Shiver the Moon

by Phillip M Locey

  “What are you complaining about? I’m sure you got more sleep than I did.” Jaiden patted the stallion’s neck before swinging atop and hurrying after the rest of the squadron, who were already on their way beyond the front gate.

  The winding path down from the castle was still precarious enough in daylight to warrant caution, but once they reached the wider ground their horses picked up speed. The cool wind against Jaiden’s face and the warmth of the still-rising sun combined to melt away some of his weariness. Inferno seemed to welcome the chance to stretch his legs as well.

  The countryside glistened with remnants of the previous night’s deluge, and Jaiden found it difficult to reconcile its rippling, green beauty with the decay he had been attending to. By the bottom of the hour they approached the final rise prior to the terrain leveling off to reveal the city of Synirpa. Beyond its apex, however, a column of black smoke billowed upward, tainting the otherwise azure sky.

  Alarm seized Jaiden, and he cursed himself for being in too much of a hurry to don his chainmail. If the city was already being razed, he imagined Sir Golddrake and most of the Order were already in a hard fight, if not worse. Sir Kilborn seemed to have the same thought ahead of him, digging his heels into his steed’s flank. Their small group charged up the hill, Jaiden expecting to confirm the worst once he crested it.

  What awaited them was not at all what he expected. Still a way off, the city of Synirpa rose above the height of its outer wall, which looked completely intact. No army or cries of battle broke the horizon. The smoke billowed from a fallow field somewhat nearer. A huge pile of something was burning in the heart of it. Jaiden relaxed in his saddle, and Sir Kilborn slowed their pace, with no sign of strife to rush toward.

  Jaiden assumed it was only rotten crops set to the torch, perhaps, though the thick smoke made it difficult to tell from a distance. As he drew nearer, the reality struck him harder than the blow of a greatsword. They were bodies, burning in the field. How many was hard to discern; two hundred, five hundred? Stacked in a broad pyramid, the work was likely done in haste as part of the cleansing process.

  Having cured so many the previous night, he had not considered how many might have already perished. The castle had faced a similar decimation, though their smaller population diluted the impact. Rage against the enemy and regret at his own helplessness battled in Jaiden’s blood, leaving him suddenly hot.

  None of his companions said a word, though he saw them all staring at the burning corpses. The remainder of the ride, which carried them to an assembly at the open, eastern gates of the city, was filled with grim silence. A crude bridge spanned the creek running parallel to the road. On the near side, members of the Order idly watched over the horses, while the majority had crossed the bridge on foot.

  Sir Golddrake stood behind a sturdy table, while other knights mimicked his posture behind several more. A crowd had gathered, though most appeared to hover without a definitive purpose. For those who possessed one, that purpose was clear to Jaiden even before he carefully crossed the makeshift trestle to join his Master.

  The beginning of a line, composed of mostly young men not unlike him, pushed out from the tables opposite Sir Golddrake. The recruiting had begun. As Jaiden approached the crowd, he turned to look once more at the smoke billowing up near the horizon and thought it an odd backdrop for the endeavor – a reminder of his failure.

  “Ah, and here he is.” Sir Golddrake beamed when he saw his protégé, and moved quickly to capitalize on his arrival. He addressed the crowd, whose attention was dangerously close to dissipating. “May I present Jaiden Luminere, Champion of Criesha, and the healing hand behind the Miracle at Windhollow Rock!”

  A murmur rose among the gathered, dying seconds later. Jaiden felt dozens of eyes suddenly upon him. Many people pointed as well, singling him out from the other soldiers donned in the white and purple. An unnatural hush descended, raising the expectation for him to speak. He looked to Sir Golddrake for guidance, but received only an encouraging nod.

  Jaiden swallowed hard, nervous. “Greetings, townsfolk of proud Synirpa,” he said, raising his arms and projecting his voice to reach over the crowd. “I am no different than many of you. I was born in the Cradle between the mountains, and have lived a simple life. I could have been a farmer, or a tanner, but for the happenstance my father was a soldier. I learned my trade from him, like perhaps you learned from your own fathers.

