Maze of Moonlight (35 page)

Berard wanted to scream, but he forced himself into calculation. Panic would do him no good. Panic was what had cost poor Giovanni so dearly outside Bologna. “What do you mean?”

“All the other doors and windows in the castle have been turned to stone, too. We're breaking the men out of the barracks now, and then we'll have to break into the storage room for the tools.”

Berard stared at the blank expanse of stone that had once been a door. The whole castle? But that . . . that meant . . . that meant that . . .

He did not know what it meant.

He stared at the granite. The granite stared back. “Then
do
it!” he shouted.

“As soon as possible, my lord.”

“Faster than that, you idiot!”

He heard the man run off. With the candle still burning in his hand, he leaned against the wall. Every door and window in the castle. Who on earth could do such a thing? And what powers would they have to be wielding in order to do it?

He recalled Jehan's drunken babbling about the Elves, felt a shiver in spite of the stifling heat. Elves? No, ridiculous. Just a legend.

But Jehan had seemed so sure, so matter of fact. But then again he had been drunk. But then again . . .

Berard's head was suddenly hurting, and an ache gnawed at his stomach. An obstacle—an exceedingly clever and definitely preternatural obstacle—had appeared in the road that he was traveling toward the free conquest of Adria. And Berard knew from experience that such obstacles did not just happen. Which meant that someone—equally clever, perhaps (and the ache in his stomach increased) equally preternatural—was behind it all.

“I'll find you,” he murmured. “I'll find you. And then we'll see who you are, and what I'll do about you.”

Two hours later, the tramp of heavy feet outside his door gave way to the crack of hammers and mauls and battering rams; but the door fell only with a half-hour's concerted work, for as the wood had been thick, so was the stone it had become. Long before Berard could escape his prison, though, he heard more shouts from outside. Muffled though they were, they obviously proceeded from the castle walls.

The door finally caved in. Berard grabbed the first man that came to hand. “What's going on outside?”

“There are people on horseback down on the slopes.”

Attack. He thought so. “How many?”

“Two, messire.”

“Two?” Berard stared for an instant; then, with a curse, he ran down the corridor, skidding and slipping on the fragments of stone that littered the floor.

The sun had risen during his confinement, and when he gained the top of the curtain wall, he could see clearly that the man had been absolutely truthful. Below, about a hundred yards away, were two figures on horseback: a man and a woman. The man appeared to have a monkey on his shoulder.

“Who goes there?” Berard shouted. “Damn you, what do you want?”

The shout came back. “I'm Christopher delAurvre, baron of Aurverelle, and I want you and your scum
out of my country
!”

Berard eyed him. Christopher of Aurverelle? The one who was mad? He suddenly felt better. Christopher was but a man—in this case, a man with a monkey on his back—and therefore the uncanniness of Shrinerock's transformation began to give way to the simple humanity of an adversary.

Doors and windows could be battered open, humanity could be attended to. Berard beckoned to one of the guards. “Get a crossbowman up here, quickly.”

The man took off at a run. Berard turned once again to Christopher. “And is sorcery among your talents, my good Baron Aurverelle? That could prove interesting to the Church.”

“I've got a lot of talents, mush-head,” came the reply. “And I don't give a damn about the Church. Who the hell are you?”

“Berard of Onella.” Berard could not see anything wrong with admitting it. He was, after all, rather proud of his rise.

“You're from Adria? You're doing this to your own country?”

Berard did not feel obligated to inform Christopher that money was his country; but now the archer was arriving with a clatter of boots and tackle, and without saying a word, Berard pointed at Christopher and drew his finger across his throat. The bowman nodded, put his foot in the stirrup of his weapon, and began to crank it up.

“You've got two days to take your men and get them out of Adria,” Christopher was shouting,

The crossbow's string creaked into position. A
snick
as the trigger caught.

“Otherwise, I'll see you hanged like a common thief.”

Berard was offended. Common thief? Ridiculous. Uncommon thief if anything, but robber first and foremost.

“And how,” he inquired, trying to put irony into his shout, “do you intend to manage that?”

