Dark of the Moon

by P. C. Hodgell

  "BURN."

  The word seared her throat. She fell to her knees, gagging, as waves of heat rolled over her. Looking up, half dazed, she saw a wall of roaring flame just beyond the ash circle, rising, spreading backwards. Fiery motes stung her upturned face. The very sky seemed to be burning. For a moment, Jame believed she had fallen back into her nightmare, but then . . .

  Ancestors preserve me, she thought. I've set fire to the blizzard!

  Out in the heart of the flames, something screamed. A burning shape hurtled over the now defunct spell-ring. It somersaulted once in the melting snow to extinguish the flames, then came bounding forward. Jorin leaped to meet it. The creature sent him flying with a blow and came on. It looked like some warped parody of a wyrsa, but much larger and furred only in singed patches. Its fire-cast shadow, monstrously distorted, sprang on before it.

  Jame leaped to her feet, then went over backward as the thing crashed into her. She found herself sprawling on her back, staring up into a face that seemed to be all eyes, muzzle, and teeth. It was a changer out of Perimal Darkling, she realized, horrified, one of the Master's fallen Kencyr servants. Once this creature must have been as recognizably human as Jame herself, but that had been long, long ago.

  It grinned down at her. "Just like old times, eh? I always said Tirandys was a spoilsport for teaching you how to fight back."

  "What are you talking about?" She hardly recognized her own voice, breathless, cracking with near panic. "What do you want?"

  He laughed again, a half-mad sound. "Want? I? It's our master who wants, and what he wants is you. Naughty girl, to have run away from his house like that, after all the pains we took with you. But it's been a long, lean time up in these mountains, waiting for you to leave that god-ridden city. Master Gerridon can wait. My turn comes now."

  She had her hands braced against his shoulders, but that gloating face oozed down the length of her arms, changing shape as it came. Shreds of rotting meat were caught between his teeth. His breath stank.

  Then, abruptly, something blotted out the fiery sky behind him. The changer was wrenched away. Jame heard the crunch of bones as he landed a dozen feet away. She saw a huge, dark shape crouching over the changer and smelled the tang of wild musk. The Arrin-ken had arrived at last.

  So, Keral, well met again, purred a deep voice in Jame's mind. It's been a long time.

  "Not long enough," snarled the changer. "I think you've broken my legs."

  Have I? The Arrin-ken patted one of the creature's twisted limbs experimentally. The changer screamed. So I have. How clumsy of me. I meant to break your back.

  "You wouldn't dare! I am a favorite of the Master himself! Harm me, and he'll nail your mangy hide to his trophy wall with you still in it!"

  Foolish boy. I've already harmed you. The flesh of your kind heals quickly, but what a pity that bones take so much longer.

  The purr deepened. Through it ran changing depths, and a sudden sense of many voices plaited together like the currents of the sea.

  As for that wall, we remember it well, and the bloody hall where so many of our kind were slain the night Gerridon betrayed us all to Perimal Darkling and shadows swallowed the moon. We even remember how many Arrin-ken you blinded with live coals before your half-brother Tirandys stopped the fun. Indeed, Keral, we have looked forward to this meeting for a long time.

  The changer had begun to shake. "You think you're so noble, so wise," he spat. "So I'm the fool, am I, for having chosen the winning side and won immortality? You could rot for all your precious god cares, but I tell you my lord values me, as the Darkness does him, and both will avenge me!"

  The Devourer of Worlds values nothing that has outlived its usefulness, and as for your master, we suspect that he too will be glad to see the last of you. Look at yourself, Keral.

  The great cat opened wide his luminous eyes. In their depths, the changer saw himself, and flinched.

  Mirrors aren't to your liking anymore, are they? We remember when they were, but that was millennia ago. Since then, you say, you have become immortal. The Mistress reaped souls to keep Gerridon of Knorth young; but you have gained your "immortality" by coupling with the foulest shadows that creep in the farthest rooms of the Master's House, across the thresholds of a hundred fallen worlds. Now you crawl back to them whenever lust or severe injury drives you and find renewal in their arms.

