Maze of Moonlight (41 page)

He knew what she was referring to. He struggled with words, but he knew none that could bear a sufficient weight of double meanings, uncertain emotions. “Mirya . . . I . . .”

“Peace. Let us go.”

They worked their way across the field, stopping frequently while Mirya examined the obscure patterns of the world, then continuing on. A waning moon was rising by the time they reached the cover of outlying bushes and the first ranks of trees, and Christopher looked back at the village, faint in the faint light. Fifty years ago, were it not for Mirya, the Free Towns, Saint Brigid among them, would have ceased to exist. There would be no tolerance today, no clasping of elven and human hands, no safe place in which a girl from Furze Hamlet could find the help necessary to free herself from her torment.

He put his hands to his face. “Oh, dear Lady . . .”

“May Her hand be upon you, Christopher.” There was a hint of benediction in Mirya's tone, but she turned and led him off into the trees.

Blindly, Christopher stumbled after her. He wanted to hate her, but he had begun to despise himself for that very reason.

***

Jerome was busy these days, for in the absence of both the master and the seneschal of Aurverelle, all the administration of the estate fell into his hands; and these matters, difficult enough in the best of times, were further complicated both by the drought and the current absence of almost every man who could wield a weapon.

He coped. That was his duty. As a man of humility and honesty, though, he freely admitted that the women of the barony were assuming the tasks of the men with astonishing spirit. Raffalda was showing a gratifying talent with large-scale accounts and organization, and the townswomen and countrywomen were picking up spades and hoes and tending to the job of providing water to the parched fields with fruitful determination.

But in the east, as though to mock their efforts, the fire that was eating its way through Malvern grew and advanced, spreading, stretching far to north and to south. The odor of burning leaves and wood was a constant presence, and driven by the strong east wind, smoke occasionally puffed across the treetops like a patchy fog. IF the fire reached the western edge of Malvern, the fields and villages of Aurverelle might well follow the trees into charred uselessness, but at times that seemed to be but a small thing when compared to the magnitude of the destruction that was overtaking league upon league of the parched forest.

Deer, panicked and disoriented, were appearing regularly in the fields close to the trees; likewise wild swine and bear. Birds fled in flocks to the safety of the Aleser. Badgers staggered out of the smoky haze that lay thick on the forest floor and lay wheezing among the dry furrows. Squirrels bounded up the road to Aurverelle as though to implore human aid. Everything that could creep, fly, or run was moving to the west, away from the fire, out of the forest.

And there were others, too. . . .

One of the village girls who was helping the understaffed castle by acting as lookout and messenger came running into Jerome's office late one afternoon, skirts and hair flying. “Lord Bailiff,” she said, eyes wide, “there are people coming out of Malvern!”

Jerome was on his feet in a moment, thoughts of brigands flashing through his old, methodical mind. Brigands. And only a few guards to defend the castle. Well, there were still old men, women, and girls left, and all of them were Aurverelle folk: the robbers would soon find out that they were not dealing with a bunch of flatlanders.

But as he was mentally sorting through what orders he should give, one of the remaining guards showed up with the news that the strangers were unarmed, that there were many women and numerous children among them. The smoke, he said, was pursuing them like hounds, and many had fallen gasping at the edge of the fields.

Brigands? No, something else. Something possibly even more urgent. “For God's sake, gather the men and women and go help them out,” Jerome snapped, and then, after blinking at the wall for a moment, wondering who on earth would have been in the forest besides hermits, he caught up his habit and ran down the corridor, down the steps, and outside, calling for a horse as he went.

His questions were answered when he reached the edge of the forest and joined the small group of field workers who were endeavoring to help the strangers. The latter, as reported, were many, and, yes, there was a sizable number of women, young mothers, and children among them, as well as a number of guards bearing the gryphon and silver star of the delMari family.

Shrinerock. What?

“My good Brother Jerome!” Martin Osmore was approaching. The lad was stripped to the waist, his skin was smeared with dirt, and his dark eyes were red with smoke. An older man leaned on his arm, and both looked infinitely tired.

Jerome froze. What, indeed. Perverts in the forest?

