The Moon and the Sun

by Vonda McIntyre

  She erupted through the surface, burst through the mist, and flung herself over the net.

  A piercing pain slashed into her foot. A furred and spotted predator growled and dragged her onto the stony bank. Sherzad writhed into the water, pulling the creature with her. Her blood filled the water, mixing with the predator’s musky pungent scent.

  When the predator was submerged and vulnerable, Sherzad shouted out a sharp hard shock. Her voice, transmitted by the water, slammed into her attacker’s heart. The creature convulsed, bit hard, and fell dead.

  Its mate leaped and fastened its teeth in Sherzad’s throat. She could not shout. She could not move. The predator’s canines pressed against arteries. One nip, and she would bleed to death. One hard bite, and the creature would sever her spine.

  Sherzad went limp. Chaos and clamor swirled around her, the shouts of men and the blows of the pikes. The men of land beat the predator away and dragged her to the shallows. All she knew for sure was the touch of the net.

  The Hurons, wearing their diamond suits and greatly amused, galloped toward Marie-Josèphe.

  “Be still,” Lucien said quietly.

  Marie-Josèphe was too distraught for fear. The Hurons raced past. The older man brushed a feather across her hair. The younger did the same to Yves. The old man galloped by again, leaning down to touch Lucien.

  “They have claimed our hair,” Lucien said. “For my part, this perruke is ruined; they may have it.”

  When the King rode away to meet his brother, Lorraine tied Marie-Josèphe’s hands to the traces of the cart-horses. Bedraggled, despondent, she made no objection. Yves struggled—a futile exercise—when Lorraine directed the musketeers to tie him at Marie-Josèphe’s left hand. Lucien bore the inevitable disgrace with arrogant disdain. Chartres and Maine bound him at Marie-Josèphe’s right.

  “Someone in a high position could be of use to you now,” Lorraine said to Marie-Josèphe.

  She raised her head and glared at him.

  “A foolish reply.”

  The horses lumbered forward. Lucien struggled to keep up, supporting himself awkwardly with his cane. The cart-horses plodded toward dawn.

  “M. de Chrétien,” Lorraine said, “you are brought low.”

  “And yet still you may slither beneath my foot.”

  Lorraine slapped the rump of the near cart-horse. It lurched into a trot, pulling its pair with it. Lucien stumbled, recovered, scrambled.

  “Whoa, whoa,” he said softly. The horses slowed, more out of exhaustion, he thought, than obedience.

  It would please Lorraine, he thought, to drag me all the way to Versailles.

  “Lucien—” Marie-Josèphe said.

  “Shh.” He could not bear pity.

  Marie-Josèphe twisted around, squinting into the darkness. “Did she escape?”

  Splashing out of the shallows, His Majesty appeared through the mist. Monsieur and his teammates followed, carrying Sherzad. She was trapped in a net and suspended on poles. Marie-Josèphe sang; when the sea woman struggled, her song broke off in a sob. Sherzad wailed. Her eyes shone like a cat’s.

  The young Carrousel riders, giddy with exhaustion and conquest, sparred with each other, jostled and joked, and jeered at Lucien. Old friendships dissolved without trace in the acid of the King’s disapproval. Lucien had seen it happen to others, this public humiliation. He had crafted his life so it would never happen to him. His painstaking work lay in ruins.

  His Majesty stopped when he saw what the Chevalier had done. His gaze passed across Yves, and Marie-Josèphe, and the Chevalier, and fell finally upon Lucien.

  “You have all gone insane.”

  The sun was rising. The King sounded old, and exhausted.

  27

  LUCIEN AND YVES RODE the cart-horses, bareback, their hands unbound by the King’s command. Spent from her struggles and restrained by the net, Sherzad droned an eerie hum of grief that spooked riders and horses alike. Marie-Josèphe rode in the hunting chariot. Cheetahs shouldered and snarled, rubbing against her bedraggled petticoat. One sat on its haunches and watched her, its gaze on her bloodstained bodice.

