Maze of Moonlight (30 page)

“You want to sleep in the forest?”

“Why not?” Natil smiled. “Fear not. We shall be safer in the forest than in ditches or towns.”

“But . . .” Roger's fate was a lead weight in Christopher's mind. “What about the Elves? Don't they live in the forest?”

“They do.” She sighed. “But there are too few left in the world to pose any threat to humans. Besides . . .” The trees were gleaming softly in the twilight: shades of green and gray, a shimmer of leaves. She looked at them longingly. “Elves want only to help and heal. They are no threat. They have never been a threat.”

Christopher was still unsure. “Then why are people so afraid of them?”

“In the beginning,” said Natil, “I think that people needed Elves to help them. Later on, much later, they needed Elves to believe in. Then they needed something to fear. And now they need something to hate. The Elves have not changed: they remain as they are—healing and helping—in a world that no longer wants them to do either.”

“Healing and helping.” Christopher eyed the trees. “Unless they're attacked.”

“Or unless those whom they love are attacked.” Natil dismounted, looked at him sidelong. “Had you any such plans?”

Hesitating only for a moment, Christopher swung down from his horse. “None.” He looked into the dark forest as though it were a deep pond containing an elusive fish. “I'd like to ask them a few questions, though. About my grandfather.”

“Perhaps you'll have your chance someday.” Natil set aside her harp and began to gather branches of dry bracken.

***

They reached Aurverelle the next morning, galloping up the main street accompanied by salutations from the townsfolk and the screams of children delighted with the opportunity to race the horses. The tower watch had seen them climbing the switchback road up the hill, and Pytor and Jerome were both waiting at the castle gate.

“Did master hear?” said the seneschal. “Ypris . . .”

“Never mind Ypris,” said Jerome crossly. “The baron's alive. That's more than we dared hope for when he rode off.”

“We did it,” said Christopher, “thanks to Natil.” He swung down and offered his hand to her. She took it and dismounted gracefully. “Ruprecht is on our side. Yvonnet is on our side . . .” He shot a glance at Natil. “. . . more or less.”

Pytor was nodding. “But Ypris . . .”

“That's why I said
more or less
. Yvonnet brought the free companies into Adria to take Ypris. They're all over by now.”

Jerome crossed himself. “By Our Lady.”

Natil bowed. “Indeed.”

A chittering from above. The monkey swung down the outside of the gate, bounded up to Christopher, and leaped into his arms. Christopher made a face at it. It made a face back and scrambled to his shoulder. “But that means we'll have to move quickly,” said the baron. “Everyone who owes any kind of service to me will have to stay ready. We'll wait until the companies strike, and then, the Lady willing, we'll have them.”

Jerome looked suspiciously at Natil, w ho appeared blithely unaware of Christopher's possibly less than orthodox allusion.

Not even pausing to bathe or eat, Christopher called Pytor and Jerome to the bailiff's office in the castle and began dictating letters to the steadings, manors, and monasteries that owed him service. He would allow no scutage: contributions had to be in the form of actual warm bodies. Fighting warm bodies.

“This will be a hardship for many,” said Jerome as the clerks scribbled furiously.

“It'll be more of a hardship to have their homes razed,” said Christopher as David arrived bearing a basket of hot pasties. Christopher snatched one, bit off a huge quantity, and sprayed crumbs on the table as he continued. “Tha'll jus' hapf to adjufth.”

Natil nibbled delicately. “Lovely, Master Chef,” she said. “Thank you.”

David bowed. “My
pleas
ure, Mistress Harper.”

“Wine!” shouted Christopher. “
Now!
”

David backed away hastily, and a shrill chitter from the monkey sent him down the hall at a run.

Over the next month, replies from Christopher's vassals trickled in. Many were distressed at his demands, but all admitted that Christopher, as a good lord and an honest man, was certainly worth some inconvenience, and therefore they would be happy to cooperate.

“They really don't understand, do they?” said Christopher, glancing over several of the letters one afternoon. “It has nothing to do with
my
convenience. It's
their
convenience that's the question.” He plunked himself down on his bed, swung his feet up. “And they still think I'm mad.”