But the older man patted Martin on the shoulder and, a little unsteadily, went up to Jerome. He offered his hand. “Brother Jerome? I'm Baron Paul delMari.” Jerome shook his hand absently, his eyes wandering back to Martin. A sodomite . . .

Paul frowned. He attempted to clear his throat disapprovingly and wound up coughing for the better part of a minute. “Master Bailiff,” he said at last, “my castle has been taken by brigands, and Malvern Forest is burning because they fired it in an attempt to kill all of us. We ask for succor.”

“Yes . . . yes . . . of course . . .” Jerome was confused. Baron Paul and Martin? And the forest . . . deliberately fired?

About him, the women who had been working in the fields were attending to the refugees. Some carried women and children away from the haze of smoke and into the clearer air. Others banded together to support a group of Benedictine monks who were almost unconscious. Cries of
Some water over here, please,
and
Give her air
and
Breathe, child, breathe
tossed back and forth like wind-driven branches. A short distance away, a young woman appeared to have gone into premature labor, and an Aurverelle midwife was just now arriving on pillion behind one of the castle guards.

It was noise and confusion, the racket and din and dust of human beings. Perhaps three hundred people had staggered out of the forest, and most of them needed immediate attention.

Jerome tore his eyes away from them and found himself looking again at Martin's naked torso. The lad was as streaked and dirty as a laboring man, and the friar realized that, regardless of what had been done with that pale body in the past, it had most recently been used for work that was more honorable than any other.

He got down off his horse and bowed to Paul. “Aurverelle is open to you and your people, Lord Baron. Enter and refresh yourselves. I . . .” He stole another glance at Martin. Sodomites in Aurverelle? Honorable or not, what was the world coming to? “. . . cannot but believe that Messire Christopher would have it so.”

Martin looked as though he guessed the reason for Jerome's hesitation, but he seemed determined to ignore it.

“Terrill!” One of the women was kneeling over the crumpled form of a child. “She's stopped breathing!”

A young man who had been helping the last of Paul's people out of the trees dashed to her side. After examining the girl for a moment, he opened her mouth, set his lips to hers, and pumped her lungs full of his own breath. He repeated the treatment once, then again.

Paul watched for a moment, then sighed, passed a hand through his sooty hair. “Thank you, Master Bailiff,” he said. “We are grateful to you for you . . .” He glanced at Martin knowingly. The lad's mouth was set. “. . . kind offer. But many of us won't be staying long. If you would be so kind as to provide me and my men with horses and equipment, we'll ride to join with the alliance.” His face was one that had seen a good deal of laughter, but it was lined with care at present, and as Jerome watched, it darkened with anger. “And we will go and deal with these criminals.”

Martin looked at Paul. “You're not going without me.”

Paul wrapped an arm about the lad. “Never, Martin. If Jerome is willing, we'll not be here any longer than it takes to clear our lungs, eat, and take a bath.”

At the edge of the trees, the young man who had been tending the fallen girl straightened. The child stirred, gasped, breathed; and the mother, weeping, threw her arms about the neck of the unorthodox physician. He suffered her thanks for a moment, then kissed the child, stood, and bowed to them both.

“Terrill,” called Martin. “We're going to Shrinerock.”

The young man looked up at Martin's words, then approached. Clad in green and gray, a sword at his hip, he seemed untouched by the smoke and the dirt. His face was womanly, and his gray eyes held more than a measure of unearthly light.

“Terrill,” said Paul, “this is Brother Jerome, Messire Christopher's chief bailiff. Jerome, Terrill of Malvern.”

Jerome noticed that the introduction had accorded Terrill the higher honor, but he reminded himself that he was but a friar, and that therefore he should not be concerned about such things. Nevertheless, it was curious. And those eyes . . .

Terrill bowed. “I am honored to meet you, Brother Jerome.” But he turned to Martin and Paul. “Why do you wish to go to Shrinerock?”

“To . . .” Paul looked disconcerted. “To join with Christopher against the brigands.”

Terrill nodded. “You may find Messire Christopher at Shrinerock,” he said, “but you would do better to ride directly south, for the free companies are besieging Saint Brigid.”