  But they warp you, Keral, body and soul, more and more each time. Even now you can no longer hold any true shape. Soon you will crawl on your belly like some pallid slug until your very bones liquefy. What price immortality then? It would be more merciful to give you back to these flames, to a quick death.

  The changer gave a bleat of terror and tried to drag himself away, but the Arrin-ken pinned him, almost absentmindedly, with one great paw.

  Ah, yes, but are we inclined to be merciful? No, we think not. Good-bye, Keral. May you live a long, long time.

  With that, the huge beast reared up, black against the flames. As a cat might a mouse, he hooked the changer into the air and batted him into the chasm. Keral's scream faded into the distance, ending suddenly. Then the great cat turned to the fire and, in that silent voice woven of many voices, spoke a word. The flames died. Most of the storm had been consumed, leaving a night sky scattered with stars and lit by a full moon now just peering over the shoulder of Mount Timor. It shone on a mountainous landscape reduced almost to its underlying rocks. Water cascaded down them. Here and there, steam hissed up from heated stones. The Arrin-ken turned back to Jame.

  And now, as our friend said, "Your turn, Jamethiel."

  Jame tried to speak, but only managed to croak.

  Think it, child, said a cool, deep voice in her head. This time it spoke alone. Under it ran the detached murmur of those other voices which, Jame suddenly realized, must belong to the other Arrin-ken in their distant retreats. One had a rustle in it as if of dried leaves, another sparkled with the bright sound of a mountain stream, a third echoed to the sea's boom, and so on and on. They all seemed to be discussing her.

  W-we met once, in the hills above Tai-tastigon, she said silently to the great beast before her. You taught Jorin how to hunt and . . . and you at least weren't hostile to me. But now, somehow, I don't think I've been rescued.

  Not necessarily. Then, you see, I didn't know your name.

  "I'm not—" she began, then stopped, choking. I'm not Jamethiel Dream-Weaver. It may be my misfortune to be named after her, but surely it isn't my fault.

  Perhaps. So, not the Mistress, but in possession of the Master's property, or so he would claim, just as he claims the Ivory Knife and the Serpent-Skin Cloak, all kept by him in Perimal Darkling when the elder world fell. And yet here the Book is now. Are you a runaway Darkling?

  Jame stared up at him. I have been beyond the Barrier, yes, but I'm not a darkling. Sweet Trinity, can't you tell?

  Not easily. You have more than a touch of the Darkling glamour. Did you steal the Book?

  This brought Jame up short. The Master certainly hadn't given it to her. In fact, she suspected that everyone at her old home keep had been killed by Gerridon of Knorth when he had come there searching for both it and her. She had been a 'prentice thief in Tai-tastigon with the priest Ishtiér's grudging permission, provided she never stole from one of her own kind. Her honor had depended on that. But had she already forfeited it by stealing from the Master? The past was an abyss into which only the faintest rays of light fell. What had she done in Perimal Darkling, and what had been done to her?

  The moon had slipped behind the Pass now. Fingers of shadow from the Ebonbane's ragged spine scrawled over what was left of the snowfield. The Arrin-ken sat watching Jame, his luminous, unblinking eyes a good three feet above her own. His outline had vanished altogether in the sudden gloom of moon-fall, but she felt his presence as one does that of some huge, immovable object in the dark.

  I'm on trial, she thought suddenly, with an involuntary shiver, and this is my judge.

>   Yes, she must have stolen the Book—but was the Master really of the Three People anymore? If he was, he was also still the rightful Highlord of the Kencyrath. But the Arrin-ken had stripped him of that title and given it to Glendar, his younger half-brother, who had then led the flight to Rathillien. So Gerridon of Knorth had indeed been judged a traitor, bereft of rights, and she hadn't stolen the Book at all but only retrieved it.