  The trip to Versailles took forever; it took no time at all. Marie-Josèphe pushed away exhaustion and despair, seeking escape. She matched her stance to Lucien’s: proud, shoulders straight, head up. Schemes occurred to her, each a more fanciful fairy tale than the next. If she could release the cheetahs from their collars—they might confuse the cavalry, they might frighten all the horses…but they might equally tear out her throat, or pounce on Sherzad when the riders dropped her carry-poles. If she could overpower the driver—she could gallop away in the chariot…but Chartres and Lorraine would make short work of catching her, their powerful war-horses against the stolid zebras. No matter how she escaped, in her fantasies, only Apollo dropping from the sky in his dawn chariot might free Sherzad. No matter how she escaped, the Carrousel riders surrounded Lucien and Yves.

  We failed, she thought. Sherzad’s life is forfeit. I drew Lucien into a scheme he never meant to support, with what consequences to him?

  She wiped her face indelicately on her sleeve, hoping her captors would think she had dust in her eyes.

  Fire burst along Lucien’s spine.

  He gasped and clutched the cart-horse’s mane. His sword nearly slipped from his fingers. All his senses turned toward the pain, shutting out the world. If he remained very still, he might not fall, he might not drop his sword, he might not lose consciousness.

  “M. de Chrétien,” Yves whispered, “what’s wrong?”

  “Don’t touch me, if you please.”

  “You’re very pale…”

  “It’s fashionable,” Lucien said.

  Yves fell silent, for which Lucien was also grateful. Fire burned in his back, remorseless, worse than torture. If he were being tortured, he could recant or confess or convert and the torture would stop. When his body betrayed him this way, nothing, neither wine nor spirits nor loving caress, would stop the pain.

  The procession plodded toward Versailles, past the Grand Canal, past the Fountain of Apollo; it continued up the Green Carpet, bearing the sea woman to the chateau.

  Lucien reclaimed himself from his affliction long enough to understand the significance of their path. He could not see Marie-Josèphe’s face, but he had no doubt she understood too.

  His Majesty has decided, Lucien thought, to end the sea woman’s life.

  The procession stopped beneath the chateau’s north wing. Yves dismounted and walked stiffly around his horse. Lucien clutched the mane of his cart-horse and lowered himself to the ground before Yves could reach him. He leaned heavily on his cane, catching his breath.

  He could not even claim an honorable injury. The careening crash of the wagon, the lurching gait of the cart-horse had not affected him. When the ache he suffered constantly rose to agony, the change struck after no particular action and no particular insult.

  The only pattern Lucien had ever detected was inconvenience.

  And that, he thought, is because any moment would be inconvenient. I must admit this moment is worse than most.

  The King dismounted and entered the chateau. His companions closed in around him. They left no place for Lucien to stand; they had already obliterated his position. When the guards came, the rest of the courtiers rode away with the horses, never casting a backward glance. Lucien could not blame them. Anyone who defended him risked sharing his fate.

  The guards surrounded the captives and marched them to the guard room of the State Apartments. Lucien leaned heavily on his sword-cane and managed to keep up, but only because the musketeers had to carry Sherzad. The sea woman lay limp in the net, keening an uncanny dirge. In the guard room, the musketeers dropped their burden and moved away, unnerved.

  “She needs water, sirs,” Marie-Josèphe said, “or she’ll grow ill. Please be so kind as to give her a drink.”

  “Be so kind as to give us all a drink,” Yves said. “And allow us to sit. We’ve b
een travelling all night.”

  Yves’ plea irritated Lucien.

  Do you embrace your suffering, priest, Lucien thought, but he resisted the temptation of speaking the irony aloud.

  Scrupulously polite, the musketeer captain sent for wine and water. His men brought chairs. Yves sagged into his, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees and his head down. Marie-Josèphe sat so gingerly that Lucien wondered if she had been hurt in the wagon crash. He wanted to go to her. He wanted to comfort her; he wanted her comfort. But the guards would stop him; he had all he could do now to maintain his demeanor.

  The captain offered Lucien a chair.

  “Do you expect me to sit in the presence of His Majesty?” Lucien asked, his tone severe. He thrust his walking-stick toward a portrait of Louis. Pain stabbed up his back into both shoulders.

  “I beg your pardon, M. de Chrétien,” the captain said. “But will you take wine?”

  One of the musketeers poured the wine. Yves drank thirstily.

  “I will drink to His Majesty.” Lucien lifted the goblet to Louis’ portrait in a pure arrogant salute and tossed the wine down in one gulp. The captain joined the toast.

  “No, thank you,” Marie-Josèphe said, when one of the guards offered her the wine. “I mean no disrespect to the King, but… I cannot.”