The monkey, perched in the window, chittered and scratched itself in the warm sun. The weather had remained hot and rainless, and now dry winds were sweeping up from the southeast. Already the vegetation that had been spurred into enthusiastic growth by the arrival of spring was beginning to wilt, shrivel, and brown. People were talking about drought again, but the monkey did not seem to care: it liked the sun.

It looked up at the baron of Aurverelle and stuck out its tongue. “The monkey agrees,” said Christopher.

Natil was sitting on the floor, tuning her harp. “I daresay, my lord,” she said, “that the monkey is no expert on madness.”

“On the contrary,” said Christopher. “He's quite knowledgeable. For instance, he's taught me that what most people call madness should actually be referred to as sanity.”

Natil lifted her head, smiled. “The monkey is wise, my lord.”

Christopher put his hands behind his head and stretched out. “I wish my vassals were as wise. But Paul delMari . . .” He shook his head. “I'd hoped for better. His was the first letter I sent off. That was a month ago. I even sent it with my best messenger. But I've heard nothing from Shrinerock. I can't understand why he's delaying. It's just a good thing that the companies haven't done anything yet: without Shrinerock to cover the southern part of the country, we'd be in trouble.”

Natil nodded, eased two strings into consonance.

“What . . .” Struck by a thought, Christopher sat up. “What do the patterns say, harper?”

Natil lifted her head, and for a moment he wondered if he had, in some way, offended her. “There are many things fading in the world,” she said slowly, “and the vision of the patterns is among them. In the Château and in Ruprecht's fortress, I saw what was nearby and imminent. Shrinerock is distant. I cannot see as far as I used. None of us can.”

None of us.
Did that include Vanessa? But Christopher saw the grief in Natil, for what had been for Vanessa a source of torment was apparently for the harper a talent and a gift, one to be shared, one with which she could help and heal. But it was fading. Natil was amazing and, in her own way, terrifyingly powerful, but she was fragile, too; and as Christopher had responded to Vanessa's fundamental humanity, so did he now to that same quality in Natil.

From the courtyard below came the rapid sound of a horse's hoofs clattering on cobblestones, the shouts of the servants. Hoping that the commotion marked a reply at last from the master of Shrinerock, Christopher rose form his bed and went to the window. But it was not a messenger from the baron of Furze. The rider was a slim, dark young man whose demeanor, even at a distance, held a touch of nervousness. Christopher wondered why Martin Osmore would pay a visit to a madman who knew too much about his shameful relationship with Yvonnet; but hoping that, whatever Martin's reasons, he might be induced to share some news of Vanessa, he pulled on his boots and went downstairs with Natil following and the monkey on his shoulder.

Unlike his father, Martin was exceedingly conscious of the social gulf that separated him from Christopher. At the baron's approach, he dismounted and bowed deeply, and upon straightening, he searched Christopher's face as though for some indication of what kind of reception he might receive today.

The monkey chuckled and pulled on Christopher's ear. “Yes, little friend,” he said, “I've been tamed a bit also.” He offered his hand to Martin. “Don't be afraid. I won't eat you.”

“God bless you, Baron Christopher.”

Christopher called for the grooms to take away Martin's horse, waved the servants away, and personally led him towards the door. “Did you want to make this a formal visit, Martin?” he said, wondering how it was that he had become so gracious a host. “Shall I tell Raffalda to draw a bath and set out clothes?”

Martin blushed, at once overwhelmed and a little frightened. “If it please you, my lord, I think I'd just as soon speak now.”

Christopher stopped on the porch. “All right, then. What is it? Has your father finally decided that Aurverelle might be a worthwhile ally?”

“It's not that at all.” Martin looked extremely worried. “It's Baron Paul. I've written to him fairly regularly, and he's written back. About once a week. We were very close, almost like . . . uh . . . father and son . . .” Martin looked uneasily at Christopher. “. . . but lately, I haven't heard a word from him. No letters, nothing. I wrote again after a fortnight, but the messenger didn't come back, and there's still no word from Shrinerock.”

And Christopher had written a month ago. No reply. And the messenger had not returned, either.

A shout from the watchman at the top of the great keep, but Christopher was too intent upon Martin's words to make out what he was saying.

