Shiver the Moon

by Phillip M Locey

  “Humility.”

  “Bravery.”

  “Honor.”

  None of the responses were revealing, but as the others took turns sharing their observations, Jaiden thought hard about how his life had changed since Saffron and Sir Golddrake found him nearly dead, in the aftermath of the Halidor decimation.

  “I have learned that, no matter how independent we think we are or strive to be, we can all benefit from someone watching over us.” Jaiden’s answer silenced the others for a moment, but drew nods from the Lieutenant and Palomar, seated beside him.

  “I have learned,” Palomar contributed, “that choices are sometimes hard. There is not always an easy answer or obvious solution. I do not envy Sir Golddrake those difficult choices, but when good intentions are there we must strive not to hold a bad outcome against him.”

  “Hey, his lips weren’t moving when he spoke!” one of the recruits said.

  Palomar smiled at the lad, and perhaps directed a few words toward him alone, for his mouth dropped open like a baby bird’s.

  “That is all for now,” Orestes declared. “The point was simply to spend some time reflecting. Tonight, by the light of Criesha, Sir Golddrake will complete the ceremony. He will swear you in and present you with your shields. Make sure you wear your tabards, and by the sacred starlight make sure they are clean.” He sniffed the air noisily. “Someone around here needs to take a bath,” he said, standing and dismissing them. Jaiden’s eyes darted from side to side, searching for recognition by the others of what the lieutenant smelled, but none presented.

  The afternoon sped into evening, where time reverted to a crawl as the ceremony drew near. Jaiden felt nervous, though he had come to fully embrace his decision to join the Order. Perhaps the impending weight of responsibility, an unaccustomed burden, bothered him. What he only half-realized was the sentiment he shared that afternoon cut both ways. He would now share the task of looking after hundreds of other men, just as they would watch out for him.

  The standard tabard did not work with Palomar’s wings, so they fashioned a leather harness to fit around his torso, bearing a small replica of the Order’s shield at the center of his chest.

  The other initiates were dressed in the bright white tabards of the Order, and gathered near the entrance of the cavern, where the slanted moonlight fell freely upon them. Everyone was summoned for the event, to bear witness to the oath and officially welcome the new members into the fold.

  Sir Golddrake grasped the hilt of his sword with both hands, blade down, and extended his arms. “Initiates, repeat after me: I swear to dedicate myself to the Order of the Rising Moon, in both thought and deed, until death or my Master releases me. I will honor the goddess, Criesha, with every action, and revere all she holds sacred. I will protect the magic in nature. I will defend the helpless from harm. I will give my life if it will save my brother. Honor, loyalty, courage, obedience, and charity – these are the five corners I will build my life upon – let all else fall to the wayside.”

  After the initiates spoke the words, Sir Golddrake sheathed his sword. One at a time, he received the pentagonal shields of the Order from Sir Kilborn, and bestowed them on their new owners.

  Jaiden cradled his like it was an infant. The moment struck him harder than expected. That shield was the first object of worth he felt belonged to him. Painted white, with the crescent moon in violet at its center, it was beautiful, solid, his.

  When the last initiate received his shield, the assembly roared with applause and cheers. Had it been winter, the celebration might have caused an avalanche. The passing days of isolation with no sign of Chelpian agents put the Order’s caution on reserve. People he had not yet met congratulated Jaiden on his acceptance into their band, though more expressed their sentiments to Palomar.

  Mead flowed freely, and the drinking continued far into the night. The mood of the camp was at its peak since they had taken to the hills. It seemed so long since the men had any excuse to release joy. Beautiful as it was, the Caves of Criesha were a constant reminder of their retreat.

  Jaiden tried his hardest to drown concerns about his leg, relinquishing his freedom, and the possibility he may never wield a sword in meaningful combat again. After several hours of revelry, though, he found himself sitting alone in the moonlight on the same steps he occupied that morning. His dizzy mind drifted idly to images of his green-skinned goddess, before settling on Saffron. By the gods he missed her, and it made him feel foolish. Not in the mood for introspection, he stumbled off to his sleeping mat, sure his dreams would be visited by the raven-haired woman who seemed to be getting the better of him.