  “The day I stopped being ordinary, though, was the day I fully committed to the Order of the Rising Moon.” Jaiden stole a glance at Sir Golddrake, wondering if this was the sort of thing he expected. “Because on that day I became something more than a lone man trying to make his way in the world.” His voice grew louder and surer as the words seemed to spill out on their own. “On that day, I embraced the realization that everything you do means more, when it is done in the service of something greater than a lone man can ever be on his own. Now I serve the goddess, Criesha; I serve the Master of the Order, Sir Golddrake; and I serve all of you in the defense of our lands from the Dread Tyrant and his King-priest.”

  “Huzzah!” The cry went up sharp and clear from his brethren within the Order, followed by an elevation in the murmurs of the crowd at large.

  Sir Golddrake lifted his arms to gain their collective attention, seizing the momentum of Jaiden’s speech, and channeling it toward his purpose. “All of you have the opportunity to follow the same path that led Jaiden to the great deeds he has already achieved. You need only pledge yourself to the Order of the Rising Moon, and I will take on the mantle of guiding you, by Criesha’s light, toward your own meeting with glory!”

  When Sir Goldrake lowered his arms, young men swarmed to the tables, eagerly signing the Order’s enlistment scrolls. Jaiden raised on his toes to better his vantage, curious how large the growing crowd had swelled. A hand clasping his shoulder interrupted his observation.

  Sir Golddrake was grinning, and had clearly bathed since the previous evening. Aided by his bright, golden locks and pristine, white tabard, the Master looked younger than Jaiden remembered. “Your words and presence here mean a lot to our efforts, Jaiden. Thank you for both. I am still overwhelmed by what you were able to accomplish last night. I told you from the start Criesha had plans for you, did I not?”

  Jaiden smiled and nodded in return, “You did, Sir.”

  Sir Golddrake’s gaze meandered over the plethora of potential recruits. “This is just the sort of boon we needed. Hopefully our numbers will continue to swell all the way to Selamus.” He turned back to Jaiden. “We have done good, here.”

  Jaiden looked at Sir Golddrake’s hand, which never released the hold on his shoulder, and then instinctively down, realizing he was being used for balance. He remembered also being crippled when Saffron and Sir Golddrake found him among the ruins of Halidor, and felt a rush of embarrassment. He craned his neck back, avoiding eye contact, and caught the rise of black smoke from the far field. “I suppose we have,” he answered vacantly.

  Eight years had passed since Rogan last attended a banquet hosted by nobility. Even though the occasion honored someone he would rather not pander to personally, and he had been stripped of his own title, his anticipation rose as the hour of the event approached. The lighting of candles, the preparation of the feast, the arrival of guests wearing their finery – it was all so familiar, yet from another lifetime.

  After speaking to him privately, the Duke of Rosegold generously accommodated the former baron with clothing from his own wardrobe. Rogan imagined Sir Golddrake must have initiated a similar conversation, as it appeared most of his entourage were adorned in vestments not previously in their possession. Perhaps the closets of the dead had been put to use.

  Rogan stood in a corner of the great hall simply observing, as he was fond of doing in the olden days. Four rows of long tables were already set with plates and goblets, and servants finished the preparations as guests killed time bantering. Of course Sir Golddrake and his inner circl
e were present and huddled near the Duke, including Sir Kilborn, and now Jaiden Luminere. No longer hindered by injury, the young warrior was steadily gaining influence – he was the Guest of Honor, after all.

  A few men and women of middle-age or older, likely minor lords and ladies of the province, lingered near the epicenter of power like flies drawn to cow dung, though they remained quiet themselves. Just as Rogan wondered whether entertainment had been arranged, the first, tame notes of a tune were plucked from the strings of a lute in the corner, opposite Rogan. A pair of other musicians soon joined to liven the atmosphere.

  Rogan scanned the crowd made up of important plague survivors, residents of the castle, and wealthy landowners. The faces may have been different from those he knew in Chelpa, but the room felt the same. A particular face eluded him, however, the one belonging to the only person he was eager to see.

