The Forgetting Moon

by Brian Lee Durfee

  Jondralyn moved silently up behind the dwarf and peered over his shoulder. A low fog hung about the base of the lighthouse. Moonlight bathed the isle in a wan gray light, dimly illuminating the mass of jagged rock formations that jutted up around the narrow building. There were a thousand shapes and shadows amongst those pale rocks, some just indistinct forms bulging out of the moonlit vapors. High above, the lighthouse flame did little to light the island, but at ground level it did create tendrils of mist the color of bone. She thought she heard the rustling of the sea grass, but there was no breeze. Nothing at all moved among the lichen-covered rocks but the listless swirls of fog. Her heart raced just the same.

  “I see him,” Hawkwood said. There was a rare tension in his stance. “Look, dwarf, there under the T-shaped crag in the boulder just left of the lighthouse.”

  “Aye,” Roguemoore offered up slowly. “The bloody bastard. Just standing there in plain view. Lookin’ right at us. Our Bloodwood assassin. Up from the tunnels.”

  Jondralyn searched the bleak darkness, yet she saw nothing. Her eyes roamed the jumble of rock and shadow, traveling up the spire of the lighthouse itself and even beyond that to the looming bulk of Amadon Castle itself. Points of fiery light stood out from torches lining its many battlements and towering spires. Even from where she stood in this small abbey a mile away, the castle towered over the bay and blocked out the stars. Amadon Castle originally started as a fort thousands of years before the birth of Laijon, built atop Mount Albion against Vallè invasions and raids of the savage oghul tribes of the north. It had grown upon itself exponentially over the centuries, spreading down all sides of the mount to become the colossus it was now.

  And in that time was a thousand years’ worth of different folks digging around for different purposes under the castle, mount, and city, all the tunnels and carvers and hidey-holes creating an interconnected labyrinth of passages that led everywhere. That underground streams and rooms of treasure and tunnels stretched even under Memory Bay as far as this lighthouse boggled her mind. Who would think to dig under the sea?

  She finally spied what she thought was a hooded shadow under the lighthouse, darker than the rest. It was an unholy blackness awash in evil, and with it came a feeling of danger. She shuddered, her eyes riveted to the cloaked form that seemed to swallow the moonlight. This thing, this Bloodwood assassin, leaned languidly against the rock. It moved then, seeming to fade in and out of existence.

  “He approaches,” Roguemoore said.

  “He wants to be seen,” Hawkwood said. “He wants us to think that he has heard all we’ve said.”

  “Do you recognize who it is?” the dwarf asked.

  “If it were my brother, we’d all be fighting for our lives right now,” Hawkwood said. “I fear this Bloodwood is one I do not know. One who joined Black Dugal’s Caste after I fled Sør Sevier, someone with movements I am unfamiliar with.”

  “What is Dugal’s game?” Roguemoore growled.

  “I know not,” Hawkwood said. “Lucky I spotted the Bloodwood quick. He never came close enough to hear us. I am sure of that. Still, we must remain wary. And if he came up from a tunnel, that means he has no boat, which means we should be safe. We can get back to the Rooms of Sorrow without him knowing. He will figure we are sailing into the darkness to escape him. But we must leave in haste.”

  The cloaked figure slunk back into the shadows, and just like that there was nothing. “Gone,” Roguemoore said.

  “Aye,” Hawkwood agreed. “Perhaps.” Then Jondralyn felt Hawkwood’s hand unexpectedly in hers. Their fingers entwined. Her heart pounded. Then, like a whisper, his hand was gone. But a slip of parchment was left behind. She quickly slipped the note into the folds of her cloak. Neither Culpa nor the dwarf had seen.

  Hawkwood snatched up Ethic Shroud from the bench and led them all silently from the abbey and to the two boats awaiting them. All of them were on guard.

  Jondralyn sat on a bench in the privacy of her courtyard, tired, yet unable to sleep.

  It had been a full day. By the time she was back to her room, it was nearly dawn. There were no further sightings of the Bloodwood on her and Culpa Barra’s journey back to the castle via the extra boat they had brought. Her eyes were heavy-lidded as she gazed up at the faint light emanating from the many torch-lit towers of the castle above.

