By Moonlight Wrought (Bt Moonlight Wrought)

by Crandall, John

  There, pinned in place by the dagger which had been thrust clean through the oaken buttress was a piece of parchment. Dirk looked closely at it: it was the same type of expensive vellum Cinder had used to pen the letter to the Watch. On it, written in thick, dark ink that had dripped heavily before freezing, were the barely readable words: “You left her alone.” The dagger, Dirk saw, was also covered in the same liquid. Dirk then looked closely at the ink. It was blood; frozen blood. His mind raced and he began to panic, fleeing at full speed down through the building and out into the street, off to Cinder’s.

  Dirk reached Cinder’s. He was frantic and his lungs ached bitterly from the cold: he had sprinted the entire distance. He stepped up into the building, approached Cinder’s door and knocked on it. On the first rap, it eased open. Still panting like a winded horse, Dirk pushed the door open and stepped in. “Cinder?” he called lightly. “Cinder?” he repeated. He could see nothing. The room was dark: no lamp, no open shutters, and no fire. Dirk’s panting filled the whole area before him with his frosted breath, like a great fog bank. The room was freezing. He felt no fear; his concern for Cinder overcame all other emotions and he stepped in.

  As his eyes adjusted to the dark, Dirk could make out Cinder’s fair skin as she lay in her bed. He sighed in relief, briefly shaking off what his soul knew had undoubtedly happened. He simply could not accept it: not yet. Dirk walked over: Cinder was staring up at him and he bent over and took her hands. They were bound with a leather strap and were extremely cold, Dirk believed from lack of circulation and he also thought she might be in shock. He saw that Cinder was gagged and he hurriedly pulled the scarf down. “Cinder?” he asked. “What’s the matter?” He got no response. Dirk gently smacked her cheek, but it was cold as well.

  He stood and ran to the table to light the lamp, but it lay smashed on the floor. “I’ve got to light a fire,” he thought, “she’s so cold. But first some light.” He went and threw open the shutter to one of the windows. Light reflected from the full moon off the snow banks and streamed inside, more than enough to see dimly. As Dirk turned about he noticed Twillyfoot lying dead in the bottom of his cage. Dirk raced back to Cinder and, sitting next to her, took her hands. They were clenched as if she were in great pain and he leaned over toward her, placing a hand upon her abdomen as he looked closely at her face.

  Cinder’s skin was no longer ivory white, but now tinted blue. His hand felt something on her stomach, something bumpy or warped. The silk covers and black fur were pulled up to her neck, only her face and arms exposed. He pulled the sheets down and saw what his mind was still fervently denying: her stomach, like the woman he had seen butchered in the alley, had been ripped open and blood filled the bed. Dirk stood in horror, gasping, trying to breathe, but the wind had been knocked from him as totally as when the knights had kicked it from him. He looked at Cinder’s face, her tortured look and blank stare, all the undeniable pieces hitting him like a mace. Dirk’s world went black.

  Dirk woke from his nightmare. Selric was holding his hand and smacking his face. “Dirk,” he called, “Thank the gods you’re all right.”

  “Selric,” Dirk stuttered. “Selric,” he mumbled. “Selric,” he said a third time, “I had a dream that Cinder...”

  “Dirk,” Selric interrupted. “What happened?” The last ten minutes of Dirk’s life before his unconsciousness came flooding back as he realized his nightmare was true and that his life had changed forever. “What happened?” Selric repeated.

  “I...I got a note,” he said dazed and looking around, trying to remember where he was. “And I came.” Selric helped him up and led Dirk to the couch on the far side of the room Cinder had bought with money from their adventure. Dirk looked back over to the bed and saw Cinder’s precious face still gazing blankly at the ceiling, her hands like twisted claws. He fell face first onto the couch, sobbing slowly.

