The War of the Moonstone: an Epic Fantasy (33 page)

Uncle Dalic’s eyes shifted to
Giorn, and Giorn was struck by the change in him. No longer did Dalic seem like
a doddering oldster ready to watch grandchildren play in his garden. He seemed
like a battle-hardened king ready to exact judgment on a hated foe.

“Tell me, Giorn, and tell me true,”
Dalic said. “Did Serit try to sacrifice you to the Wolf?”

Giorn sighed and nodded. “He did. And
Histra with him.”

“I will have to survey the
catacombs, of course, and find out if this altar exists, but if it does, I must
believe you.”

“No, Father!” cried Serit. “This is
madness!”

Dalic’s eyes turned hard as they
appraised his son. “I never would have thought it of you. But Giorn is right. He
could not have known of the altar.
I
did not know of it.”

“Histra did,” Giorn said.

Dalic rubbed his chin. “Yes . . . I
recall the tales. Old wives’ tales, I thought them. As a child, my brothers and
I would dare each other to venture into the lowest levels of the catacombs. Once
I lied and said I did. But . . . so, there really
is
an altar down there?”

Giorn nodded. “And there’s more you
should know of.”

“Yes?”

“It’s possible other dukes and
barons have been seduced by the dark powers. Serit may know which ones have
succumbed, and we should question him—though, truth be told, I’m not sure how
much of what he says we can trust. Still, perhaps he has some letters or
articles in his chambers.”

“Yes.” Dalic shook his head in
disgust. “What times we live in . . . my own son . . .”

“No, Father, don’t listen to him!” Serit
said.

Giorn had been waiting for it, and
he was not disappointed. All of a sudden Serit leapt forward, his sword a blur
of steel. Giorn twisted. He just barely dodged the blade as it sped past.

Instantly, guards tore the weapon
from Serit’s hands. Others restrained him.

But it was Dalic himself, wrenching
a sword from a soldier’s grasp, that struck his son on the head with the flat
of the blade. Serit, who had been thrashing in rage, went limp, and guards
lowered him gently to the floor.

Dalic looked unutterably sad,
staring down at his son. The old duke’s eyes were very moist, but he did not
release his tears, not before his men.

Giorn squeezed his shoulder. “I’m
sorry, my friend.”

“Yes. Me, too.” Yfrin paused. “I’m
almost glad Elira did not live to see this. She would have been devastated.” He
sniffed wetly. “I won’t know what to tell his brothers and sisters. And the
people! How to explain this to the people?” Dalic looked sideways at Giorn. “And
you say there are
more
?”

There were more. A search of Serit’s rooms yielded a bundle
of letters from various nobles of Felgrad in which they discussed their painful
decisions to accept Raugst’s overtures and turn to the worship of Gilgaroth. Giorn
and Dalic found one half-finished letter by Serit himself speaking of how his
own decision was eased by the knowledge that an ancestor had gone down that
path before him and had even erected a Black Altar in the deepest level of the
catacombs. The search also turned up a newly-arrived invitation from none other
than Baron Raugst Irasgralt Wesrain himself. It was an invitation to a summit
meeting of the available aristocracy of Felgrad, but this particular invitation
revealed that many of those attending would be among Raugst’s recent converts,
of which Serit was a prominent member.

“A gathering of traitors and
jackals,” Duke Yfrin muttered, staring at the invitation. He and Giorn were in
the duke’s study, sipping wine and pondering the situation. A fire blazed in
the hearth. “I wonder what they’ll be discussing.”

“The letter mentions something about
the King,” Giorn said.

“So it does.” Dalic held the letter
up and peered at it through his spectacles. “‘. . . in which we shall discuss
the fate of Felgrad and, indeed, its current and future leadership . . .’”

Giorn arched his eyebrows. “Raugst
plots to overthrow King Ulea.”

“Yes, and he’s using Serit and the
other converts to help him seduce the faithful nobles into aiding his doing it.
What’s more, the meeting is in three days.” His voice was grave. “We haven’t
time to prevent it.”

