By Moonlight Wrought (Bt Moonlight Wrought)

by Crandall, John

  “I’ve known her since we were very young, m’lady. I know what she looks like. She need not try to impress...”

  “Hello, Selric,” came Angelique’s familiar voice, like the chime of a silver bell. Selric spun to face her and at the sight, he paused involuntarily. Selric had forgotten how lovely Angelique truly was. He walked across the floor and they embraced, kissing each other on the cheek. The air about her wafted of the gentlest, sweetest perfume, powdery yet not overdone.

  “Seeing you but a moment is worth two years’ wait,” Selric said mildly in awe, though trying to hide it. He held Angelique from him and looked at her, admiring how soft she was in his hands, and in his eyes.

  “You are too kind,” she responded, blushing.

  “I came to ask if you would like to be my guest...that is, if I may escort you to my homecoming party this evening?” He smiled his smile.

  “Oh yes, I would love that Selric,” Angelique said, her face flushed with undiluted and inescapable admiration.

  “Well then, until tonight Angelique, where you will, I am certain, be the brightest star that shines. Good-bye, Lady von Yelson. Someone will come by this afternoon to provide all the required information.”

  “Oh, Selric, please say you do not have to depart yet,” Angelique said, her eyes soft and genuinely hurt, taking a hesitant, improper step after him as he walked away. Selric turned, sighed silently and smiled.

  “I do need to meet Mendric, but he did remind me how wonderful you are.”

  “He did? How sweet of him,” Angelique purred.

  “So I think he will understand if I keep him waiting,” Selric said, offering Angelique his arm. “A walk in the garden, my dear?” he asked. He bowed slightly to the lady and said, “By your leave...” Lady von Yelson smiled and nodded her permission for Selric to be alone with her delicate young daughter.

  “I missed you Selric,” Angelique said as she sat next to him on the garden bench holding onto his hand, her own grasp trembling ever so slightly. “Two years is a very long time.” They had walked for many minutes around the flower filled expanse—the breeze there cooled by the greenery all about—talking very little and just enjoying the touch of the other, before finally sitting down.

  “Yes it is,” Selric agreed almost sadly.

  “You either forget someone or realize how much you care for them.”

  “Have you forgotten me?” he asked, bringing a cherry blush to Angelique’s face. “Well?” he pressed when she did not answer.

  “I will never forget you,” she said, looking into his penetrating stare only briefly before casting her eyes down.

  “When I was gone, I thought that you were beautiful. But it seems that that was but the limitation of my memory, for now I see that you are beyond simple beauty, rivaling instead the terms godlike, divine, and perfection.”

  “Stop…” said Angelique softly, wanting to laugh away her discomfort, but too flattered to utter even a giggle.

  “I will,” he said, “but it is all true. You are exquisite, Angelique von Yelson.” Then she did look at him, unabashedly, and saw the honesty in his face. She closed her eyes and waited, but a kiss never came. “I need to talk to you, Angelique, but it will have to wait until tonight,” Selric said seriously with a gentle kiss for her hand instead. “Until then,” he said, leaving Angelique sitting alone amongst the lovely flowers, a slightly confused look upon her face.

  Angelique’s image still burning in his mind, Selric walked down from the noble heights and toward the docks. Three blocks from the very waterfront stood the immense training hall, Master Sellore’s House of Arms. Master Sellore’s was a posh, expensive gymnasium of sorts, where those with enough money could learn weapon and combat skills from experts, some of the best warriors in the land. Master Sellore’s was one of the places where the influential liked to be seen. To be tutored at Sellore’s was a necessity for every young nobleman, though after a month or so, many would usually fall off in their lessons, simply using, instead, the House’s other facilities.

  The Stormweathers owned another large school, The Brawny Arms Academy, dedicated solely to the training of soldiers en masse, whose talents were for sale to merchant houses, noble families, and landowners, as well as governments. The current monarch of Mendanar, however, had lately refrained from hiring any more these men, trained by such an influential noble house as the Stormweather’s, fearing the men’s’ loyalty might be misdirected. Mendric was a seasoned warrior and veteran of many military campaigns, seeing his first bloodshed in The Erulian War, and was therefore qualified to teach at the academy. In fact, he was one of the primary instructors, filling many empty hours there when not helping his father manage the vast Stormweather holdings.

