The War of the Moonstone: an Epic Fantasy (34 page)

“Check the breast pocket of your
jacket,” she told him.

Frowning, he did so, producing a
single golden hair. It was long, obviously from a woman. Still frowning, he
held it up so that it seemed to glow in the light of a street lamp.

“I don’t . . .”

“It’s Hiatha’s.”

He looked over his shoulder, and
Hiatha said, “Please, keep it. We may need it again.”

“I still don’t understand.”

“The priesthood’s powers are
weakened now,” Niara said. “The only real sources of grace left to us are our
elvish charms, and we’re finding it difficult to renew their power. Without my
old skills, the Pool is fading.” She tried to keep the bitterness out of her
voice and was not sure if she succeeded. “What I mean to say is that our
abilities are lessened, and we’ve been forced to use more primitive means. Hiatha
is our most skilled practitioner with the elf-stones, but even she needed not
only an elvish charm but strands from her own hair to work the charm.”

As she spoke, Niara continued to
lead the way down a main street. Suddenly hearing the clip-clop of horse hooves
and knowing that members of the city watch were making their rounds to enforce
Raugst’s curfew, she slipped into an alley, and the others followed. When the
watchmen were well past, she continued on. The inner city was much quieter and more
orderly than the outer one, where the Temple was, and she made sure to keep her
voice low.

“What are the strands of hair for?”
Raugst asked.

“To find you,” Hiatha answered. “If
we still had our powers, I could have done it differently, but with the situation
being what it is the only things I could locate from a distance are parts of my
own body, if you see what I mean. The connection between me and what I sought
had to be
very
strong.”

Raugst nodded slowly. “But how did
you get them into the castle? Into my clothes?”

“It was difficult,” Niara admitted.
“Saria has sown the seeds of fear throughout your house. Fortunately there are
still a few stalwart members of the Faith serving there. Women mostly. Maids
and serving girls. Men seem to fall under Saria’s power more easily.”

He looked sideways at her. “Did
Fria help?”

Niara let out a breath. “Alas, we
feared to tell her. She’s taken up with that creature of yours, Kragt, and I’m
not sure whose side she’s on.”

“Surely you don’t think she would
side with Saria!”

“She may view Saria as a tool to
strike at you. Her only known ally is Giorn, and Giorn is your enemy. Surely
the only reason she didn’t steal away with him is so that she could stay behind
and deal you an injury if she could.”

“Yes, I’d thought of that, too. I
keep my distance from her.”

“Be sure you maintain it.”

Shortly they stood before a
handsomely-wrought edifice, an old-fashioned inn called the Leaping Stag, a
reference to the Wesrains. There was some noise coming from within, inn-goers
having a drink in the bar before retiring for bed, but Niara didn’t lead her
party inside from the front. She slipped down an alley and entered the bar from
the rear, where clean sheets and kegs of ale customarily passed through. A
stairway ascended up to the second floor, where Hiatha took her room and Niara hers.
The guards slept in a third chamber. All the rooms had been secured by a
priestess in disguise that afternoon.

Niara saw the disapproving look
Hiatha shot her as Niara led Raugst into her room, but she ignored it. Hiatha
knew the stakes. Let her frown if she would.

Raugst was grinning somewhat
annoyingly as Niara shut the door behind her. He and Niara were alone. He
surveyed the small room and the one bed with that same stupid leer, then turned
his eyes to her.

“I have to say, this night’s just
improved,” he said.

“There will be none of that.”

“Come now, surely you did not bring
me here for
conversation
.” He
laughed, shrugged off his jacket and began to slip off his tunic.

She put a hand on his chest and shoved
him down on the bed. “Sit,” she said. “And keep your clothes on.”

“Don’t be foolish, woman—”

In addition to the bed, there were
a couple of chairs about a small table. She dragged one of the chairs close to
the bed and perched there. When Raugst saw that she would not sit beside him,
he shut up, but not before adding, “This is ridiculous.”

She smiled humorlessly. “Nevertheless.”

“Surely . . . surely you
want
to . . .”

“I love Giorn.”