  Selric walked back to her. He drew his dagger and cut the scarf from Cinder’s neck, noticing that the corners of her mouth were red and gouged from the pressure of the gag, and from her teeth: she had bitten through her skin in her agony. Next he cut the strap from her arms, kissing the scars gently. “I’ll protect you,” he remembered himself saying. Unable to look at her body, he pulled the blood soaked sheets back up and tucked her in, folding her hands peacefully upon her breast. He closed her eyes and kissed each one, then sat back down beside her, his left hand covering the grief upon his face, his right hand laying atop both of hers. “I will give my life before I let another harm a hair on your beautiful head,” he remembered as clearly as if the words had just been said aloud.

  Soon, Selric heard running feet near the window, and he saw two shapes pass by. Fiona and Melissa came racing into the room, having received the same identical note. “Oh no,” Fiona sighed sadly. “No,” she repeated, looking ready to fall to her knees in shock. The women could see Selric sitting next to what appeared at first to be a sleeping Cinder, both of them illuminated by a beam of moonlight: all else in the room was pitch dark. Selric sat staring out the window at the moon, which had begun to set over a tall building across the street.

  Fiona could smell death in the room; blood and death. Sobbing was evident to Melissa from off to her right, under the window, and as her eyes grew accustomed to the dark she could see Dirk lying there. She hurriedly knelt by him, and when he felt her caring, gentle touch, he stopped sobbing and began to cry, his great torso heaving up and down uncontrollably, covering and clutching his face, tugging at his beard. Walking hesitantly over to Selric, Fiona could see tears on his handsome cheeks as he looked up at her. He nodded in answer to her silent question. She quickly, nonetheless, checked Cinder to see if there was anything she or her magic might do.

  “Well?” Selric asked, after clearing his throat several times.

  “It’s too late,” Fiona said, shaking her head. “My powers aren’t great enough to help her.” She sat behind Selric and hugged him. He took his hand from his face and grasped Fiona’s arm reassuringly, as the moon dipped behind the rooftops and the spotlight vanished, leaving the room in chilly darkness. Selric took a deep breath and as Fiona held on to him she felt his strength, but as he let out a great sigh the noble son’s unquenchable spirit seemed to deflate and he sat limply, forsaken before her and she lay her head upon his shoulder.

  Dirk cried for only a few minutes then stood, nearly knocking Melissa over in his hasty rage: he wanted to be strong in front of them, especially his Missy. He walked to where Selric and Fiona were, where he had dropped his sword when he fainted. He picked it up then stormed out. Melissa sat on the couch and looked at Fiona with her head lying on Selric’s back: both of them mourning silently. Melissa was sad for Cinder, but she didn’t weep. She wanted to, but it would not come. She looked after Dirk, then back to Fiona and Selric, then decided to stay with the two friends, feeling Dirk wanted to be alone. She waited for two hours in the cold room for her friends to rise and depart. Melissa followed quietly behind as they walked out, glancing at Cinder as she lay tranquil in her bed, then she closed the door behind her.

  The Fiend watched Dirk come out and pass away into the darkness. It was tempted to follow and slay him, alone in the snow, but believed that the longer It waited and hid, the more frustrated and desperate the brave heroes would become; anxious for revenge. Then, they would easily fall into the traps It had planned for them, with their frustrated desires to slay the murderer of their protected one. Killing them all in one night would be too easy. Besides, the Fiend had all winter to amuse Itself.

  It stayed outside Cinder’s room only to feel their horror and sadness. The Fiend enjoyed it, immensely. “They’ll pay for their bravery and interference, just as all the others who stood against me have,” It growled confidently.

  When the last three walked away, the Fiend saw that they had left the body of Cinder behind, unguarded. Eager to gloat over Its victory, the Fiend picked the lock, opened the door and stole inside. Cinder lay in endless sleep, incredibl
y beautiful in her contentment. The Fiend drew back; her beauty even in death unnerving It. It had never seen any of Its victims so alluring after Its tortures. She should have been ugly, deformed from Its pleasures. The Fiend approached, drawing the scimitar to hack her beauty away, but It could not near the body. Confused at the inexplicable feeling inside, the inability to close in, the Fiend turned and fled, leaving Cinder in peace. Far away, in the depths of Darkwood, a mother rested and mourned the death of her only child, her tears filling the basin through which she viewed the devastating scene.