Chapter
20

Niara smiled as the castle neared. The sun beat down from
blue skies overhead, the wind whipped her hair, and her horse rode steadily
along, and though its rhythmic bumps and the sounds of its clattering hooves
reassured her, she was not lulled. She went into the lion’s den.

Drawing rein before the great doors,
she dismounted.

“I wish to see Lord Raugst Wesrain,”
she told the guards. It was still odd to think of him as a Wesrain.

The shorter, broader guard shook
his head. “I’m sorry, my lady, but we have orders not to admit you.”

“There must be some mistake. Raugst
would wish to see me.”

“Nevertheless, we are not to admit
you.”

She frowned. She needed to see
Raugst, and not simply for herself. She had driven the evil from him and had
partially guided him toward the light, but he needed someone to teach him, to
instruct him in the ways of the good. Now, with Saria hovering over his
shoulder to reinforce his own dark past, this was even more important.

She stared steadily at the shorter
guard. “Nisben, I see you at temple twice a week, as it should be. How can you
deny your High Mother access? It is the High Mother’s right and duty to give
counsel to the Baron.”

He paled. “I cannot, my lady. I’ve
been commanded.”

“Commanded by Raugst?”

He wiped sweat from his forehead. “No,
Lady. It was . . . the other.”

“Saria.” She spoke the name like a
curse.

Nisben nodded. “It is so, my lady.”

“And is Saria lord here?”

Again the guards exchanged worried
glances. “It’s Lord Wesrain, of course,” said Nisben. “Only . . . only he has
commanded that Lady Saria’s orders be followed in all aspects.”

Niara knew Raugst would have little
choice; Saria was simply too powerful. “Does it not disconcert you that your
new mistress bears the same name as she who betrayed Lord Feldred all those
years ago?” she said.

“That’s not all that disconcerts us
about her, my lady.” Nisben’s voice was ragged, but his intent unwavering. “We
still can’t let you in.”

She saw she would make no further
progress. She climbed astride her mount, wheeled about and departed. Saria had
won this round, perhaps, but she would not win the war.

When Niara reached the Temple, she
found Hiatha meditating in the White Room.

Hiatha looked up. “Yes, Mother?”

“We need to talk.”

Raugst stopped and strained his ears. Was that a footstep? He
waited. Nothing came. He continued on.

The chill wind groaned as it drove
through the garden in the rear of the castle, waving the rose bushes that lined
the path, rustling the water lilies that erupted from the ornamental ponds,
even shaking the high banks of the hedge maze ahead. Everywhere was darkness
and shifting shadows. Dark clouds scurried across the sky, almost furtively, at
times reaching out their smoky talons and clutching the moon in their grasps.

Raugst told himself to relax. Shoulders
squared, he entered the hedge maze. The hedges rising on either side of him
trembled. He focused on the smell of the roses, the delicious chillness of the
wind.

It grew darker and colder as he pressed
deeper into the labyrinth. He glanced up. From here he could just barely see
the tip of the castle rising to the right. Good. Hopefully no one could see him
from there. He’d been forced to climb out of his own window, scale the side of
the castle, reenter another window and pass through the servants’ quarters to
make this meeting. He couldn’t afford to be caught.
Fiarth
could not afford for him to be caught.

Something emerged from the shadows.
Raugst jumped. A hand flew to his sword.

“It’s only I,” said Duke Welsly.

“Wear bells, for the gods’ sakes. Were
you seen?”

“No. I came here hours ago, just as
your letter instructed. I haven’t moved from this spot. Now will you tell me
what all this is about?”

Raugst sighed. The duke had been
Raugst’s guest ever since Hasitlan had been overrun, but he had had little to
do save visit his surviving flock from time to time; they were residents in
scattered hotels and hostels and orphanages throughout Thiersgald. The duke
would visit with them and see to their needs as much as possible, and he had
even participated in the fighting when the city was under siege. Now he looked weary,
his face lined and his back slumped. By the light of the moon Raugst could just
barely see the golden head sewn into the breast of his jacket.