  On the way to meet his brother, Selric had passed down a street of tremendous buildings, apartments and the like, and his memory was tweaked. He paused outside one of the familiar structures climbed the stairs to the fifth floor landing, went to one of the doors on that level, picked the lock and stole inside. To Selric’s surprise, two men and two women sat eating at a table in the middle of the room, none of them he knew. They looked up curiously at Selric, and his face flushed. Selric stepped back out and checked his bearings: it was the right room, though the occupants were not. They continued to stare at him in bewilderment.

  “Sorry,” he said. “Maybe you can help me. I’m looking for a girl...Sonya. She used to live here.” One of the men rose up politely.

  “If she was the young lady who lived here before us, I’m sorry, but she met an ill fate,” he said.

  “What do you mean?” asked Selric angrily.

  “The woman who used to live here was found murdered. I’m truly sorry. If she was a friend of yours...”

  But Selric, numb and his mind spinning, turned, walked out and down the stairs without letting the gentleman finish. The sickness in his stomach passed, but not his anger.

  It was another hot day and Candy was laboring under the load, so Dirk decided to spare her from the midday sun. Dirk laid himself on the bench seat and took a nap while Candy rested and drank from a water barrel filled with rain runoff there in the shadowy alleyway. Dirk’s nap was a short one however, as he was soon awakened by a feminine voice.

  “Hello there, girl. Why are you pulling such a heavy load? You poor old horse.” Dirk looked up to where a young woman stood stroking Candy’s neck. Her hair was dark blonde and thick, hanging full over her shoulders, and her brown eyes were so vivid that Dirk could see their color from all the way up in the wagon. She was pretty, with a wholesome look rarely found on anyone who had been in Andrelia for more than a month, though her deep eyes bore a sadness revealing a life with unusual pain. This young woman looked on Candy in a way indicative of one born and raised with animals, and Candy returned the affection, ducking her head at the woman to receive her stroking hand. The young lady looked up at Dirk, and it was then that he realized he had been staring.

  “Hi,” he said simple and plain.

  “This horse is too old to be pulling such a load in this heat. A horse in that shape should be put to pasture,” she said, all quite matter-of-factly. “Do you want to kill her?” Candy tossed her head and nudged the woman, jealous to have the woman’s attention elsewhere.

  All Dirk could muster in the way of a reply was, “Oh?” He jumped down. “I’m Dirk, and I don’t own her, I just use her. I mean...” he stuttered, “...my boss says to use her. I don’t know how old she is. I guess that could be the problem,” he conjectured, rubbing his scrubby chin as he looked the beast over.

  “You guess? No, I’m telling you; it is the problem.”

  “Fine, don’t bite my head off,” Dirk said growing red and looking back to the woman. Though her manner upset Dirk, her beauty did not. He found himself looking at the young lady’s figure: definitely feminine, but able and strong, having seen a good share of work in its lifetime. Her attire was not of the city: her britches worn and dark, blouse rugged, light cloak worn in case of summ
er showers bleached in places by the sun. She caught Dirk staring again and when he looked up, she stared him in the eye. Dirk nervously turned away.

  “I don’t mean to be nasty,” she said. “I’m Melissa.” Dirk, strangely uncomfortable, shifted his weight from foot to foot. “Looks like you need someone to take care of your horse, maybe I could help you. I need a job.”

  “You know a lot about horses—at least more than I do. And I guess I am not afraid he would give you work in my place. I’m sure you can’t do the work I can,” he said proudly, unintentionally thrusting his great shoulders back, his broad chest out. Melissa laughed at him and Dirk blushed, adding, “Well, maybe Mr. Bessemer could give you a job working with our animals. We’ve got six horses.”

  “Can I go with you and see?” she asked hopefully, her face still red from laughter. Though Dirk could not imagine anyone wanting his job, let alone a woman as pretty and wholesome as Melissa, he agreed. “I don’t want to be forward, but I need some money, and it’s clear ya’ll don’t know much about these animals. Or maybe you just don’t care,” she guessed.

