they fluttered down about the fighter’s feet.

  Roguemoore came waddling up the aisle toward Jondralyn, panting as his short legs churned. “I’m sorry, Jon,” he said upon arrival, his rough voice barely heard over the crowd’s roar. “I’ve been working to put a stop to this. The quorum of five has matched him against this Wyn Darrè brawler, a murderer of women and children and several of King Torrence Raybourne’s personal guard. The grand vicar and quorum are not gonna make it easy on Squireck for killing one of their own. Thing is, I don’t rightly know who to blame: Jovan, Denarius himself, or Squireck’s own father—”

  The crowd erupted. A wave of sound washed over them, drowning out the dwarf’s voice. The red-armored gladiator charged across the arena toward Squireck with a shout, a rousing Deh! Duh! Deh! Duh! crescendo from the orchestra spurring him on.

  The Prince of Saint Only stood his ground, aimed one of his daggers, pulled back his arm, and let throw. The silver blade cleaved the air with a snap and bounced from the charging fighter’s helm. Still the devil ran—his shield up and his sword poised for the killing stroke. Instantly Squireck aimed the second dagger. The raging Demon closed in and swung, his great sword whistling downward in a crushing path toward Squireck’s neck. But the sword never reached its target. Instead, it spun from the Demon’s hands to land in the dirt as the Wyn Darrè man staggered, the hilt of Squireck’s second dagger jutting from under the faceguard of his spiked helm. The man in red stumbled on wobbly legs, triumphant no more. The rising tide of music silenced.

  In one smooth motion Squireck pulled his own longsword from its sheath and swung downward, bu
rying the blade into his opponent’s neck and shoulder. The red helm flopped from the gladiator’s head as a great gush of blood spewed upward from the wound, obliterating the Wyn Darrè man’s face and chest in a thick crimson spray. As he toppled to the ground, there was a smattering of cheers, then silence. Only a handful of flowers rained to the arena floor at the herald’s cry, “The victorious Prince of Saint Only!”

  Then, in a brutal display, Squireck swung his sword as if chopping at a fallen tree and cleaved the head from the Wyn Darrè fighter’s body. Jondralyn gasped and turned away. Tala could barely contain the sense of horror rising within her—horror of a sort that blocked everything else out. Lawri Le Graven was vomiting in the seat beside her.

  “May the wraiths take us,” Roguemoore said as Squireck snatched up the severed head by a bloody mat of hair and flung it in the direction of the king’s suite.

  “A gift for Denarius and the quorum of five!” Squireck shouted as the head sailed over the throng. The king’s suite was too far above the orchestra box, and the head landed among the cellists and bagpipes below—musicians scattered as it bounced down the aisle. A crowd of gawkers circled around the head, stopping its path.

  “His blood be upon the grand vicar and quorum of five!” Squireck spun slowly on the arena floor, both arms held aloft, sword still gripped in his right hand. “His blood be not upon me! Laijon is on my side! His blood be not upon me! I am innocent!”

  And there was no blood on Squireck. His skin glistened with naught but beads of sweat as he began stripping the red armor from the headless gladiator at his feet.

  Muttering amongst themselves, the Quorum of Five Archbishops of Amadon looked to their leader. The grand vicar remained stoic, face unrevealing.

  “A flower to throw to the victor?” There was a small, dirty-faced boy standing there in the aisle, holding a yellow flower out to Tala.

  “No,” she answered, wondering how the boy had slipped through the Silver Guard and into the king’s suite unseen. “No. Please. Go away.”

  “Take it, m’lady.” The urchin grinned and held forth the yellow rose. “It’s a special flower, meant just for you.” Before she knew it, the flower was thrust into her hand and the boy was gone, running up the aisle.

  “Who was that?” Dame Mairgrid asked with a disapproving frown. The sour smell of Lawri’s puke wafted up from under their feet.

  “Just a boy.” Tala examined the flower, a chill crawling up her spine. It was no flower, but a thin sheet of yellow parchment folded into the shape of a flower. There was something written on it.

  She turned her back to Mairgrid, unfolded the flower, and read.

  Tell no one of this note or your cousin Lawri will die within a heartbeat, pierced by a poisoned dart from my own hand. Bear in mind, the knife I stabbed Lawri with was not the same knife I left on your stool last night. The knife I stabbed Lawri with was coated with a slow-working poison. She will die from this poison in the turning of a moon if you do not do exactly as I wish. Only I know where the antidote can be found. It will be hidden somewhere within Amadon. I will give you clues to its location from time to time.

  Lawri will grow more ill by the day. Delusional. In a few weeks completely mad. Bedridden. Within a few weeks of that she will be dead unless you follow my every instruction and complete every task I set upon you, tasks that are important not only to Lawri’s survival but also the very survival of Gul Kana. Think of it as a game. With each task you complete, the closer you will get to the antidote and saving Lawri, and the closer you are to fulfilling your destiny as the Princess of prophecy. Your first clue is this:

  Retrieve the red helm of the dead demon and read what is inscribed therein.

  The red helm of the dead demon? Tala’s eyes flew to the dead gladiator. The note couldn’t possibly refer to the spiked helmet worn by the Wyn Darrè gladiator.