  Agreed.

  The silent word made Jame start. The Arrin-ken must have been following her thoughts as easily as if she had shouted them. Anger touched a spark to her already frayed nerves.

  If you already knew, why did you ask? Damnit, stop playing games!

  Amusement cool as a wind off the heights answered her.

  Ah, no. I may tease, but I also test. For those ignorant of the Law, some allowances are made. You are not ignorant, therefore you are responsible.

  Trinity! For what?

  Perhaps for everything.

  Abruptly, Jame felt another mind enter her own. Even though it was shielding itself, she felt as if the entire Ebonbane had just unfolded in her consciousness. Something stalked her through it on velvet paws. It followed the scent of certain memories and tracked them down . . .

  She was dancing at the Res aB'tyrr. Her career as the B'tyrr had begun when a rival innkeeper had sent ruffians to destroy the inn that had become her adopted home. To gain time, Cleppetty had told her to dance for the mob. She had, with great trepidation, not even sure that she knew how. But she did. Where had she learned this strange, intoxicating dance that somehow fed on those who watched it? What was it doing to them? To her? That worried her sometimes, but not now as she danced. Now there was only exultation, and growing hunger.

  She stood in the temple of her god. The priest Ishtiér, possessed, was booming obscure prophecies while in the outer corridors uncontrolled power ran mad. She must dance it down or they would all die, and she did.

  She knelt in the snows of the Ebonbane with the Book open on her knees and said, "BURN."

  "No!" Jame gasped, and wrenched her mind and memory free. It was the present again.

  The Arrin-ken's silent voice broke over her, implacable as the cold that shatters trees in winter, woven with the sounds of sea, desert, and forest. Child, you have perverted the Great Dance as your namesake did before you. You have also usurped a priest's authority and misused a Master Rune. We conclude that you are indeed a Darkling, in training if not in blood. On the whole, your intentions have been good, but your behavior has been reckless to the point of madness and your nascent powers barely under control. Three days ago, you nearly destroyed a city. Now, shall we let such a one as you loose on our poor, battered people? Answer, child.

  Jame stared at the great cat. She must say something—yes, no—but her mind had gone completely blank.

  Then there was a sound behind her. A hand came up over the edge of the crevasse and fumbled for a hold. Before the other one could appear, clutching the double headed war-axe, Jame was on her knees grabbing for Marc's sleeve.

  "Sorry it took me so long," he said apologetically, hauling himself up. "I heard you call, but I'd just landed on a scrap of a ledge down there and had the breath knocked out of me. Then it rained fire. Then a wyrsa fell on me—or at least I think it was a wyrsa. But what's happened here?"

  "Company," Jame croaked, indicating the huge, silent cat.

  Marc regarded the Arrin-ken with awe. Like most Kencyr, he had never seen one before. "My lord, your servant," he said formally. "So, everything has come out all right at last."

  "Not quite," said Jame, struggling to bring out the words. "I think . . . that he . . . means to kill me."

  "Kill you? But why?"

  "Because . . . of what I am."

  The big Kendar gave her a perplexed look. If he wondered what she meant, however, he didn't ask. Instead, almost absent-mindedly, he picked up his weapon.

  "Lord or no, I don't see how I can permit that."

  Jame was appalled. It might be pleasant on a winter's night to sit around the hearth discussing what chance a three hundred fifty pound, ninety-four year old axe-man would have against a six hundred pound, nearly immortal cat, but she had no desire to see it put to the test.

  "You idiot!" she croaked, stepping between them. "Before I'd . . . let you do that, I'd . . . chuck myself into . . . that damn crevasse."

  In an instant, impossibly, she was falling. The reeling darkness closed about her. No sky, no walls of rock, no ledge either. She had missed it. But she didn't miss the steep, rock studded slope below that broke both her fall and several ribs as she tumbled down it. A moment more in the air, and then a smashing blow. She was lying on the floor of the crevasse, face down in half-melted snow. Blood bubbled in her throat. When she tried to move and couldn't, she realized that her back was broken.

