The Forgetting Moon

by Brian Lee Durfee

  “The tavern girl who stabbed Jovan, is she your lover?” he asked. “Do you fancy other women?”

  “Don’t be horrid.” Tala stood. He stood too and made his way around the table toward her. She backed away from him. But he closed the gap quickly.

  Taking her hands in his, he looked deeply into her eyes. “I know which cell they keep the girl in. I would surely love to watch you with her.”

  She tried to pull away. But his grip was strong, and he held her hands fast.

  “I saw you kiss Lindholf.” An edge of coldness showed in his voice. “Incest with your own cousin? Is that how Jovan wants you to act? Perhaps it is Lindholf with whom you share your secrets.”

  “Why are you so mean all the time?” Her question came out as more of a pleading whine than she would have liked. “I won’t have you treat me like you treat Lindholf. Let me go!”

  He withdrew his hands from hers and looked away. “I think you are very beautiful,” he said. “Ofttimes that makes a man act in ways less than appropriate.”

  “I do not care if you think me pretty,” she said. “A woman wants to know what a man thinks of her heart and her soul. I want a man to like me for what is in my head. I want a man to value my opinions.”

  His eyes roamed the room, looking at everything else but her.

  He leaned in and kissed her then—a gentle and tender kiss that lasted a short and sweet eternity. And during the kiss, his hand touched her cheek softly. And when he pulled away from her, his eyes met hers again. “That’s what’s in my heart,” he said.

  At this moment, she could almost melt into his arms and weep. Tears welled in her eyes now. A kiss wasn’t necessarily what she’d wanted from him. But the fact that someone was showing her any affection at all meant a great deal. Nobody had held her since her mother had died. Nobody. She wrapped her arms around him and clutched him close, her head resting on his shoulder. And before she knew it, she was whispering in his ear.

  The story that she’d been hiding from everyone these past few days spilled forth in fragments and bursts, interrupted only by more unwanted crying on her part. But she told him most everything from the start: the Bloodwood, the stabbing of Lawri, the poison, the notes, the clues—though she did not tell him about the note she had just left for the Bloodwood on the balcony this morning, nor the fact that the Bloodwood had given her the task of kissing both him and Lindholf on the final night of the Mourning Moon Celebration. The disgusting thing she’d seen between the grand vicar and Lawri she pinned on Sterling Prentiss. She didn’t know why she did it, but she did. She accused the captain of the Dayknights of molesting her cousin. It was her one outright lie. Yet in telling Glade as much as she had, a weight was lifted from her shoulders. She felt as light as a feather now, almost airy. A flood of relief spilled from her and she found herself clinging to his broad shoulders as she wept, glad that he was there as the waves of sorrow spilled out. Finally, she might have someone to discuss her problems with—a confidant.

  But when she pulled back and looked into his eyes, she knew she had once again misjudged him. He broke away from her embrace. That hard cockiness had gathered in his eyes again. He gripped her shoulders. There was a certain cunning in his voice now. “An odd story you tell. Assassins. Poison. Clues. What’s the point of it? A fanciful bard’s tale or something. Nonsensical. And Prentiss touching Lawri like that?” Abhorrence was on his face. “For my part, I think you’ve made the whole thing up.” He released his hold on her.

  Tala’s heart was slaughtered. She couldn’t even breathe.

  “Well,” he said, grinning. “Now that you know how I feel, I shouldn’t tarry. Things being as they are, it’s best none of us show up late for the gladiator match this afternoon. We might be implicated in some outlandish crime—that’s if we don’t have an alibi for our whereabouts at all times.”

  As he pulled his chain-mace toy from the folds of his jerkin and walked out of Sunbird Hall, spinning the fist-sized balls in a blur as he went, the hurt and rage boiled up so quickly within her she could scarcely see. Gasping, she dashed up the stairs onto the balcony, taking in long breaths of the crisp morning air. Her insides burned with fury, and her tears blurred the bright sky overhead. So she rubbed the tears away, closed her eyes, clenched them tight, and pounded the railing in front of her with her fists, contemplating just throwing herself over it. When she opened her eyes, she saw the note she had left under the vine.