“I have . . . friends,” replied Christopher, and Berard sensed a deep threat in his words and tone that reminded him of the mysterious transformation of the castle. If Christopher had friends who could turn wood and glass and metal to fused stone, then what if . . . ?

But the crossbow was ready. The archer positions himself in an arrow loupe, braced himself, took aim . . .

“Friends?” Berard taunted. “You have only a monkey and a woman, as far as I can tell. You'll have to do better than that, Christopher.”

But the woman, who had until now been slumped, motionless, on her horse, suddenly leaned towards Christopher as though speaking to him. Christopher nodded and, just as the archer released his bolt, calmly sidled his horse two feet to the right. The bolt whizzed between Christopher and the woman and buried itself in the ground.

Berard stared. But for the baron's sudden change of position, he would have been dead. How had he known . . . ?

Friends.

Berard's mouth went dry. The archer looked up. “Sorry, messire.”

“You'll have to do better than that, Berard,” Christopher shouted. He was a fairly good mimic: he had duplicated Berard's taunt perfectly. “You've got two days. After that, we'll hunt you down like rabbits! Remember that: two days!” And then he and his companion both wheeled their horses and set off to the south.

Berard whirled, shouting orders. “Fetch the horses! Gather the men! I want that bastard out there dead!” But when he turned back, he saw not only the dwindling forms of Christopher and his strange companions, but also a distant flutter of movement out to the west. It looked like . . . no, it was indeed a group of people. On foot. It could only be Baron Paul and the survivors of the castle and the towns heading for Malvern Forest.

Berard cursed, kicked the parapet, bruised his foot, cursed louder. “Get those horses out there, and get your unholy asses in their saddles, damn you all!”

Within minutes, the horses were gathered, and a good portion of the men of the company were assembled, armed, and ready to ride. At their head, Berard lifted his sword. “Five thousand pieces of gold to whoever brings me a dead Christopher delAurvre!” He signaled tot he gate guards to open the thick doors and raise the portcullis.

The men leaped to the ropes, seized the arms of the windlass, pulled on the chain. But the twelve-inch thick gates would not budge. Like all the other doors and windows in the castle, they had been replaced by a smooth, seamless, immovable expanse of solid granite.

***

Despite the cocky arrogance he had displayed, Christopher was worried as he rode southward with Natil. Though Berard was, for the time, trapped within Shrinerock, he would be able to smash his way out within a day or so, and the free company captain obviously possessed a large, well-trained force that included archers.

But at least Paul and his people were safely away, making now for the shelter of Malvern Forest under the guidance of icy-eyed Terrill, who had promised to guide them as far as Aurverelle. But if Christopher regretted that someone as level-headed and forthright as Baron Paul would by necessity be missing from the gathering of the allied forces, he regretted even more that he possessed none of Paul's equanimity regarding the immortals who had involved themselves so intimately in his life and his plans.

He stole a glance at Natil. She was still pale from her efforts the previous night, and she clung to her horse as though her weakness must inevitably topple her to the ground. Nonetheless, she was otherwise as calm and tranquil as ever, and with perfect equanimity and flawless courtesy she had brushed aside Christopher's opinion that she was too weak to travel and had remained at his side, even though the road he had chosen would lead her far away from security and rest.

This was the road to Saint Brigid. As the southernmost of the Free Towns, it lay well within striking range of Berard and his company. Worse yet—much worse—Vanessa was in Saint Brigid.

The monkey clung to Christopher's shoulder with the set face of an old man as the miles fell beneath the hooves of their mounts; and the road looped well out to the south before it turned west, skirting the edge of Malvern Forest as it crossed the otherwise open grasslands.

It was a human trail—open, prosaic—and therefore reassuring to a man struggling with revelations of immortal influence. Christopher embraced it, enjoyed it, relished even the hot east wind and the hotter sun that were parching and browning the countryside.

But Christopher said little to Natil, even when they stopped for the night. He did not know what to say. His confusion was absolute, his fears profound. Not until the sun had risen well into the sky on the second day did he summon up enough courage to break his silence. “Why?” he said suddenly. “Why are you doing all this?”

Natil answered as though she had expected his question. “One defends what is precious, my lord. You defend Adria. I defend you for that reason.”