  Dirk climbed the ladder. The lantern was still lit and on the table where Dirk had left it, to him what seemed days ago. He had never felt so weak, his will drained, his body seeming too heavy to move. He was cold, having gone to Cinder’s and back uncloaked, so he knelt and started a fire in his stove. The flames leapt to life and in fifteen minutes, his room would be toasty warm. He knew, however, he would still be cold.

  Dirk stood and walked out onto the overlook. He pulled, with great effort, the dagger from the door and took it, and the attached note, inside then locked and bolted the door once more. He threw the note into the fire and slammed the stove door shut, took a rag from a nearby table and began wiping the blood, Cinder’s blood, from the blade. Tears rolled down his face and he openly wept, as he wiped her life’s fluid from the wickedly curved weapon. He remembered the night in the falling snow, her cold tongue, her warm, ever-playful smile. Aside from the deep sadness he felt for her to have suffered, Dirk missed her already and he longed to see her, to speak with her, to feel her on his arm. He cried to be with her, to hold her, to hear her laugh, to kiss her soft lips once more. He felt alone and empty, but he could not see her the way she was; it was unbearable for him. The world no longer mattered. He, like Selric, had promised to protect her, but Dirk had been there. If he had stayed, he could have fought the Fiend. Cinder could have escaped. “Why did I have to come home!” he cried aloud. “Why am I so stubborn?”

  Slamming the clean knife into the table top, Dirk rose and threw the bloody cloth into the stove as well, where the note had already been consumed. He wiped away his tears and, indeed, never wept so unabated again. A few occasions would later bring tears to his eyes, a sniffle or occasional sob, and he might even cry with joy, but Dirk would never feel such staunch, bitter, painful loss again. As Dirk sat upon his bed, honing his sword to a razor’s sharpness, he heard the handle to the outside door jiggle. He ran over, screaming, kicking the bolt free, turning the key and throwing the door open, sword raised. The blonde stranger stood there, a befuddled look on his stern face, but he did not flinch. Dirk lowered his sword and walked, slump-shouldered, back to his seat on the bed.

  “What’s the matter?” the stranger asked. Dirk heard genuine concern in his voice, but it did not matter.

  “It’s too late,” Dirk kept saying out loud to himself. Then his mind flared. “Why weren’t you there?” he yelled, standing menacingly. “You always followed her before, why not tonight?”

  “Who?” the stranger asked. “What are you talking about?”

  “Cinder, that’s who. Why didn’t you help her?” he asked, trying to shed his feelings of guilt, wanting to blame everyone, especially Cinder. “I warned her,” he said. “But if you had been there, she’d be alive.” Tears filled his eyes and he struggled to keep from crying. The stranger stood motionless as if he was trying to piece Dirk’s ramblings together. “She’s dead!” Dirk finally screamed. “Cinder’s dead.” He fell onto his bed, rolling over to stare at the ceiling.

  “Do you know who did it?” the stranger asked.

  “Yeah,” Dirk said more calmly. “That Fiend, or whatever. Olaf Svenson.” After no reply, Dirk sat up: the stranger was gone.

  On the second day since finding Cinder’s murdered body, the four companions stood in silence as the priests slid the exquisite coffin into its niche. They sealed the stone with a final-sounding boom that echoed throughout the vast tomb. They stood in a row: Selric, Fiona, Melissa, then Dirk, all holding hands. With Cinder gone for good, Fiona turned and hugged Selric. They were all sad, but their tears had already been shed. Dirk stood coldly by, a look of unrelenting anger on his face. When the clerk from the Office of Court Records approached, Dirk walked away. Melissa looked at Dirk, then Fiona, then back to Dirk, finally following him out and leaving the others to take care of business. The priests shuffled out in order behind her.

  “Hello,” the official said, shaking Selric’s hand. “I’m Jan Dalrimple, Office of Births and Deaths. We met yesterday. I’m sorry about Miss Starshine. Now, I’m here to verify and finalize the papers.” He adjusted his spectacles and opened a scroll. “She does have living relatives?”