  “There you are!” The exclamation startled Rogan and his heart jumped. Dhania stood to his left, with her sister behind.

  Saffron was smiling. “I thought you were never caught by surprise, Baron.” Her voice was languid, dripping like tickled honey, and he swore her eyes flashed in the candlelight.

  He cleared his suddenly tight throat. “Lady Saffron, Dhania.” Rogan bowed as he spoke their names. “You both look lovely this evening. I swear you two could be twins.” He was not lying. There must have been a Duchess Rosegold at some juncture, though Rogan could not imagine she made such an impression in her own dresses. Saffron’s gown was the color of emeralds, deep and dignified. Her dark hair was pulled up and woven in delicate plaits, spiraling around her head in an intricate pattern.

  Dhania, not to be outdone, cut a striking figure in a pearl dress, whose alluring neckline blatantly decreed she was no longer a child. The cloth’s color contrasted so starkly with her sun-kissed complexion, it was as if she was daring the room to ignore her. Rogan felt certain that would not be the case. Three milky, teardrop stones, ensconced in silver, dangled from each ear like wind catchers. Her hair, not as long as Saffron’s, remained down to play about her shoulders. The sisters shared the same eyes and mouth, though Rogan had noticed Saffron’s nose was rounder, and she still held a height advantage of half a little finger.

  Realizing his eyes had lingered too long on the plunge of Dhania’s dress, Rogan raised his head and grinned, “Shall we find a seat at the table?” He extended both arms, crooked at the elbow, which the ladies accepted after sharing a glance.

  Rogan perused the banquet hall for seating accommodations, settling on a spot far from the Order’s delegation. He had spent too much time with them lately, and hoped to paint a different portrait for this evening than the one that dominated the previous fortnight. He politely scooted the short bench back from the table, allowing Saffron and Dhania to slide in on either side, then stepped over to maintain his spot between them.

  The majority of the hall found their seats over the next few minutes, and servants began to pour the wine. The Duke sat at the head table with an elderly couple who might have been his parents, though the three chairs to his left were notably vacant. Rogan understood the need to celebrate, yet could not escape thoughts of the grim backdrop over which the banquet took place.

  When everyone’s flagon was full, and the carved boar brought to the serving table, the Duke of Rosegold stood and raised his cup, prompting his guests to do likewise.

  Dhania covered her mouth to stifle a giggle next to him. “I’ve already run out of wine,” she whispered, leaning in and giving a brief tug on the arm of his fine, scarlet tunic.

  “Fear not, there is more,” he conspired back before raising his own cup and turning attention to the Duke.

  “I am a proud man,” Rosegold began. “For those who have dined in my hall before, you may have noticed.” He gestured to the walls where, vacant the night before, trophies of bestial heads were mounted. “Some – behind my back,” he gave a wink, “may have even accused me of being stubborn. That stubbornness is part of the reason Windhollow Rock has never fallen to an enemy.”

  A boisterous “Hurrah!” went up from a number of veterans in the room.

  “But I am not too proud,” the Duke continued, “to stand before you this night and offer my most humble thanks to a man who has not only saved my life, but hundreds of others since yester sunrise. That man is with us tonight, so let us drink to him now.” The Duke raised his cup slightly higher. “To Sir Jaiden Luminere!”

  “Hurrah!” the cry went up again, this time echoed by nearly the entire crowd. It stung Rogan to see Saffron cheering along, laughing as the neighbor on her other side clinked cups with her. He joined the rest in taking a sip of wine, and sat with them after the Duke did so also.

  “I am sorry, your Grace, but I am no knight.” Rogan heard Jaiden’s still-boyish voice acknowledge. “Though I am proud of my father’s name, I remain Jaiden Luminere, servant of Criesha and the Order of the Rising Moon.”

  Rogan looked at Dhania, raised an eyebrow and shook his head, eliciting another giggle. He drained the remainder of his goblet, then caught the eye of a servant and gestured to his and Dhania’s cups. “More wine,” he mouthed silently.