  Two days later, the Order began splitting up. Most headed north toward Selamus, though they had to be careful to bypass the castle at Windhollow Rock, which Palomar reported was under siege. That meant staying off the road, and the journey would be a long one, especially for those on foot.

  The first group of southbound troops left around the same time, a dozen or so, making their way through the hills to the Harpy Pass. Jaiden, excited and relieved Sir Golddrake had granted his request, was to be among the last to leave. His wounded leg continued to deteriorate, but he had to hold on and make this mission count. He had not dreamt of Criesha since reaching the caves, and no longer held out hope for the promises she had made him. Freeing the prisoners from Blackthorn might be the last useful thing he did before winding up an amputated invalid, begging for alms on the side of the road – the last thing worth remembering.

  It was still the middle of the night when the canoe carrying the former Baron Rogan, Saffron min-Furasi, and her younger sister Dhania, came ashore on the western bank of the River Chelhos. The air was not overly cool, but their plunge from atop the wall of Hope’s End left them wet, and Dhania was shivering.

  Saffron helped Rogan pull their boat onto the beach. “We need a fire,” she said, looking to her sister.

  “I do not disagree,” Rogan answered, leaving the oars while grabbing the rest of their supplies from the dug-out hull. “Yet, we cannot be sure if we are pursued. It would be too clear a signal to anyone following on the river.”

  “I can carry something,” Dhania offered in her thick Begnari accent, seeing his hands were full. When Rogan hesitated she added, “I am not a child,” and took one of the wet sacks directly from him.

  “Baron Rogan, meet Dhania min-Furasi.” Saffron’s introduction implied her sister’s identity was enough to explain her attitude. “Dhania, this is my friend, Rogan, former Baron of Thispany.”

  Rogan bowed his head, but the only response he received was a head-to-toe sizing by the younger sister. “Let us move inland past the tree line, and we can start a fire there.” Neither woman proffered an argument, so they trudged over the wet sand, only to find the ground beyond the beach just as soggy. Insects began to harass them, and reaching the trees they discovered a frond-inhabited swamp, instead of a hardwood forest.

  “Just lovely; where are we going to find dry wood in this bog?”

  “Lady Saffron, you need only know where to look.” Rogan moved from tree to tree, trying to find the right specimen with only the pale green moonlight to aid him. “Ah, there we are.” He set down his burden and drew his dagger, using it to peel the bark off a nearby tree in long strips. “The inside of this is very flammable. I will gather enough for our fire, if you can find us a dry enough spot to make camp.”

  Within minutes Saffron located a workable patch of high ground, just spacious enough to accommodate the three of them and a campfire. She organized their packs, resting them against tree trunks, and was drawing out a change of dry clothes for her and her sister when Rogan joined them with arms full of stripped bark. He used his flint to get a flame going, then sat back to rest his weary body. His belly growled, but he was so tired he barely had the motivation to change out of his armor into something dry, let alone bother eating. Food could wait until morning.

  With the fire providing warmth and a pleasant glow, Saffron
handed a spare outfit to Dhania and stepped behind a tree, just beyond the radius of the light, to change. Her sister sought no such refuge. Standing in full view of the fire, she cast off the cloak Rogan lent her and started to raise her wet, silk top over her head.

  Saffron was already halfway out of her armor when she realized her sister had not followed her example. “Dhania! There is a man present,” she chided.

  Dhania paused, but did not lower her shirt. “So? Do you not think men have been present these past months when I have changed clothes? And not so attractive as him, I can assure you.”

  She looked straight at Rogan, their eyes locking on one another. He knew he should resist, but found it beyond his power to look away. She resumed disrobing, watching him watch her as she exposed her body.

  “Besides, I am pretty sure he enjoys it,” she smiled. “Don’t you?”