  “No, that’s not it. But...well, I have to deliver this,” he said, swinging his arm toward the laden wagon. “I gotta go.”

  Melissa shrugged her shoulders. “I figured that much,” she said with a knowing nod. “I’ll help you.” She smiled and climbed up into the wagon, grabbing the reins. Dirk quickly sprang up into place next to her and watched as she coaxed Candy ahead. Dirk was curious: he had never known anyone who had offered to help him do anything without first wanting to be paid.

  Mendric ordered another round as Selric drained his mug. “Excuse us, ladies,” Mendric said and the two attractive, scantily clad companions bounced up from the laps of the young noblemen, each of them kissing their host. Selric patted his new friend on the backside as she slid playfully and reluctantly away with a giggle. Mendric, conversely, let the other girl leave unnoticed.

  “What was it that you wanted to talk about?” Mendric asked.

  “Do you remember Sonya?” Selric asked uncomfortably. Mendric looked puzzled, but knew something was bothering his brother: something seemed to be troubling him all afternoon. “You know: brown hair, blue eyes. Worked at The Yeoman. Real sweet. Nice figure,” Selric continued, cupping his hands before his chest.

  “Oh yes. Sonya,” Mendric acknowledged. “I don’t know what she sees in you. She needs a responsible man. Like me,” he joked, though both knew Mendric would never lower himself to fraternize with a common-born woman, no matter how beautiful: he simply enjoyed harassing Selric. His friendliness with the pleasure girls was like a man holding his niece upon his lap. It would never go farther than simple holding.

  “She’s dead. Murdered. Six weeks ago,” Selric blurted, brushing off Mendric’s mirth. “I checked with the district constable. She was pretty messed up. Some real sick bastard.” Selric shook his head and looked forlornly, coldly, into his beer.

  “That’s horrible. Of all your friends, why her?” said Mendric, then his mood changed from sorrow to anger and he reached over and grabbed Selric by the shirt. “It had better not be because you did something before you left. Did you owe somebody money or something?” The hostility between the owners caused the inn staff to fall silent.

  “No, you idiot...at...at least I don’t think so,” Selric said.

  “What do you mean, you don’t think so?” Mendric asked, releasing Selric with a shove.

  “I’m pretty sure,” Selric said confidently. “I cleared everything up before I left. I was gone two years: why wait this long if I was involved? It couldn’t have been anything that I did. Besides, if it were because of me, they would have gotten someone I associated with in those parts of town. I never took Sonya to that kind of stuff. Just dinner and...and you know.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Mendric said looking down, upset yet understanding. Like their grandfather, he disapproved of Selric’s behavior. He also trusted his brother’s integrity if not his judgment, and if Selric said it was not his fault then Mendric believed him. “It’s a big city: a lot of weird people. Sometimes we lose those we care about. I am sorry. Sorry for her. And...and sorry for you too.” One of the serving girls silently brought the owners four drinks, two each, and removed the empty mugs. The brothers grasped their beer and drank in unison, Mendric looking down, Selric absently watching one of the new girls as she was bent over wiping a table clean.

  “Hey, you know, you were pretty good with that sword,” Mendric said, trying to move on from the dark topic, “even though it is a little odd.” Selric listened, still watching the new wench perform her duty enticingly; casting her eyes back at him to make sure she was holding his gaze. Mendric’s last words snapped Selric’s attention back to his brother.

  “Odd! What do you mean? That’s what the warlords of the East use, you know? There’s nothing odd about it.”

  “It was effective,” Mendric forced himself to admit, but still finding it hard to disagree with Stormweather doctrine. The long curved blade of the Eastern weapon was very much different—and used differently—than the heavy broad swords of the west coast, favorite weapons of the gentry for hundreds of years.

  “Effective?” Selric argued. “I mangled those dummies.”

  “Yes, I guess you did,” Mendric agreed with little emotion. They drained their first mugs and Mendric started his second. Selric, however, rose and moved toward the new girl, who, being finished at the table she had been cleaning was heading to the back room. Just as Selric reached out to touch her tender waist, his own was grabbed, by the belt.