  She took from her cloak the parchment Hawkwood had earlier slipped into her hand and unfolded it. She could tell right away it was a crudely drawn map from the dungeons under Purgatory to the Rooms of Sorrow, where he had found Ethic Shroud and the angel stone. The map did not show the back entrance to the Rooms of Sorrow that Hawkwood would presumably be using tonight to return the shield and stone. But it did show the way from Purgatory. She knew immediately why he had given it to her—in case something were to happen to him, she would still have access to Ethic Shroud.

  And then the ink, exposed to light, slowly faded away and the page was blank. To read it again, she would need Roguemoore’s lavender deje powder. She folded the map and entered her room and headed straight for her bookshelf. On the top shelf, behind the third book from the left, was a small panel. She hid the parchment there, eyes roaming the walls round about, wondering if the Bloodwood watched her now. Am I to be this paranoid the rest of my life? Is this what being privy to the Brethren’s secrets means?

  Wearily, she took off her black riding boots and slipped on her leather training boots, then stood. Her leather armor hung on a hook on a post behind her bench. She quietly slipped out of her cloak and into the leathers.

  Resolute, she marched from her room. Her destination: Anjk Bourbon’s smith shop in the market district, and another day of training. As she left her room, she had but one lingering question on her mind.

  Am I truly the Princess who will lead armies?

  * * *

  And it came to pass that in the place of Only was born a boy, the firstborn son of a fisherman, a humble child who followed in the footsteps of his goodly father, living and fishing and growing strong by the sea, killing merfolk and shark and grayken alike with the strength of his own hands. And his name was Laijon.

  —THE WAY AND TRUTH OF LAIJON

  * * *

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  TALA BRONACHELL

  4TH DAY OF THE MOURNING MOON, 999TH YEAR OF LAIJON

  AMADON, GUL KANA

  It takes my breath away,” Lindholf Le Graven said, gazing at the four-story edifice that was the Grand Vicar’s Palace. Sheathed in white marble gilded in gold, it rose up between the gray, brick, mortar, and timber buildings of the surrounding city like a bright shard of heaven, serene and refined. “But it seems so gaudy.”

  “Denarius and the quorum of five live well,” Glade Chaparral said as if lecturing Tala’s cousin. “As is their right.” As their horse-drawn carriage rumbled over the cobblestones, the streets of Amadon were teeming with people. A Silver Guard led the team of horses, Glade Chaparral at his side. Tala and Lindholf sat directly behind them in the open carriage. Tala was swathed in a heavy cloak of brown wool. A detachment of a dozen spear-wielding Silver Guards escorted their carriage on horseback. Glade continued, “When one is called as grand vicar, he takes upon himself the mantle of Laijon. His word is law. When Denarius speaks, it is as if Laijon has spoken. One such as that should live in a palace.”

  Tala wasn’t sure about all that. Yet Glade seemed so sure of his viewpoint all the time. Sometimes he could wear his opinions, as well as his looks, with unbearable conceit. Yet that, in a strange way, was one of the things that drew Tala to him. One thing was for sure: these quests the Bloodwood had set her upon were also affording her an opportunity to be near Glade.

  As they continued down the thoroughfare, Tala cast one last glance at the opulent building, home to the most powerful religious figure in the Five Isles, and its glittering, gold-trimmed, ornamented facade. She wished she could see Grand Vicar Denarius as the perfect man Glade thought him to be. But she had spent too much time i
n Denarius’ company for that—she’d witnessed his gluttony firsthand. Not that overeating was a direct pathway to the underworld. The sight of the gladiator’s mangled head sliding down the front of his cassock still brought a shudder to her. My poor Lawri.

  As their carriage bounced along, they passed under a section of the city’s aqueducts, and Tala now remembered why the place stank so. They were nearing the River Vallè. Aqueducts from as far away as the Autumn Range and the northern Sky Lochs brought cool mountain water into the city. The River Vallè itself was mostly for sewage. Human waste and other sloshing refuse would be wheeled in barrels and dumped into it. It was widely known that the riverside district was the haunt of the bloodletters and covens of witches. That the Grand Vicar’s Palace, and both the Royal Cathedral and Temple of the Laijon Statue, were near such dreadful places made Tala shudder.