“But . . . you and I . . .” He
opened and closed his mouth several times, looking utterly flummoxed. Once
again, he said, “This is ridiculous.”

Still smiling, she said, “Hiatha
and our guards, and all those women in the castle, did not go through all this
effort and risk just so you and I could, ah, enjoy a tryst.”

He slumped back. “Then why, if I
may ask?”

“We need to discuss the fate of
Felgrad. We need to formulate a plan.”

“I already have a plan. You won’t
like it, but I do.”

“And it is?”

He scowled. “Murder.”

“Then you still intend to slay the
King.”

“I have nobles from all over the
realm arriving at the castle to discuss it. The feast is tomorrow night.”

“How you will convince them to slay
Lord Ulea?” But he only smiled enigmatically and would not answer. “Very well,
keep your secrets. But I say this to you: Lord Ulea is a good man, and a just
king. Slaying him would be wrong. There must be another way.”

“There isn’t.”

“There
must
.” She said it emphatically. “And what will you do after? You
said the last time we met that you would think on that once Vrulug was gone. Well,
he is, so what of it? How will you rid yourself of Saria and her master?”

He rolled his eyes impatiently. “For
that too I have a plan. Vrulug did not appoint me this task because I’m dull,
girl. And now that sharpness is aimed at him.” He reached out a hand toward her
leg. “Now that business has been concluded—”

She slapped his hand away. “No.”

He slumped back again.

“I mean to save the barony and the
kingdom,” she said. “That comes first.”

“And after . . . ?”

“You must return to the castle
before anyone misses you.”

“It need not take long . . .”

“No.”

He groaned. “I suppose we’re done,
then. You arranged this meeting for no reason, only because you lack faith in
me.”

“Why should I have any?”

He grinned cockily. “You’re my
mother, aren’t you? You did make me. Of course, if that’s true than I am my own
father, and thus my own son, as well. But if I am the son and not the father
then it was the father that slept with you and not the son, and thus I am a
virgin and ready to be bedded. It seems only fitting that my mother should be
my first.”

“That is obscene, and it gives me
no more reason to trust you.”

“Fine, then think on this: I’ve
saved the city once already, haven’t I?”

That was true enough. Nevertheless,
she did not like the thought of leaving things in his hands. “Surely there’s a
way I, or the Order, can aid you. How exactly will you deal with Saria?”

“Duke Welsly’s blade.”

She had to force herself to
maintain eye contact. For some reason, she could not bear to think of Raugst
slaying a woman, even one so wicked as Saria. Trying to keep the distaste from
her voice, she said, “That won’t work. I was weak when I blessed it. It’s not
powerful enough to destroy her.”

“You have a suggestion?”

She thought a moment. “Actually,
yes. Sneaking some priestesses into the castle under the guise of serving girls
should not be an insurmountable difficulty, and once there they can use their elvish
artifacts to strengthen Duke Welsly’s blade.”

“Very well, then.”

She resisted a smile. For some
reason, she felt lighter now. Clearer. She had feared she was useless now that
she was mortal, that there was nothing further she could do against Vrulug and
his thralls. Now she knew otherwise. And, somehow, to be able to help Raugst .
. .

He rose from the bed and frowned
down at her. “I suppose I should be off, then.”

“We have plans to discuss.”
“Nothing that will take long.”

She admitted to herself that she
wanted to keep him here for reasons other than what was best for Thiersgald. With
an effort, she pushed the feelings aside. He was just trying to needle her.

“Unless . . .” he said, raising his
eyebrows.

“No. You’re right, it will not take
long to sort things out. My priestesses must meet with Duke Welsly. Tomorrow, I
think. Early. You must tell him to expect them.”

“I will do it.” He moved to the
door, placed his hand upon the knob. Turning, his face serious now, he said, “I
would
stay.”

The ember she had felt flare inside
her burned bright for a moment, and she had to force it down. “No,” she said,
and now her voice was choked. “Go.”

He left, and she felt something go
out of her. Hearing his footsteps recede down the hall, she whispered, “And may
the light protect you.”