  Nearby, something stirred. Rocks shifted, grating, as a heavy body dragged itself painfully over them toward her. She couldn't even turn her head. The sound of hoarse breathing echoed off the chasm walls, nearer, nearer, and then came a low, ragged laugh.

  "My turn . . . again, Jamethiel."

  "That's enough," said a familiar voice sharply, as from a distance. "Stop it."

  She found herself huddled at the lip of the crevasse with Marc kneeling beside her, his big hands on her shoulders.

  "Did you hear me?" he said again, speaking over her head in an angrier tone than she had ever heard him use before. "I said, 'Stop it!' "

  The Arrin-ken sat like a boulder, watching them. This time, she realized, he had drawn not on her memories but on foreknowledge. That was exactly what it would be like to jump, to die down there in the dark, helpless at that creature's mercy.

  Your choice, Jamethiel.

  Suddenly, Jame was very, very angry. She shook off the Kendar's hands and rose. The mountain air still vibrated with the power set loose by the Master Rune, which the counter-sign had not wholly dispersed. With a sweeping, defiant gesture of the dark dance, she gathered in the errant force to tingle down exhausted nerves like strong wine on an empty stomach.

  "My choice." Her voice, stronger now, caught the same purring note as the Arrin-ken's but with an even colder undernote. "My choice! So I can jump or see you fight and probably kill my friend. But what if there's a third alternative? You like games, cat, don't you? Well, perhaps it's your turn to play 'Mouse.'"

  "Lass, don't . . ."

  Marc touched her arm, then recoiled with a sharp exclamation. His hand shook as if with sudden palsy. Jame hardly noticed. With the abrupt influx of power, the night had seemed to unfold around her. She felt the patterns of force that wove through it: the vipers' knot of energy to the east that was Tai-tastigon, still seething after three days; the changer's hectic heartbeat as he lay in the cold, open grave of the crevasse; but before her sat the Arrin-ken, like some great rock around which all currents must flow. When she probed for the patterns that made up his life, her mind slid off them as if off rimed marble. His aloofness provoked her. She would weave the dance around him. She would lure him out of his inner citadel and . . . and . . . what?

  Strange thoughts stirred in the depths of Jame's mind, and a stranger hunger that she remembered as if from some half-forgotten dream. It would be sweet to reap the soul of an Arrin-ken.

  But what was that? The very night seemed to shift, as though shockwaves rippled through it. The Arrin-ken's massive head lifted. He had felt it, too. The mountains to the north blotted out much of the sky, but behind their peaks a light grew. It became brighter, brighter, and then its source shot into view, blazing like a comet. Jame thought she saw a figure at its heart, dancing down through the night. She found the Arrin-ken standing at her side.

  I was wrong. The Master wants his pet changer back after all. Beware her touch.

  Her?

  The light shot overhead. It circled the field and came flashing back. For a moment, it hovered over the crevasse, then Jame felt its attention shift. It landed. Gliding toward her like a sleepwalk
er was the most beautiful woman she had ever seen, and one whom, surely, she had seen somewhere before. But her mind didn't seem to be working properly. She couldn't think, couldn't even move as the other reached out to her. A slim, ivory hand touched her cheek. The woman was smiling dreamily at her, murmuring . . . something, but all Jame heard was a great buzzing in her ears. Her borrowed power flowed from her like blood from a gaping wound. She felt as if her very soul was about to be ripped away. The woman's eyes were a cool, almost inhuman silver, but their pupils plunged down, down beneath the dreaming face. In their depths, on the edge of black chaos, a white figure danced on and on desperately, as if afraid to stop. Jame plummeted toward her. The woman raised her head . . . and abruptly Jame found herself on the ground with the Arrin-ken crouching between her and the shining woman.

  Mistress, take what you came for and go. Nothing else here belongs to you—yet.