  Rogan realized he was as good as trapped. Any response would lead to trouble, so he simply remained silent and closed his eyes.

  “Dhania, it is not proper!” called Saffron from behind her tree, struggling to change as quickly as she could.

  “Proper?” countered her younger sister. “Since I left Begnasharan with you, what part of my life has been proper? Was it proper I am still unmarried, but taught by other slaves how to service their King?”

  Rogan opened his eyes, but Dhania had stopped dressing to argue with her sister. Utterly helpless, unable to move or say anything, he felt pity for Dhania and guilt for his earlier arousal. He was certain, however, he should not be present to witness this.

  “Was I being proper when forced to service those slaves as well, or when the guards took turns with me when sure the King was away?” Dhania’s voice cracked and tears of rage streamed down her cheeks.

  Saffron reappeared wearing dry breeches and a soft, grey tunic. She encircled her sister in her arms, and Dhania’s head dropped to her shoulder as she wept a season’s worth of tears.

  Rogan finally found his legs and grabbed some dry clothes from his pack in silence. The women did not seem to notice him, and with Saffron still whispering words of comfort to her sister, he stole out of camp into the swamp.

  He changed out of his armor in seclusion, and though weary, he waited nearly an hour before returning. He had no idea what he would say to either of them. He did not truly know Dhania, though felt he already might, given she and Saffron were clearly close. His feelings for Saffron were alarming after being alone so long, and holding so tightly to the memories of his wife, but he recognized them all the same. Rogan hoped he had not damaged what they had, but her sister’s presence certainly complicated matters.

  He decided to gather more bark for the fire, and when he returned to camp, both Saffron and Dhania were sleeping soundly beside one another, covered by the same blanket. He slid his bedroll a little further from them and added the extra fuel to the fire. After laying out his armor to dry, he finally gave in to his weariness, too exhausted to keep watch. They would have to trust the darkness thwarted any pursuit.

  The women were up first, and had already packed by the time Saffron shook Rogan awake. The smoldering remains of the fire expelled a thick, grey smoke, which had trouble clearing the canopy of wet leaves overhead. Saffron handed him a quarter loaf of bread after he sat up and rubbed his eyes.

  “So, what is the plan from here?” she asked as if nothing had changed from the night before.

  He took a sizable bite off the loaf and thought as he chewed. “Well, I suppose that depends on the two of you. You found your sister, and are on the right side of the river if you wanted to head home. Given the circumstances, I don’t think anyone would blame you.”

  He spoke as if her leaving would be inconsequential, but his heart felt like it stopped beating, waiting for her to tell him she had decided to stay.

  “I owe a debt to Sir Golddrake. Besides that, I want to see the King-priest pay for what he has done to Dhania, and countless like her. Not to mention, I am not sure your plan would succeed without me.” She patted him on the shoulder and dropped to one knee to whisper in his ear, “Though you should ask permission, before stealing another kiss.” She followed with a peck on his cheek, then stood. “So,” she declared in her full voice, “it is back to Talon Barge, then?”

  Rogan looked at her with wonderment and envy. She made decisions so easily, with such clarity and confidence. He packed up his bedroll after stuffing the remainder of the bread into his mouth. Once he had chewed and cleared his throat with a swig from his waterskin, he addressed her declaration.

  “If I may speak on behalf of Sir Golddrake, I would say that while we are both pleased by your decision to remain committed to our quest, we cannot all show ourselves back in Talon Barge, given recent developments. You and your sister would likely be spotted and recognized within three steps, and our entire enterprise would be forfeit.” Rogan sighed, trying to devise a safe way to keep the ladies close to him.

  “First, I suppose we should cast the canoe back into the river and let the current take it downstream. I should have done it last night, but thought you might want to use it to clear out. If anyone from Chelpa is after us, we do not want a clear indication of our landing point. Secondly, we should follow the river, though not too closely, north. This is the realm of Crioc – they have no king, they’re more a collection of independent settlements who feel a commonality, uniting them against outsiders. It should be safe, more or less, to keep you on this side of the River Chelhos.”