  Lucien realized why she was so uncomfortable, why she would not drink though her lips were dry and her refusal full of regret, and why she was so embarrassed.

  “Allow Mlle de la Croix the use of the privy,” Lucien said quietly to the captain.

  The captain hesitated, but he knew as well as everyone at court, the endurance of His Majesty’s bladder as well as His Majesty’s habit of travelling without thought for the comfort of ladies. He bowed to Lucien and ordered his men to escort all three captives to relieve themselves.

  “Quickly, though, His Majesty will want them soon.”

  Alone, Lucien leaned against the wall, letting the stone cool his face. He shivered.

  The captain sent in water and towels. Lucien wiped away the worst of the mud, brushed the dirt from his gloves, and straightened his clothes. He wished for a change of linen. He was not fit to face the King, and he was soaked with cold sweat. He never grew used to the cold that accompanied hot pain. The flask of calvados in his pocket tempted him, but the fire of the liquor would do nothing to quench the fire in his back. He pulled a white ribbon from his Carrousel hat, now sadly bedraggled, and tied back his equally disheveled perruke.

  “What about the sea monster, M. de Chrétien?” the captain asked when he returned. “Will it piddle on the carpet?”

  “Mlle de la Croix is the expert.”

  “I don’t know.” Marie-Josèphe drank deep from her goblet, and did not refuse when the captain refilled it. “Sherzad’s never been in a house, she’s never seen a carpet, she wouldn’t know what to do in a privy.”

  “It won’t drink.” One of the musketeers stood over Sherzad with a water bottle; the sea woman had not piddled on the rug, but the bottle had dripped upon it.

  “Let me sit with her,” Marie-Josèphe said.

  The captain allowed Marie-Josèphe to kneel beside Sherzad. Lucien joined her. Yves hesitated, then followed. Lucien put his hand on Marie-Josèphe’s shoulder. She covered it with her fingers, warming and thrilling him. He imagined that the fire of her touch burned away a fragment of his pain.

  “My dear friends,” Marie-Josèphe whispered.

  Her voice failed her. She stroked Sherzad’s shoulder, her bruised hip. The web of Sherzad’s hand was torn. Clotted blood covered her ankle; bruises covered her neck. She lay with her eyes closed, her dirge nearly inaudible. Marie-Josèphe held the water bottle to Sherzad’s mouth. The sea woman did not respond.

  “Sir, may I have the wine?”

  The captain handed her the bottle. She poured a few drops on her fingers and wetted Sherzad’s parched lips. The sea woman dreamily, delicately, licked away the wine.

  “His Majesty requires your presence.”

  Marie-Josèphe walked beside Lucien into the Salon of Apollo. Yves walked alone, his head bowed, his hands folded in his sleeves. Guards flanked them, and carried Sherzad with them. The sea-woman’s moaning echoed in the chamber.

  Lucien faced His Majesty. Seated on the throne, the King gazed down at his former favorites. Monseigneur and Maine, Lorraine and Chartres stood around him, stern and silent. Only Monsieur offered a sympathetic glance. Only he could dare to, but even he could not help.

  Sweat covered Lucien’s face, and his hand clenched around his walking-stick; he had to push himself upright from his bow.

  Marie-Josèphe offered His Majesty a deep curtsy, but her attention remained on Lucien. Is he injured? she thought. Was he hurt in the wagon crash? I’ve never before seen him succumb to his pain.

  “I respect my opponents in war,” Louis said. “But I despise friends who betray me.”

  “Sire, I’m the one at fault!” Marie-Josèphe exclaimed. “My brother, and Count Lucien—”

  “Be quiet! Do you expect mercy because you’re a woman? I’m no fool, mademoiselle, no matter how you’ve played me.”

  “I expect no mercy for myself, Your Majesty.” But she had hoped to beg mercy for Sherzad, for Lucien, for Yves.

  “And you, Lucien. Will you explain yourself?”

  “No, Your Majesty,” Lucien said.

  Lucien’s curtness to the King shocked Marie-Josèphe.

  “Will you not ask me for the favor I promised?”

  So furious, so affronted, that he took a moment to reply, Lucien said, “I asked it of you already, Sire.”

  “Stop that noise!” the King cried to Marie-Josèphe.