The next evening, as he dressed in his most formal attire,
Raugst tried to resist scratching his left hand. It itched terribly. This
morning, after meeting with Duke Welsly, he had transformed it into a wolvish
claw, amidst much straining and grunting. He had felt the bones snap, grow,
felt the skin swell . . . It had been painful, and slow. Whatever Niara had
done to him had weakened him. He would have to practice his transformation in
secret, perfect it all over again. He could still change, only now it required
more effort and pain.

He buttoned up his shirt,
remembering how Niara had looked last night, remembering how she had smelled, of
roses and jasmine.
She should have asked
me to stay
. He wondered if it were pride that had forbade her, or Giorn. He
had hoped to see her today, when her priestesses met secretly with Duke Welsly,
but she had not accompanied them. He supposed her face was too well known.

He pushed her from his mind. He had
more important matters to contemplate. Just as he was finishing, an attendant
arrived. “The guests are gathered, my lord.”

“Very well.”

Five minutes later saw him groomed and
dressed and entering the feasting hall. The worthies glanced up at him as he
took his seat at the head of the table, and he smiled and addressed them:
“Thank you all for meeting me here, my friends. I hope your journeys were
pleasant.” Murmurs ensured him that they had been. “Good, good. Then I hope you
will enjoy the feast. Afterwards, we shall send the servants from the room and discuss
. . . more serious matters.”

They commenced with the appetizers.

“You look most handsome,” Saria
told him, sitting to Raugst’s right.

He allowed himself to preen in his
fine evening wear. “You look lovely, as well.”

“Thank you, my lord.” To his
surprise, color rose in her cheeks.

Raugst helped himself to the
appetizers, then to the main courses when they came, pheasant and rice pudding.
Everything was excellent—especially the wine, though he made sure not to have
too much. He needed his wits about him tonight. He knew that roughly a third of
the two-score nobles gathered here from all over the kingdom were among those
he had so recently converted, the ones who had secretly turned to the worship
of the Wolf. But the bulk of them were honest, loyal citizens of the realm. It
would not be easy to sway them to turn against King Ulea.

“I’m sure you’ve been looking into
the matter most closely,” said Baron Rathen, leaning forward and speaking in
hushed tones. Naturally this only made those close by listen even more
attentively. “You would be the one to know if the rumors are true.” In an even
quieter tone, he asked, “Did Giorn Wesrain really slay his father?”

Happily, Raugst said, “Indeed. I’m
afraid so.”

The nobles whispered among
themselves, and Raugst exchanged a smile with Saria. The dinner continued,
people gossiping as they would, and Raugst studied his guests intently. He
anticipated the coming performance with both trepidation and excitement. At
last the feast ended and he sent the servants from the room. The feasting hall
fell silent, and all eyes turned to him expectantly, some fearfully.

“Now is the time,” he said, “for us
to discuss a most important matter.”

They waited. He let the suspense
build, the tensions mount. The coming moment is what all this had been leading
up to, what everyone had come all this way for. Their faces were tight and
pale, and several of the guests were swallowing nervously.
Good
.

Raugst said, flatly and harshly,
“King Ulea is a traitor.”

There were gasps and wide eyes. Lord
Evergard shot to his feet. He was a tall, straight man in his early middle
years, with a full mustache over his upper lip. “That’s a lie, sir!”

“Is it now?” Raugst narrowed his
eyes. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t call you out for that.
Naming me a liar.”
He balled his large
hands into fists on the table.

Evergard narrowed his eyes, and Raugst
relaxed his hands and clasped them before him, his eyes on Evergard, not
blinking.

Finally Evergard said, “I have no
wish to duel with you, sir, but your accusation is insupportable.”

Raugst snorted. This was all too
easy. He beckoned to one of his lieutenants, who had been waiting along the
wall holding a satchel. Now he stepped forward, removed an item from the
satchel and passed it to Raugst.

“This, good sir,” said Raugst,
still staring at Evergard, “is a bundle of letters I found in the remains of
Vrulug’s camp when I drove him and his army from the city.”

Evergard looked at him
suspiciously. All eyes went from Raugst’s bundle to Evergard, then to Raugst’s
bundle again. Everyone waited for Evergard’s next outburst, or Raugst’s next
revelation. The air thickened with tension.