  “Not so fast,” said Mendric, reeling him in. “There is a party in your honor tonight. You will be on time.” He guzzled his second draught with one hand, holding Selric with the other. Mendric wiped his mouth, grabbed Selric by the back of his shirt and, along with the grip on his belt, started hauling his brother to the door. Selric snatched his drink on the way past the table and set it, half-empty, on a table near the door as he passed it, wiping his own mouth.

  “Good-bye all,” Mendric said to the crowd; employees preparing for the always busy night ahead.

  “Good-bye,” came the jovial reply, followed by laughter as Selric tried to wave, but was restricted by the bulk of his half-brother as he shoved him out the door.

  Cinder sat upon the stairs, the house now empty and quiet. Her dark hair lay across her shoulder and spilt down, curling up in her lap while she slowly ran her brush through it. With a sigh, she swung her locks back behind her and they slowly came to rest upon the step where she sat. Wasting no more time on memories she never really had, emotions she had only pretended to feel, Cinder stood and walked down the last few steps and across the foyer to the door. With a last glance at the empty walls and bare floors Cinder reached around and opened the door behind her. With conscious effort, she backed out of her home and into the street.

  Cinder already missed her father, Rovair, who had left an hour earlier, just ahead of the law. Ostensibly a painter of signs, Rovair was secretly a forger: the best, known as ‘The Quill’. He could copy any hand or style infallibly. But this skill eventually drew the attention of the King, who expended great effort to catch him. By taunting the monarchy (actually forging a satirical writ for his own arrest in the King’s hand and posting it on the door to the headquarters of the city’s secret police) the Quill had sealed his own fate. King Alhad placed an immense bounty on the forger’s head, and soon one of Rovair’s former clients revealed his location.

  Rovair had many friends in varied circles and through them learned of his old associate’s treachery. He sold all of his possessions, left his daughter a great amount of cash and skipped town, even selling his house to an unsuspecting merchant. By Andrelia law, all possessions of criminals became property of the crown upon the suspect’s conviction. So unable to leave Cinder anything of real value, the Quill sold it all off, knowing most of it would later be confiscated by the authorities, to the detriment of the purchasers. He, anyway, had gott
en his money for it.

  Cinder’s parents met nearly fifty years earlier on one of her mother’s rare visits to human civilization. Cinder’s mother, Shayna Starshine, was an elf of noble blood, known as Faeries by humans, who as a race dealt only rarely with humanity. But Shayna and those she traveled with were adventurous for their kind and did, on occasion, visit areas populated by the comparatively aggressive humans. Rovair and Shayna’s meeting was tempestuous and their love a matter of hours: a true attraction of opposites. In the shame which followed, stooping so low as to let a human love her, Shayna retreated to her forest domain in the vast Darkwood, carrying in her womb a half-human, half-elven reminder of her meeting with humanity. Rovair, known that year as Valmar, was unaware of their creation.

  Shayna raised her daughter in seclusion. The nearby village of Falondell was the only civilization Cinder ever knew, and the only opportunity she ever had to interact with other people, including humans. The mother loved her daughter and raised her as a pure-blooded Faerie, teaching her the secrets of the planet as only nature’s children—the elves—knew. But Cinder longed to know of her father and of other humans, so at the age of forty-seven, seeming in her early twenties in human years, she set out towards Andrelia and her beginnings.

  Her search had an absolute air of futility all about it, and anyone but Cinder would have seen how impossible success would be. Perhaps it was her naiveté, or the elven confidence instilled by her mother, or even her belief that since she aged so slowly a long search would mean little to her. Maybe it was a combination of these reasons, but Cinder was not daunted in the least when the tremendous walls loomed ahead in the distance still miles away. “What a great adventure,” she thought enthusiastically, welcoming a chance to study the strange, wild race called man. Cinder was looking for a person named Valmar, who would now be near 70 years of age, if he still lived. Shayna had told her daughter the name of the tavern where she met him, the decades seeming but a few days or weeks to the immortal Faerie.