  “I cannot. Sherzad is singing her death song.”

  “M. Boursin!”

  M. Boursin hurried forward in his shambling bony way.

  “Take the creature. Butcher it. Now.”

  “But, Your Majesty, the banquet is almost about to start, Your Majesty, there’s no time to prepare it, Your Majesty, if it didn’t please you I should kill myself—”

  “Do as you like,” Louis said. “Spare me your protestations. We’ll eat the monster raw and bloody.”

  “Your Majesty, I, I will think of something, Your Majesty—”

  Marie-Josèphe began to cry, silently, with grief.

  Lucien took her hand. Marie-Josèphe could not stop crying, but she had never been so grateful for the comfort of another human being.

  “You cannot come in! You must not come in!” The usher’s voice penetrated from the next Salon. “Guards!”

  A pigeon fluttered wildly into the Salon. It dashed back and forth, it saw the sky through the window, it flung itself headlong toward the glass, it swerved at the last moment. It fluttered to the royal pigeon-keeper, who held it and cradled it against his chest. Other birds rested in his shirt and on his shoulders.

  Without anyone’s leave, Lucien approached the pigeon-keeper. Leaning heavily on his stick, he held out his hand.

  The pigeon-keeper dug in his pocket. He tipped a fistful of silver message capsules into Lucien’s palm.

  Lucien did not condescend to open one. He returned to his place before the King. The tears in Marie-Josèphe eyes created a halo around the gleaming silver. She dug her fingernails into her palms, trying to stop crying, trying not to shout, Open one, read the message—

  His Majesty plucked a single capsule from Lucien’s hand. He opened it. He tipped it, but nothing came out. He shook it.

  An emerald hit the polished parquet with a bright sharp tap. The ember of green sparks skittered across the floor and came to rest in the fringe of the Persian rug. A guard scooped it up, knelt at the King’s feet, and returned it.

  His Majesty read the scrap of paper from the message capsule. He dropped it.

  Each message capsule contained a jewel more beautiful than the last, or a perfect jade bead, or an exquisite gold bangle. His Majesty littered the floor with the messages. Marie-Josèphe pieced toge
ther the words:

  “Aztec gemstones. Spanish gold. Glorious prize.”

  His Majesty closed his hand around the treasure.

  “The sea monster wins its life.” His bleak voice unnerved Marie-Josèphe.

  “Your Majesty—” M. Boursin whispered.

  “M. de Chrétien, give him—” Louis caught himself. “M. Boursin, I’ll reward you as I promised. You may retire.”

  M. Boursin bowed his way from the throne room.

  Louis gazed down at Lucien, and for a moment his impassivity failed him.

  “Lucien, my valued adviser… Who will replace you?”

  “No one, Your Majesty.”

  Lucien’s pride and sorrow moved Marie-Josèphe so deeply that she nearly burst into tears again.

  His Majesty called Lorraine to his side. “Take the sea monster to its cage.”

  “Your Majesty!” Marie-Josèphe cried. “Sherzad gave you a treasure ship.”

  “And I give the monster its life.”

  “You promised to release her.”

  “Do you dare to argue with me?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  “I promised not to serve the creature’s meat at my banquet. If I cannot grow immortal on its flesh, it must make France immortal with its treasure.”

  Sherzad tumbled down the wooden steps and plunged into the Fountain of Apollo. The shock of the fetid water roused her from the daze of her grief song. She thrashed and twisted in the net. As it unwound, as she gained some freedom, she slashed at the cables with her claws. The mesh fell away into the inadequate current and drifted toward the drain, spreading and creeping like an octopus.

  Aching, ravenous, bruised, scraped, she kicked through the surface. She landed, splashing hard. The door of the cage clanged shut and the lock snapped fast. The wings of the tent hung closed. She was alone. Frantic, she scraped at the sides of the pool with her broken claws; she wrenched at the grating over the drain until her hands bled.

  She found no escape.

  Musketeers took Lucien and Yves away, forbidding Marie-Josèphe to exchange a word with either of them. Two guards marched with Marie-Josèphe to Madame’s apartments.

  In the dressing room, Madame stood with her arms outstretched. Her ladies in waiting tightened her corset-strings. Mademoiselle had already dressed, in magnificent ecru satin studded with topazes. Haleeda put the finishing touches on her tall ruffled beribboned fontanges.