  She snatched the slip of paper up in her trembling hands, meaning to rip it to shreds and toss it over the balcony to scatter to the sea. But it was folded so crisply, so cleanly. The thought of the care and precision she’d taken whilst writing it made her want to vomit. She unfolded it roughly—roughly on purpose, hoping to destroy it before she was forced to read her own stupid, insipid, carefully thought out words.

  But it wasn’t her words she found staring back at her. This wasn’t the note she had left at all! Her note was gone. This was the Bloodwood’s response.

  You are on the right path. But you must search deeper. Only when you discover the truth about Jovan and Denarius shall you risk leaving another note. Be careful who you confide in lest they betray you to Lawri’s ruin.

  I warn you but once: trust no one unless I instruct you otherwise.

  * * *

  Though many will be blamed for the death of my beloved, I say unto you, the fall of Laijon was the work of one person and one person alone. Laijon was betrayed by the Fifth Warrior Angel. Some called her Assassin; I call her Betrayer, but history knows her better as the Last Demon Lord.

  —THE MOON SCROLLS OF MIA

  * * *

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  JONDRALYN BRONACHELL

  7TH DAY OF THE MOURNING MOON, 999TH YEAR OF LAIJON

  AMADON, GUL KANA

  Val-Draekin’s thin rapier was aimed straight for Jondralyn’s chest, coming swiftly. She drew her arm up to parry with her own thicker sword, blocking the Vallè’s stab. The hum of the blades vibrated the air as Val-Draekin’s strike was turned aside.

  “Very good,” the Vallè said, and backed away. But his retreat was brief. He lunged forward again, swinging from above. Jondralyn watched the blade come down and withdrew her own blade, concentrating on her form and footwork. Val-Draekin’s blade came sweeping past her face, making the air cry.

  “Are you mad?” she exclaimed, stabbing her own blade toward the Vallè’s feet.

  “Quite mad,” Val-Draekin responded, leaping, kicking the sword from her hand.

  Jondralyn stood there, angry with herself. “I’ll never get it. With one arm injured, you can still best me in less than two moves.”

  “No matter,” the Vallè said, picking up her sword and handing it over. “You’ll get it soon enough.”

  “You can teach me foot movements and stances and pirouettes all day, but I’ll never get it.”

  “It comes easily to few, if any. Most moves can’t be perfected for years.”

  Jondralyn sheathed her sword, mad at the clunky thing for betraying her time and again—the Vallè’s wispy rapier seemed far more useful in a fight. She just wanted to plop down on the nearby bench and rest.

  “I reckon I’ve stabbed the straw man a thousand times,” she said. “And the stuffed bastard has wrenched the blade from my hand more times than I can count.” Her eyes traveled up the jumble of dark stone walls around her. There was naught save the hollow windows and arches and spires of Amadon Castle leering down upon her pathetic courtyard. “I can’t even best an inanimate object.”

  Val-Draekin leaned against one of the wooden pillars that lined the yard near the bench. “Most humans wield a sword about as gracefully as a potbellied hay farmer swings a pitchfork. You must come to worship your blade as you worship Laijon. The Vallè believe that their souls live in their weapons. You must think of your blade as your lover. Become like the Vallè and find a weapon that steals your very soul.”

  Val-Draekin lifted his blade and sighted down its length. �
��You’ve got the talent to grow beyond what most humans can do, Jondralyn. You’re tall and athletic. With the right weapon in your hand, you could be formidable indeed.”

  She perked up at the praise. “The Vallè are blessed with speed. Like your two countrymen who will fight in the arena this afternoon against Squireck and Shkill Gha. Val-Ce-Laveroc and Val-Rievaux. They are not strong. The swords they use are crafted of the flimsiest of steel. And yet they kill with such swiftness and skill.”

  “Speed is good.” Val-Draekin still examined his sword, running lithe fingers down its sharp steel edge. His shoulder was no longer wrapped in a sling, yet he still favored his injured arm some. “But there is advantage in brute strength, too. I daresay Squireck is the best fighter Amadon has ever known, a combination of both power and speed. He is like no gladiator I’ve seen. I doubt my Vallè countrymen can kill him.”

  She sat on the cold stone bench near Val-Draekin and thought of her once betrothed. “Could I be as good as Squireck someday?”