  After procuring additional beverage and sharing a silent toast with Dhania, Rogan turned to say something clever to Saffron. She was still staring at the head table, and he followed her gaze just in time to see the Duke of Rosegold laying sword-to-shoulder, bestowing a knighthood upon Jaiden.

  Saffron turned to Rogan, beaming. “This must be very exciting for him,” she said, without a hint of sarcasm.

  Rogan searched her face for something he did not find. “Perfect, I would imagine.” Saffron squinted, as if not catching his meaning. “You know,” he swiveled from Saffron to Dhania to include them both in the conversation, “after the last couple of days, I have been considering a homeward journey.”

  Saffron’s smile vanished, replaced by concern. “Why would you think of such a thing? I have not judged you as a man who gives up.”

  “I am not talking about giving up,” Rogan answered swiftly, before sighing. “Lately, I have felt more like a minnow in a foreign stream. I only came north the first time because we had to flee Salmarsh, and had little time to decide otherwise. Then I stuck around to procure help freeing the Dampers from Blackthorn.” And because of you, he thought while looking directly into Saffron’s eyes, in case they could pierce his consciousness.

  “But now all that is done,” he continued aloud, “and the Order seems to have matters well in hand in these lands. What more use can I be here?” Rogan paused, giving Saffron an opportunity to ask him to stay – to tell him she wanted him near.

  Dhania, however, spoke first. “But if you went home, you would be in danger. Are you not an outlaw, there?”

  Rogan shrugged. “The danger is no different than I have faced since escaping imprisonment. In Chelpa I have contacts, I know my way around – I could be useful.”

  Saffron nodded quietly, as if she understood. A small victory. After a brief silence, she seemed to have gathered her thoughts. “You cannot leave yet, Baron. Wait at least until Palomar returns with news from the south. You need knowledge of the developments there before choosing how best to proceed. No place may be truly safe, but it would be foolish to cross enemy lines again without at least the intelligence the Aasimar will have gathered.”

  Regretfully, she made sense. To walk blindly into the hornet’s nest of Chelpa in the wake of their success at Blackthorn would be folly. “I suppose I could wait a little longer, until Palomar finds us. Keep this to yourselves, but I think I am starting to miss him.” A rueful smile curled his lips. “And I have long desired to see the shining citadels of Selamus. I have heard stories of the silver towers since I was a youth.”

  Dhania gave Rogan’s right arm a squeeze. “Then it is settled? You will stay with us at least a little longer?” Her face was full of expectation.

  Rogan sighed and nodded, just as a platter of carved boar was set nearby on the table. H
e politely served the ladies before taking meat for himself, and as the meal began he decided to keep conversation as light as possible. This was a night to take advantage of the finer things and ignore, if only for a while, the distractions of adversaries, whether political or personal.

  He made sure to compliment their host, the beauty of his companions, and surrender his mind to the wine, music, and feasting. Inevitably, his thoughts turned to his past – sneaking around the banquets at the manor in Thispany, meeting his Riah, and falling in love. When he could no longer concentrate on the conversation at hand, he excused himself and sought out the fresh, late-spring air.

  The last, rosy haze of evening clung to the horizon as a deeper purple descended to usurp it, and Rogan found himself climbing long, spiral steps to the upper levels of the outer keep. From there he found access to walk the top of the wall, seeking out a view to make his own concerns seem small.

  The stars crept out one by one as Rogan wandered the high perches of Windhollow, measuring the turns of his life that had led him there. Until a few months ago, his direction seemed clear. Once the King-priest of Chelpa took everything from him, his thoughts drove only toward survival and vengeance. Then, the sacrifice of a Damper had complicated life. He still yearned to end Ebon Khorel, but not only for his own satisfaction.

  Rogan realized now, his was but one of thousands of lives turned upside-down, and he was fighting to create a better reality for his homeland. Ironically, only after his title of authority had been stripped did he feel responsible for his people. So what was he doing in the Cradle, these Northern Provinces between the mountains, far from home? He could have found an excuse to remain in Blackthorn with Palomar, or ridden back to Thispany, where he still knew loyal men.