  On the arena floor, Squireck was tearing the red armor from his vanquished foe. Once done, he gathered up the decapitated man’s sword and shield, placed the dead man’s red-spiked helm on his own head, and walked through the northern gate.

  Another man strode forth from the southern gate with a hot iron and branded the flesh of the corpse with the mark of Laijon—the four-pointed cross. Tala knew the branding served a threefold purpose: first, the Cross of Laijon brand was meant as a heavenly seal representing the criminal’s blood penitence for his crimes; second, it served as a conduit through which his soul could be escorted into the afterlife; and third, the hot iron was a means by which those faking death would be sufficiently roused back into battle. Yet in this instance, the severed head lying in the orchestra pit was proof enough that this particular gladiator was sufficiently dead.

  A horseman rode out from the southern gate, his sorrel charger long of mane, a thick rope and meat hook tied to the saddle horn. The rider dismounted, uncoiling the rope. He sank the hook into the flesh of the headless gladiator, climbed back upon his sorrel, and dragged the body away.

  With that, the crowd began to disperse in ferocious high spirits. But to Tala, it now seemed the world had somehow gone temporarily mad. Squireck a gladiator? Lawri poisoned? Retrieve the helm of a dead man?

  A brisk wind blew. The black-and-silver banners of Amadon snapped to attention and the petals of a thousand flowers kicked up and drifted about the arena like snow.

  * * *

  We journey most naturally in the state of deceit. Oh gentle and naive reader, so trusting and kind. I, your Blessed Mother Mia, beg of you, do not put faith in the writings of the Last Warrior Angels, for they set out to deceive the hearts of men after Laijon’s death. Like unto the mad illuminations of my son Raijael, The Way and Truth of Laijon—that whoredom of perverted history and falsehood the Last Warrior Angels have penned—is rife with lies.

  —THE MOON SCROLLS OF MIA

  * * *

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  JONDRALYN BRONACHELL

  17TH DAY OF THE SHROUDED MOON, 999TH YEAR OF LAIJON

  AMADON, GUL KANA

  Jondralyn immediately loved the place. Despite the confines of the hood she kept pulled over her head, she saw enough. The first thing she noticed about the Filthy Horse Saloon was its sour stench and the wretchedness of its patrons. It was a dusky, smoke-filled place with low-slung beams complete with a motley collection of sailing decor: wheels, flags, oars, nets, planks, harpoons, hooks, anchors, and the like. It reminded her of being inside the bulwarks of a heavy-timbered sailing vessel.

  Hawkwood had chosen a table in the back corner of the tavern with a clear view of the entrance. He placed his hand in the small of her back and guided her to a seat opposite the dwarf. She was both irritated and thrilled at his touch. He sat to her left, eyes on hers. Sometimes she found she could not meet Hawkwood’s dark, devouring orbs. As if the very moment her eyes met his, he would somehow gain the upper hand. She wanted the control in the relationship. And she feared she’d been slowly losing that advantage over the last year with his every mysterious look. What are you thinking? She wondered if she would ever plumb his depths. Who exactly are you? She knew there were many types of suitors, and Hawkwood seemed the wrong type for her in every way.

  “You have a way of locating only the finest establishments.” Her comment was directed toward Roguemoore, who was sitting at the table opposite her. “And it stinks.”

  “It’s a trifle unfair to single out this locale,” Roguemoore said with a smile, “when this entire city stinks of rubbish. Besides, I didn’t choose it.”

  The dwarf had drawn unfriendly stares as they’d entered the tavern. Perhaps it was the heavy mace bristling with sharp spikes strapped to his back. They were all well-armed. Jondralyn bore a shortsword under her cloak. Hawkwood had two cutlasses slung over his back, the hilt-guards of each sprouting a profusion of serrated spikes.

  Several burly sailors, looking none too sober, beards as woolly as unshorn sheep, crouched around a stew pot hanging over a fire pit in the center of the tavern. They eyed Roguemoore stil
l. The unkempt men were roasting strips of salmon on sticks, the crackling light of the fire dancing over their crude tattoos and body piercings.

  Indeed, at a glance, the Filthy Horse was certainly a sight, what with its food-stained bar, unswept floors, nasty spittoons, vulgar sailors, plump and ugly serving wenches, and underlying smell of tar and grayken oil. This establishment would never suit the king’s councillors, or, more importantly, Jovan. Nobody of the court was liable to recognize them here. And just to be safe, Jondralyn, the most recognizable of the three, kept herself covered under cloak and hood. After all, her likeness was on every copper in Gul Kana.

  “I have the uneasy feeling we were followed,” the dwarf said.

  “Someone was indeed skulking behind us,” Hawkwood said, “for a time.”

  That surprised Jondralyn. She had been unaware of anyone lurking about. Still, she wanted to add something to the conversation. “Perhaps it was the Bloodwood who attacked Tala and Lawri who now stalks us.”

  Hawkwood shrugged. And in his casual shrug, she glimpsed what he might have looked like as a young man. Jovan had once snidely called Hawkwood “beautiful,” and he was. There was something both manly and lovely about his face, the angles, the shadows, the way his long, dark hair framed his cheekbones. And the tone in his voice when he said her name would set wing to her heart. Hawkwood was a distraction for her; sometimes it was enough just to be near him and hear him speak. It didn’t matter about what, be it danger or assassins following them. Anything he said could arouse her interest.