  “The secret to winning a sword fight is to keep moving.” Val-Draekin sheathed his own blade. “Dance, even. Make your foe respond with awkward moves, keep him off balance. Do the expected as much as the unexpected. All fighters have mannerisms that give them away to one with an earnest eye. Some men will furrow their brows before they strike, or widen their eyes; some will take a step back, some forward, or drop their shoulders, twitch their fingers, or lick their lips, any number of things. In time, I believe you will come to pick up on these cues as the Prince of Saint Only has. The bad habits of others will give you that precious heartbeat’s advantage. Squireck does all these as naturally as a ballet dancer. There are few in this world who could best him, and certainly none left in the arena bouts. Neither one of the two Vallè nor the oghul will beat the Prince of Saint Only. His victory is assured. I daresay only one who was trained as a Bloodwood could kill Squireck.”

  “What do you know of the Bloodwood?” she asked.

  “That they are unequaled in the art of death.”

  It was subtle, but Jondralyn detected that the Vallè’s eyes scanned the surrounding castle and its hundreds of turrets and battlements above as he’d spoken. There was now a hint of nervousness in Val-Draekin that she had never seen before. It roused her suspicions—suspicions that had never really left her since meeting the Vallè in the Filthy Horse Saloon. “Who are you?” she asked.

  Val-Draekin tipped his head to the side, green eyes gazing down at her curiously. The gesture reminded her of a cat she’d once had as a youngster—a very curious cat who would hunker down and cock his head and stare with two big glowing orbs before pouncing on a toy she’d tossed on the cobbles. The dwarf had told her that Val-Draekin might be one of the Five Warrior Angels returned, along with her. But was he? And did he know?

  “Who are you?” she repeated, undaunted.

  There was amusement in Val-Draekin’s eyes. “Roguemoore and I share similar scholarly interests.”

  “That doesn’t answer my question.”

  “I think it does.” There was an openness in his voice as he continued, “If you think on it for but a moment, the answer you want shall come. If you desire to become one of the Brethren, you must learn how to decipher deep mysteries on your own.”

  Jondralyn did not like that answer. “I know enough. Tell me, why did you make such an entrance into the Filthy Horse Saloon two weeks ago?”

  “I was testing someone.”

  “So your grand entry into the saloon was all a ruse.” Irritation was growing inside of her. She remembered with great clarity how much of a fool she had made of herself that night in defense of the Vallè. “The whole thing was all just some game between you and the dwarf? Or a game with someone else? Me?”

  “I wouldn’t call it a game.” It was quick, but before he spoke, the Vallè’s eyes did another tour of the surrounding castle, drinking it all in. “Rest assured, Jondralyn. I am quite harmless.” Then his eyes returned to their dark and impenetrable normality.

  “Harmless?” She stood. “I’ve seen you with a blade. Why barge into the Filthy Horse and start such a row?”

  “Like I said, it was a test.” Val-Draekin drew his sword again, holding it out in his slender, unsettlingly graceful hand, sighting down it again with one cold, keen eye. “A test to see if certain people were worthy of my attention, a test to see how serious they were.”

  “Roguemoore does not fully trust you, you know.”

  Val-Draekin gave her a blank stare over the gleaming steel of his rapier. He looked dangerous with the cold blade up to his eye like that.

  “Are you one of the Brethren of Mia?” Jondralyn placed her hand on his knee. She wondered how far she dared tread with her questioning and comments. “Was it the barmaid, Delia, you were testing? Did you have anything to do with the assassination attempt on Jovan?”

  Val-Draekin lowered his blade quietly and slowly shook his head. He sat on the bench beside her.

  “And I’m to believe you?” she asked.

  “You must follow your heart in all things. That is the way of the Brethren. Trust no one. Right?”

  It seemed the Vallè was set on merely bandying words back and forth. Jondralyn had harbored no suspicion that Val-Draekin was responsible for the assassination attempt. But now, everything seemed a secret with him. The secret to winning a sword fight is to keep moving. Dance, even, the Vallè had said earlier. Make your foe respond with awkward moves, keep him off balance. Do the expected as much as the unexpected. And it appeared this was also true of the way the Val-Draekin chose to conduct what should be a simple conversation. Well, Jondralyn decided, she could play that game too. She kept her hand where it was on his leg. “You gave Roguemoore a coin. What was that?”