“I have a request for you,” Raugst
said.

“Oh?”

“It’s important. The very realm
depends upon it.”

A look of wary eagerness came into
the old man’s eyes. Raugst could tell this is what he had been wanting,
needing. Purpose was a powerful thing.

“What may I do for you, my lord?”

Raugst clapped him on the shoulder.
“It’s that sword of yours. The one Lady Niara blessed for you. You did bring it?”

The old man patted the sword; it
hung at his side. “Just as you asked, my lord. But I still don’t understand. What
do you want of me? Of it? And why is there so much strangeness here lately? Those
guards that follow you about, there’s something not quite right about them, and
that woman, Saria—
what a name
. . .”
He shuddered. “People say prisoners are sent to . . .
amuse
her . . . Some even say they never leave her rooms, that she
keeps them there and does unspeakable things to them. Where did she come from? What’s
going on? Why this sneaking about? Why did you have to use the kitchen staff to
communicate with me? Don’t you trust your own men?” He shook his head,
obviously at a loss.

“Those are all good questions, my
friend, but I cannot answer them now. But here, let me see the sword.”

Welsly removed it from its sheath
and passed it to him. Raugst held it up, and the moonlight glimmered off it,
seeming to awaken an echoing light within it. Holding it, he felt lighter,
cleaner, clearer than he had before. But he also felt a threat. This blade was
now a weapon of some power, and it had been blessed to be used against creatures
of darkness.
Like me.
But like Saria,
also.
Yes
, he thought,
this should do.

“Take it,” Duke Welsly said. “It’s
yours, if it can aid you.”

“No.” Saria would sense it on him. He
passed it back to the duke. “But I may need to call on you soon, and I want you
to be ready to wield that blade when I do.”

That eager look stole back into the
duke’s eyes. “Against Saria?” He paused. “Normally I would not dream of striking
down a woman, but her . . .” He stuck out his chin. “You and I both know she is
not . . . right.”

“Perhaps not.”

The duke frowned, looking afraid to
ask his next question, and finally summoned his courage. “If I may ask, my
lord, why have so many nobles arrived today? I’ve heard rumors that there is to
be some sort of feast tomorrow night.”

“There is.”

Welsly looked perplexed. “Then why,
my lord, if I may ask, was I not invited?”

Raugst almost smiled.
Because YOU would not betray the King
. “I
have my reasons, good duke. Just trust me.”

After he saw Welsly off, Raugst
descended through the castle to its catacombs, where he found the secret
tunnels, but as he entered them, the hackles on the back of his neck stood up. His
agents were down here, waiting in the darkness. Raugst had placed them here to
ambush Giorn and his men should the young baron attempt another strike at
Raugst. But none of Raugst’s agents were really
his
any longer, he knew. They were Saria’s.

Curse
that witch. I’ll kill her yet.
Duke Welsly’s light-blessed sword should
help.

He fantasized about hacking off
Saria’s head as he made his way through the darkness below Thiersgald, lighting
his way with a torch. Smoke choked his lungs and teared his eyes, but he did
not stop, even when he was obliged to skirt the sewers. At any moment he
expected one of his men to lunge out at him, but he made it to his destination
safely, and it was with great relief that he emerged from a gutter and into the
open air once more. Wind gusted down the street, driving away some of the
stench of the sewers. He hoped the smoke of the torch masked the rest of it. He
didn’t want Niara to blanch at his smell.

He doused the torch and left it
behind. Smiling despite himself, he straightened his tunic and ran a hand
through his hair as he made his way through the dark streets. The fine shops of
the inner city rose on both sides of him, and the well-cobbled streets were lit
at intervals by street-lamps. As it was the dead of night, everything was
deserted. Raugst heard noises ahead and ducked into an alley as two horsemen
rode by—the city watch.