Paul stared. “You're sure of this?”

“My beloved and I are as one in many things,” said Terrill. “She is at present guiding Christopher to meet the alliance at Shrinerock, so as to bring them to the companies.”

Paul suddenly acquired a crafty look. “And so, if we take our men, and come down from the north . . .”

Martin started to laugh. “And the alliance strikes from the east . . .”

“Then we hit them with two fists at once!”

Terrill's expression—calm, evaluating—had not changed. As far as Jerome could tell, he regarded any thoughts of approaching battle with perfect neutrality. But that was, perhaps, to be expected, for given his demeanor, the light in his eyes, and his uncanny knowledge of what was occurring many miles away, it was obvious that the young man was not human.

Unconsciously, Jerome stepped away from Terrill. There were old stories . . .

Martin stopped laughing, examined the friar critically. “Fra Jerome,” he said with some impatience, “sodomites and Elves have come to your door, and I'm afraid that you'll just have to get used to them both.”

Elves. Jerome was speechless. His spies of the intellect had deserted him utterly.

“Spoken like a delMari,” said Paul. “And thank you, Terrill, for your help. Will you be coming with us?”

“I have kin in Saint Brigid,” said Terrill dispassionately. “I would not willingly let them suffer at the hands of such as threaten them.” He turned his head towards Malvern and, after a moment, shut his eyes as though in pain. “Or burn our home.”

“Well, Jerome?” said Martin.

Jerome floundered, at once outnumbered and out of his depth. “You are . . . all welcome,” he said slowly. “And you shall have whatever you need, my . . . uh . . . son.”

Paul shook his head, tightened his arm about Martin's shoulders. “No, Jerome,” he said. “
My
son.”

Mirya appeared determined to reach the alliance forces as quickly as possible, and to this end, she had struck off directly across Malvern, heading straight for the still-spreading forest fire. As the night and part of the first day passed, the smoke grew palpably thicker, and by afternoon, though Mirya seemed unaffected by the foul air, Christopher was coughing.

“We need to stop,” she said when the sun was directly overhead. “You must rest.”

Christopher decided that he needed pure air far more than rest. In fact, with the trunks of the trees now distinctly washed by a gray haze, he had no confidence that, if he went to sleep, he would ever wake up.

“I understand,” said Mirya.

Christopher hacked uselessly, his lungs full of what felt like burning wool. “I wish that you people wouldn't read my mind. I've got some thoughts that I'd like to keep private.”

Mirya half smiled. “Are you referring to the lustful ones regarding Natil? I assure you: she was flattered.”

Christopher glared at the Elf, but she indicated that he should lie down.

“Rest. Sleep,” she said. “You are safe here. I am sorry that I have so taxed you.”

Christopher remained on his feet. “It's necessary.”

“That is true.” Mirya maintained her irritating tranquillity. “But it is also necessary for your kind to rest, and though I have no excuse for such a lapse, I sometimes forget that. I will shield you from the smoke.”

Christopher stiffened. There it was. Peach trees. “You're going to work magic on me, aren't you?”

Behind their calm gleam, Mirya's eyes were compassionate, even kind. “I only wish to help.”

His jaw clenched. Then: “Like you helped my grandfather?”

The Elf dropped her eyes, sighed.

“What did you do to him, anyway?” The words came easily: at last he could ask. “Take his soul?”

Mirya pressed her lips together, fixed him with her gaze. “Do you ask for him, Messire Christopher? Or for yourself?”

“What do you mean?”

“Did you want to be your grandfather?”

She had laid her finger directly on it, and suddenly, all that he had ever admired and abhorred in Roger bubbled up in a geyser of conflict. “No!” he almost shouted at her, “I didn't.” Stung, he looked for something with which to strike back. “Did you take care of that, too?”

But Mirya only shook her head. “You make your own choices, Christopher.”

“Of course,” he said, “after you've set up the patterns to suit yourself, I can make all the choices I want, can't I?”

She merely looked at him, and Christopher remembered that her race was fading, had already faded. Choices? Patterns? Did he want to speak of them? What choices were left to Mirya and her kind after nearly fourteen centuries of active persecution?