  Still, this new quest to save Lawri was a diversion that held some measure of excitement. Without it, Tala felt she would be driven mad with the unmerciful sameness of life in the castle. This assassin’s puzzle, this game, now that she was sure she had figured out the clue of the wreath, was putting Tala in better spirits. Lindholf also appeared to be in good spirits. There was a spring in his step today, and he’d been full of more chatter than normal, spontaneously singing wonderfully absurd songs on their journey from the castle and recounting several maddeningly intricate tales of his hunting exploits in Eskander, each story ending with a belly laugh for Tala. She had delighted in his antics. At the same time, she knew she should feel guilty for enjoying her adventures with him, adventures that she had been set upon at Lawri’s expense.

  The carriage rounded a corner, and the Royal Cathedral and the Temple of the Laijon Statue stood before them. Both edifices soared at least three hundred feet above the cobbled pavement and were constructed of brilliant ivory-color Riven Rock–quarried marble. Knights with pikes lined the entrances of both the temple and chapel, all wearing the black-and-silver livery that marked them as Amadon Silver Guards. They kept a trained eye on the comings and goings of all.

  When the carriage clattered to a stop, Tala, Glade, and Lindholf hopped from it and marched up to the fountain in the center of the temple’s outer courtyard, accompanied by six of their Silver Guard escort. The fountain was surrounded by marble pillars carved with crescent moon charms, crosses, black Laijon trees, and other sacred symbols. Water splashed about the base of the fountain, yet was calmer along the outer edges and afloat with flowers. A crowd swirled around the temple’s arched entrance. A host of pilgrims and worshippers bringing their tithes clogged the stairs leading up to the great opening. A group of flagellants were clustered there too, all whipping their own naked backs for forgiveness and penance for sins of the flesh.

  As her group hustled up the stairs and through the archway and into the cooler shade of the building, the crowds stepped aside. Once they were inside the foyer, the noise of the city was reduced to a faint, subdued thrum. Tala immediately sought the holy Ember Stone, a round dais at the center of the lobby. She knew from her Eighth Day lessons that the temple’s Ember Stone had been laid in the second century after Laijon’s death. It was hard to fathom such a breadth of time.

  She dabbed some ash from the stone basin set upon the dais, touched her forehead with the ash, and made the three-fingered sign of the Laijon Cross over her heart. She allowed Lindholf and Glade the same privilege. A bell sounded and the small choir in the balcony above began to sing. A pair of bishops walked by, swinging copper jars of smoky incense before them. Tala drank in the sounds of the choir and fragrance of the moment, then proceeded toward the huge polished doors to the temple’s inner dome.

  Two Silver Guards snapped to attention, and one pulled on a braided rope. The door swung open without a sound and Tala, Glade, Lindholf and their six Silver Guard escort were let inside. A handful of other worshippers scuttled in behind them, and the guards closed the doors.

  Tala was always struck by the majesty of the place and the vast chamber’s impossible height. She couldn’t help but stare straight up, her eyes drawn to the domed ceiling three hundred feet above. She turned her gaze from the perfectly circular ceiling and looked upon the inner temple itself, eyes roaming, searching. The coils of smoke from a thousand candles sailed heavenward. The place was silent save for the occasional creak of shoe leather on the marble tile floor and the faint whispers of the temple’s occupants. Silver Guard spearmen stood like statues along the curved walls, their armor and spearheads gleaming, their shields black and painted with the silver symbol of the Laijon tree. There were discreet crossbowmen along the second-story gallery as well. Hidden in the shadows, their ring mail glimmered faintly. Above the gallery, stained-glass windows sparkled jewel-like, resplendent with graceful reflections of sunlight. It was a holy place, and the Quorum of Five Archbishops of Amadon insisted it always be heavily protected from criminal activity. Several dozen citizens were milling about the chamber, admiring the statue.