“You didn't know I'd be doing any of this when you took service with me.”

“I did not. But at that time, we owed you a great favor in return for the favor that you bestowed on Vanessa.”

Christopher did not need patterns or telepathy to tell him that Natil's words held a touch of dissemblance. “You're trying to make up to me for what you did to my grandfather, aren't you?”

Natil nodded slowly, eyes downcast. “We are. We seek to mend what we once marred.”

Christopher stared straight ahead, jaw clenched. As he had suspected. Then: “That makes two of us.” He almost tried to hate her. How could anyone, immortal or not, ever make up for the absolute violation of a human soul? Berard of Onella and his free companies had taken Shrinerock, and the Elves had taken his grandfather. Shrinerock, though, could be rebuilt. Roger was gone forever.

The monkey on h is shoulder was becoming agitated, and when Christopher glanced at it, it stuck its tongue out at him.

He wanted to swear: even the monkey seemed to know more than he. “And Vanessa?” he said. “What about her? Or do you make a habit of reassembling peasant girls?”

Natil did not speak for some time. Then: “Vanessa is a kinswoman. Her grandmother Roxanne took an Elf for a lover, and by him she conceived Vanessa's father, Lake.” She bent her head. “Who is now dead,” she said softly.

“So Vanessa's part Elf.” Christopher was torn between frustrated rage and disappointed tears.

“She is,” said Natil. “There are many in the world who are so. In times past, Elves were loved without fear or shame, and therefore we loved in return. Only since the rise of the Church have our two peoples been sundered. Many of your race now bear within them a trace of the elven blood. It slumbers. In some it sleeps only fitfully, in others it awakens.”

But Christopher was not thinking of faceless multitudes: he was thinking of Vanessa. Elven she was, perhaps, but he had seen the fragile humanity in her. Warm, womanly, yet tortured with an affliction over which she had no control, she had leaned on his arm, looked to him for guidance, departed from him—he flattered himself—only with reluctance.

He turned to the Elf, tears stinging his eyes. “What the hell are you doing to us?”

Natil shifted the harp on her shoulder. She looked sad. “We try, my lord. We try to heal and to help. But we are fading as a people, and we do not see the patterns as we used. Perhaps for those very reasons we have become even more frantic in our efforts, for we know that we do not have much time or ability left to us.” She rode in silence for a time. Then: “We are old, my lord. Very old. But years do not always bring wisdom, and in any case, it appears that wisdom is not always useful.”

There was grief in her voice. Fading. And limited and fallible in that fading. But Christopher was angry. “You're just like us, then, aren't you?” he snapped, and he spurred his horse towards Saint Brigid.

He was tired and dusty, but he rode on, following the westering sun towards the southern borders of the Free Towns; and by late afternoon, Saint Brigid appeared out of the long shadows cast by the Aleser. Despite its walls, its palisade, and its ditch, the village seemed quaint and unassuming in its rustic simplicity; and Christopher wondered whether it had folded Vanessa, feral eyes and all, into its little bustle of life and living, whether she had found a secure place among its patterns.

They rode directly to the gate, and the stout man on duty stared at Natil, but not, Christopher noticed, out of shock or fear. “Fair One?”

“I am Natil,” said the Elf. “This is Baron Christopher of Aurverelle.”

The man goggled at Christopher. “But . . .”

“You're all in danger, my man,” said Christopher. “There's a massing of free companies at Shrinerock, and I can guarantee that they're going to be spreading out to strike at the Free Towns before summer's over. You'd better get your council together and start pike practice for the lad.”

But a cry went up from the street beyond the gate—“Christopher! Christopher!”—and the baron looked up to see a young woman running towards him, leaping and shouting. Her hair was blond and curling and unconstrained by braid or fastening, and she was dressed in homespun; but she had tucked up her skirts to free her legs, and when she saw that he had noticed her, she redoubled her speed.

He stared. It was Vanessa.

He swung down from his horse, and leaving Natil to make explanations, ran to meet her, drew her to him, wrapped her in his arms. “Dear Lady, Vanessa, you're safe.”