  “I believe so,” Selric said. “Her father left last summer. But I don’t know where he is, and she never told us his name, but it was not Starshine. Her mother lives in the Darkwood. That’s all I know, as I told you yesterday.” The clerk double-checked his scroll and nodded.

  “Now the possessions.”

  “She didn’t own much,” Fiona said. She looked at Selric questioningly.

  “Store it all,” Selric said, “or sell it. She owed no debts, and she’s got no relative in town who can claim it.” Selric and the others had already taken any mementos of Cinder that they wanted, amounting to most of her belongings.

  “Very well,” the official said, taking a deep breath. “Cindelaria Starshine, murdered Deepmonth 8, the year 672,” he read from the scroll.

  “That’s right,” Selric said coolly.

  “That should be all I need, Master Stormweather: all is in order. I just needed to witness the internment. If we need anything we know, of course, where to find you. Thank you.” He turned and walked out briskly, humming a tune. Fiona took Selric’s arm and he led her out to where Dirk and Melissa stood silently outside the gigantic mausoleum, affording them a strangely lofty view of the city in the distance across the massive square before the building. All four waited in the gently falling snow, none wanting to leave Cinder alone. It was not for several minutes that someone spoke.

  “What good will revenge do? Sure, we’ll stop him from doing it to anyone else, and make him pay for what he’s done already, but it won’t bring her back,” said Selric. “It won’t bring any of them back.”

  “There goes a calm fellow,” Dirk said, as he watched Jan Dalrimple shuffle off in the distance, passing through the snowy silence. The sky was gray, the day soft and somber. The city seemed dead as well, and why not, there was little to be accomplished in the heart of winter. Most citizens stayed home before their hearths, waiting for the spring thaw to return life to Andrelia.

  “That’s his job,” Melissa said, wrapping her cloak tightly around herself.

  “Did you ever wonder if the absence of anyone or anything you ever killed brought as much sorrow to others as we’re feeling right now?” asked Selric, looking around as if waiting, or maybe searching for something.

  Fiona was quiet; she never regretted killing anyone, and still did not. But she thought, for a brief instant, maybe she wished she were the one who had died, rather than Cinder. The thought quickly passed. All of them, at one time or another over the past two days had wondered why it had not been them; why it had to be the only one of them who never had, and never would, bring hurt on another person.

  Twenty more minutes passed silently before someone’s voice again broke the eerie silence. This time it was Melissa. “Well,” she said hesitantly, “let’s go. We have to leave sometime. Come on.” No one moved. “Dirk?” she asked. “Do you want to come? I’ll buy you a beer,” she said, trying to sound cheerful and tugging on his sleeve. He shook his head “no,” glancing back longingly at the mausoleum and taking a hesitant step toward the open archway, but stopping himself. As if fighting for control of his body with another force, Dirk slowly turned away and, grabbing Melissa’s hand, walked forcefully down the tremendous steps.

  Fiona looked at Selric, waiting. “Go on,” he said. “
I’ll be along. I’ve got a few things to do, but I’ll meet you at The Run.” Fiona, though also wanting to stay, kissed Selric and forced herself away as Dirk had, running to catch her two friends, running and—as brightly as she could—leaping between them and throwing an arm around each of their necks so that she was carried along between them, kicking her legs. Selric walked the other direction around the mausoleum and after his friends had gone, he returned, went inside, and sat down at the foot of Cinder’s tomb. He held his head in his hands and soon, silently, a small pool of tears lay between his drawn up knees and an emptiness never before known to Selric Stormweather crept hauntingly over him. For the first time in his life, Selric felt lost. It was as if half of himself had been cut away.

  Tallow was pleasantly surprised when she opened the door and found Dirk standing there. “I didn’t know you were coming tonight,” she said, fluffing her hair. “I haven’t seen you in days!” She took his hand and led him over to the couch. “Vanna’s with someone. We’ll talk here then go up when they’re done.” Tallow sat on his lap, straddling Dirk’s knees, leaning forward and hugging him, but he quickly and gently set her down next to him. Tallow then noticed that he wasn’t smiling and did not seem well at all. “What?” she asked kindly.