  “Has he shown it to anyone else that you know of?”

  She didn’t like her questions followed with another question of his own. “Why does the dwarf not completely trust you?”

  “Some may think of me as naught but a thief and the son of a hog farmer,” Val-Draekin said with a rueful smile. “But the dwarf is one of the few in the Five Isles who knows my true nature.” Shifting his position on the bench so that her hand slid off his leg, he pulled out a whetstone from the folds of his tunic and began honing his blade with it. “Everything is set to fall into place at the end. The dwarf has seen to it. Trust that. But if Roguemoore has not yet chosen to tell you who I am, then far be it from me to step in and reveal things that I should not.”

  “Well, the dwarf is not here.” Jondralyn was annoyed that the Vallè had again dodged her so effortlessly. “Why don’t you just tell me, since Roguemoore cannot?”

  The Vallè’s alert eyes, under piercing brows, were as sharp as daggers now as he calmly honed his blade with the whetstone. Jondralyn drew back from him, wary. The Way and Truth of Laijon hinted at the Vallè’s facility to discern one’s thoughts. She had always felt safe within her own head, within her own mind. But it now seemed this Vallè was working some form of witchery on her—trying to read her, as if the very power of his wintry eyes could crack open her skull and leach her thoughts right out of it. She could feel him pulling at her now. It was as if she stood at the edge of an abyss, losing all sense of balance.

  “Why cannot Roguemoore answer your question?” Val-Draekin asked, the whetstone sliding up the blade with a faint, keening wail.

  Jondralyn, confused even more, answered the obvious. “Because he is not here.”

  “And where is he?” the Vallè asked, unblinking eyes fixed on her.

  And she nearly answered, After finding Ethic Shroud and one of the lost angel stones in the Rooms of Sorrow under the city, the dwarf and Hawkwood boarded a sailboat bound for Eskander. They are on their way to an abbey in the Autumn Range—but then caught her tongue. So this is why Roguemoore wanted me to keep Val-Draekin close. To see if I can figure out what information the Vallè knows and what he does not.

  The dwarf claimed that the Vallè was a descendent of one of the Five
Warrior Angels. And I’m a descendent too? Everyone knew the stories of the Five Warrior Angels. The Way and Truth of Laijon spoke of the five as the Princess, Gladiator, Thief, Assassin, and Slave. But other than Laijon, known as the Slave, or sometimes as the King of Slaves, the scriptures had never mentioned the names of the other four Warrior Angels. But I am the Princess. He is the Thief. A chill crawled up her spine as Val-Draekin’s eyes continued to bore into hers. She’d just assumed that this dark-haired Vallè knew where Roguemoore and Hawkwood were. But it was now apparent that he didn’t.

  “Well,” Jondralyn said flatly, breaking her gaze from that of the Vallè, “if Roguemoore has not yet chosen to tell you where he went, then far be it for me to reveal things that I should not.” She stood from the bench and stalked away, leaving Val-Draekin sitting alone in the courtyard, still honing his blade with the whetstone.

  Sweat rolled down Jondralyn’s face and under her sodden shirt as Anjk Bourbon swung the iron-studded maul up and around and straight back down. She ducked away, sending the hunk of iron pounding into the ground in a cloud of dust. It was an agile, Vallè-like move, and Jondralyn was proud of herself for managing it.

  She could hear the distant roar of the frenzied crowd as she swung her sword at the oghul. But the beast jumped away, tossing the maul—his only weapon—aside. It was a foolish move to be sure, and Jondralyn grinned in triumph. But she realized a moment too late that the move was meant to distract. Anjk struck her, open-handed, in the face. She was sent sprawling sideways to the ground, her sword spinning away.

  With a feverish roar, the arena crowd across town groaned and then booed.

  For an instant, Jondralyn lay there, face in the dirt, paralyzed with shock. The entire left side of her head throbbed in pain. Fury swept through her system. She hurled herself from the ground straight up at Anjk, who sidestepped, tripping her to the ground again. Another thunder of boos cascaded over them.