  In the center of the vast room, upon a ten-foot-high raised dais of splendorous gray-veined pale stone, stood the great Laijon statue itself, over five stories tall from head to feet. The likeness of Laijon was carved of pure Riven Rock marble, one muscular arm held aloft and a great silvery sword in that hand pointing heavenward. A wreath of heather crowned the statue’s head, and Laijon’s gaze was fixed heavenward. The statue’s intricately carved chain-mail armor sparkled in the light. Booted feet were planted firmly upon the dais. The tiered stone dais was ringed by five massive black-and-silver iron cauldrons from which incense smoke swirled. Each cauldron was set firmly upon the back of a life-size marble-carved ox. The creatures’ heads and great horns faced outward as if guarding both the statue of Laijon and the cauldrons upon their backs. Each cauldron’s surface was carved with divine symbols inlaid in white, black, green, blue, and red, each a representation of the magical stones and weapons of the Five Warrior Angels: Blackest Heart, Ethic Shroud, Forgetting Moon, Lonesome Crown, and Afflicted Fire—the Five Pillars of Laijon.

  This was the great statue of Laijon—the reason for the construction of such a massive temple. It was a place of worship and pilgrimage, the focal point of both faith and art in all the Five Isles. Some would come from the far reaches of Gul Kana to stare at it for days, to cleanse the spirit, or just be near the likeness of their great One and Only.

  “I haven’t seen anything so awe-inspiring and brilliant since I slithered free of Mother’s womb into the sun-drenched snowfields of Eskander,” Lindholf murmured from behind her. “I’m apt to burst into a greater torrent of tears now as I gaze upon the blinding brightness of the great One and Only than I did as babe entering a new world.”

  “Mother Mia,” Glade snapped. “Your babbling is inappropriate, and liable to split my head in half. The more you blather on today, the more I wish I’d stayed at the castle.”

  “Pardon me,” Lindholf said, eyes still fixed upon the statue above. “I suppose I can see your point. I can wear on some folks.”

  Tala had coerced both Glade and Lindholf into accompanying her on this new adventure by claiming Hawkwood had specifically asked them to retrieve a note left at the temple and deliver it to Jondralyn. She believed both of them still held the man in high regard. They had talked of little else but Hawkwood’s duel with the Dayknights. As predicted, they’d jumped at the chance to help her.

  The three slowly circled the great work of art, the Silver Guard escorting them on all sides. The statue itself was roped off—none were allowed to get within ten paces of it. As she walked, hand brushing along the rope that encircled the statue, Tala cocked her head like a wary sparrow, gazing nervously up at the wreath that crowned Laijon’s head, her eyes traveling down the length of his body. But there was nothing there. No clue.

  Disheartened with each step, Tala began to wonder if this was truly where she was supposed to have come. Amadon Castle itself was filled with thousands of likenesses of Laijon: statues, bronzes, paintings, and tapestries. But search
ing all of those would take years, if not a lifetime. She continued to circle the statue, eyes even more focused, hoping that something would suggest itself.

  A Silver Guard not in her personal entourage moved briskly toward her and held out a gauntleted hand, stopping them. He removed his helm, revealing a head of thinning gray hair, and bent his knee before her. “I was not informed that one of the royal family would be coming to the temple today.” He placed his helm under the crook of his arm.

  “I’ve come to pray at the feet of Laijon,” Tala said.

  The gray-haired guard turned and gave a quick hand signal to the guardsmen above. Soon, all of the Silver Guards, including the six who had accompanied Tala’s small group from the castle, were ushering the common citizens from the inner dome.

  A bishop rushed forth and hurriedly anointed Glade, Lindholf, and Tala’s foreheads with consecrated oil from a bull-horn flask, then blessed them with a brief prayer and scuttled away behind the last of the guardsmen to exit the inner temple.

  “We should have been notified of this through the proper chain of command, through our captain, Ser Castlegrail,” the guardsman said, bowing. “It is customary that the temple be emptied for the arrival of any member of the king’s court.”

  “My comings and goings need not be announced to you,” Tala said. “I am here now and wish to pray.”

  The gray-haired guard’s face hardened at the abruptness of her words. Still, he bowed before her a second time. “As you wish, m’lady.”

  Tala injected an insolent tone into her voice. “I’ve come to pray on behalf of my dearly departed father and mother. I pray that that gruesome Prince of Saint Only will soon be vanquished in the arena and the traitor Hawkwood caught and hung. They are an affront to justice, an affront to the Silver Throne, and an affront to Laijon and our most holy vicar and quorum of five.” She knew that would be something the Silver Guard would want to hear.