When they were gone, he resumed his
trek, coming at last on one of the many parks in the city, actually a small
island in the Halyd River, and Raugst had to cross a delicate, lacy bridge to
reach it. On both sides of the River stretched a walkway, with occasional shops
and restaurants along it. Thiersgaldians loved to walk and enjoy the outdoors,
and were known to take frequent strolls along the River. The island Raugst
crossed to was known as Branad’s Isle, and it was a famous place for lovers to
meet, full of high hedges and gazebos. During the time leading up to Vrulug’s
siege it had become a place for outlaws to take advantage of the unwary, but
Raugst had painstakingly hanged all the outlaws he could and had driven the
rest away.

With light steps, he slipped
through the hedges, and for some reason he was even more nervous in this hedge
maze than in the one behind the castle.
Saria
is far away
, he told himself. But that was not the reason he felt nervous. No,
it was Niara that made him so. It amused him and chagrined him at the same
time.

At last he rounded a corner and
came on a gazebo shining whitely under the moon. There, in its center, stood a
slender figure clad in white, black hair glimmering down her back.

Raugst smiled. He had not been sure
she would come, not sure that she had even received the message. Saria watched
him carefully, and he had been forced to be extra cunning in sending the
message to Niara asking her to meet him here. He had not even been certain she
would come if she
had
gotten it. But
she had, and here she was.

He went to her. She had her back to
him, and was staring off into the night, perhaps listening to the running of
the river. Raugst could hear it gurgling pleasantly in the background.

His heart in his throat, he stepped
onto the gazebo.

Niara must have heard his
footsteps, but she did not turn around.

Slowly, savoring this, he reached
out a hand and took hold of her shoulder, meaning to turn her around and kiss
her.

Something was wrong. Her flesh was
ice cold, and now that he was near he smelled something peculiar, a hint of . .
. rot. And she seemed taller than she should.

The figure in white turned about. Its
blackened skull glistened under the light of the moon, its eye sockets deep and
empty. It threw back its withered head and laughed, a horrible clacking sound,
and one of its claws rose and tore away the wig on its head.

Raugst stumbled backward, bile
rising in his throat. Bumped into something behind him. Whirling, he saw that
it was the other one, tall and skeletal and ghastly, emanating cold.
The Twain
.

Unable to contain himself, he struck
at it, but before his fist could land, the one wearing the white gown grabbed
him from behind. He felt air whish by him, felt wood snap under him, and he
landed heavily on the grass beyond the gazebo. The first one had thrown him
through the railing.

Gasping, he glared up at them, and
they turned to face him, both making gruesome clacking noises that must be
laughter.

“Why?” he demanded. “Why won’t you
let me see her?”

They simply drew back into the
shadows and did not appear again.

Raugst shivered and cursed. For a
long moment, he just sat there, staring into the shadows, collecting himself. He
took some solace in the fact that if the Twain had been awaiting him here, then
they would not have been able to overhear his conversation with Duke Welsly
earlier. Saria should be less worried about Niara and more worried about
Raugst. He allowed himself a grim smile as he picked himself up and made for
the sewers.

Before he reached them, a figure
stepped out from around a corner of a building, directly into his path. His
breath caught in his throat, and his hand reached for his sword. The figure
stepped forward, into the light of a street-lamp.

It was Niara.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said after he’d caught his
breath. He looked around hastily, his eyes scrutinizing every shadow. He looked
quite handsome. “There are enemies around.”

Niara nodded. “I know.” She
stretched out her hand toward him, beckoning. “They’re not here. Saria made her
point, and now her pets have returned to her.”

With obvious unease, he came toward
her. He looked very grim, and he smelled of smoke. She had not wanted to feel
anything toward him, had told herself not to, but as he approached her, she
felt something stir within her, and when he clasped her hand in his she felt
that faint ember blaze once more.
Think
of Giorn
.

“How?” he asked, and his voice was
husky. She knew he meant the manner of her finding him.

She tried to keep her own voice
steady. “I’ll explain.” She led him around the corner of the building, where
Hiatha and several priesthood guards waited. Hiatha looked wary at seeing Raugst,
but she only nodded. Niara walked on, and the others fell in behind her, except
for Raugst, who stayed at her side.