  “I take it you are returning to see the viscount? If we cannot come with you, how will Dhania and I join you at the prison, still stuck on the western shore?”

  “A ferry runs between Talon Barge and Lirole Run, the town on this side of the river. We will travel that far together, and I will continue on to Cyril’s. I shall send for you by ferry when the ships are nearly ready to depart. Is that acceptable?”

  After receiving Saffron’s silent nod, Rogan led them back to the beach to take care of the canoe. From there they began the trek upstream toward civilization. The wetland terrain proved an annoyance, slowing their progress significantly, and they took most of the day covering the two leagues to the crossing.

  The evening ferry was almost ready to depart by the time they arrived at Lirole Run. Rogan paid up front for the sisters’ room and board, then caught the barge across the river, back into Chelpa. With so many considerations regarding the arrival of the Order and keeping them from detection, he could not afford to entertain distraction. He had to trust the sisters could fend for themselves for a fortnight.

  After an hour, the ferry arrived in Talon Barge. “What is your business in Chelpa?” the harbor guard asked when Rogan’s turn came to depart the ferry.

  “I am an import acquisition agent for the Silver Trumpet. Just returning from trade negotiations in Moeria.” Rogan forced himself to make eye contact, though his first inclination was to avoid it. He certainly looked the part – he was filthy, bedraggled, looking as if he had spent time in the wilderness – and yet retained an air of refinement.

  “Where is your merchant seal?” the guard followed-up, his tone bland from asking the same questions dozens of times over.

  “Ah, that’s the thing.” Rogan shrugged, leaning in closer to whisper. “It was a very difficult trip, and one of the carriers I hired disappeared in the jungle one night with some of my luggage. My seal was in that pack.” He was determined not to let the increase in his pulse show on his features.

  The guard’s eyes darted up, scrutinizing Rogan more closely. The rouse must have been convincing enough. “Get a replacement before your next trip.”

  Following the tilt of the man’s head, Rogan nodded swiftly and stepped forward, exhaling only after his back was to the guard. By the time he approached Cyril’s shop he was already thinking about a hot bath and the soft bed he had left behind. Lost in thoughts of these pleasantries, he did not notice the black-clad soldier standing watch until he was almost at the door.

  Panic sei
zed him, but he was too close to veer away without being obvious. The soldier did not move to arrest him, so it seemed he was unrecognized. The Silver Trumpet was a place of business, after all, though he realized it might seem odd for him to enter, laden with a pack of his own. He had no idea what he would say about the contents if searched.

  Rogan was too tired to think of an alternative, and he had to get in touch with Cyril eventually to find out how the plan to smuggle in the Order was progressing, so he bolstered his nerves, continued to the door, and confidently swung it open. The soldier standing by eyed him as he passed, but made no move.

  “Ingersol, a timely return!” called Cyril, approaching from behind the counter.

  Rogan looked at him, confused, but as Cyril stepped forward to welcome him, he shifted his eyes meaningfully at a dark-haired man wearing a black tunic and boots, standing in the corner.

  “How did the scouting trip to Moeria fare? Is everything in order for us to begin operations there?” Cyril clasped him in an uncomfortably long embrace, whispering, “Blood Tear Brotherhood,” before separating.

  “Everything is as it should be, Master Cyril.” Rogan played along as he stepped further into the store, shifting his belongings to shut the door behind him.

  “Well, you must be weary from your long trip. Go ahead and take your things below, and we can talk all about it after this gentleman has concluded his business.” Cyril looked directly at the man in the corner this time. Curfew was moments away, and it was obvious no regular customers would be casually shopping so close to the deadline.

  Rogan nodded and went downstairs, stowing his gear in the spare room he had previously occupied. He returned to the foot of the stairs, remaining quiet as he listened for signs of trouble above. The warm bath would have to wait. He heard speaking, but no raised voices, and within a quarter-hour the front door was locked.