“I'm worried,” continued Martin. “I've talked to Father, but he isn't bothered by anything: he just wants me to get married. But lately, I've heard some rumors. Nothing definite, you know, but they all say that's something happened down by Furze.”

And the free companies had disappeared. Nearly four thousand men . . .

The guard at the top of the keep was still shouting, and he had become insistent enough that Christopher finally listened to him:

“
Smoke! Smoke to the southeast!
”

The realization struck Christopher like a leaden fist, and, pulling Martin after him until the lad understood and followed on his own, Christopher ran across the court to the stairway that led to the top of the keep. Cursing, taking the large steps two at a time, while the monkey clung to his neck and shrieked with fear, Christopher bounded upwards.

When, panting, he burst out into the open, he looked off to the southeast. It was as the watchman had said: beyond Malvern, beyond the wide dairylands that stretched from the far edge of the forest to the Bergren River, a pillar of smoke, black and gray, was rising into the cloudless sky.

Martin was at his side. “What . . . what is it?” he said when he found his voice.

Christopher planted his elbows atop the parapet, covered his face with his hands. “It's Furze. Dammit, it's Furze.”

The smoke rose and spread into the air as Christopher watched. It could only be Furze. Yes, the free companies were in Adria, and yes, their movements were erratic. Indeed, they had completely bypassed Belroi and had instead, knowingly or not, struck directly at the alliance.

A puffing from the direction of the stairs told Christopher that Pytor had arrived. “Get some messengers off, Pytor,” he said without turning around. “Tell Ruprecht we'll need immediate aid at Furze. And tell Yvonnet . . .” He wished indeed that he had strangled his cousin. “Tell that son of a bitch that . . .”

He noticed that Martin looked away quickly.

“I'm sorry, Martin,” said Christopher. “I know you didn't have anything to do with this.” He turned back to Pytor. “Tell him the same thing you tell Ruprecht: that we'll gather the forces at Furze as quickly as possible. Make whatever arrangements you think best.”

Pytor spread his hands. “What about master?”

“I'm going ahead of you all.”

Martin lifted his head, wiped his eyes. “I'm coming, too.”

“Can you fight?”

“Of course I can fight.”

“But not against churchmen.”

Martin colored. “I was stupid. Etienne surprised me. I learned.”

Pytor was wringing his hands again. “Is master sure of this?”

“Of course I'm sure,” said Christopher. “You have the word of a madman.”

Pytor did not look reassured, but before an hour had passed, Christopher, Martin, and Natil were cantering down the switchback road to the lowlands. The men were both armed and wearing light mail. Natil, though, had dispensed immediately with her customary gown and reverted openly to her garments of green and gray.

Christopher performed introductions on the fly. “Natil, Martin Osmore,” he called above the dusty clatter of hooves. “Martin, this is my harper, Natil.”

“God bless you,” said Martin, but Natil, peering out across the miles of dark trees with a stricken look in her blue eyes, acknowledged him but distantly.

When they reached the base of the hill, Malvern Forest lay squarely in their path. There was no road through it—there never had been—and Christopher gestured to right and to left. “It won't make much difference whether we go north or south,” he said. “It's going to be a long ride either way.”

“The south road will take us through the Free Towns,” Martin pointed out.

“Would your father have any available men we could snatch up?”

The lad shook his head, embarrassed. “Father's never taken any of your concerns very seriously, Messire Christopher. I believe he thinks he can buy the safety of his city if the companies approach.”

Christopher wished that he were indeed as mad as he claimed: then he could scream and throw things with perfect justification. “What in the Lady's name happened to the Free Towns? You people fought like devils when you threw out old David a'Freux.”

Martin shrugged. “That was many years ago. Times have changed . . . people are more comfortable . . .”

“And complacent, yes,” Christopher snapped, though when he saw Martin's hurt look, he regretted his words.

Natil spoke. “Some of the Towns have preserved their old ways,” she said. “But times have indeed changed.” She pointed at the forest. “I can take you straight through Malvern,” she said. “We can be at Furze in two days.”

“But there's no road,” said Christopher.

Natil's face was set, and when she looked at Christopher, there was a grimness about her eyes that he had not seen before. “None . . . none of which humans know,” she said. “But our need is great, and so I am willing to reveal what has previously been hidden.”