The War of the Moonstone: an Epic Fantasy (5 page)

“I’m so sorry, Gi. I thought that
maybe . . .”

He patted her arm as platonically
as he could manage, careful still to keep at least a foot and half of distance
between them.

“Perhaps that time we talked about
has come,” he said. “At dinner tonight I’ll address the men. Fiarth may not by
in direct peril, but these are not the times to have her leaderless, either.”

“Yes,” she said sadly. “I think
you’re right.”

He knew why she was sad. He felt
it, too, and he was not proud of it. If his father died, and Giorn became
baron, the dream he had shared with her, of them loving each other openly in
Glorifel, would wither and die.
Father
will be dead and I will be saddled with the throne. Niara and I will never know
peace, I will have to marry someone else, some nobleman’s daughter, and sire
children to ensure an heir.
His days would be spent officiating, just as
his father’s had, and he would likely only ever see Niara at weddings and
funerals. And the only person he could ever have asked advice from would be
gone.

His thirst mounted. The sun grew
hotter. Even the canopy of the Tree was no shield.

He mashed his eyes shut and pinched
the bridge of his nose. “There’s something else I need to talk to you about.” He
opened his eyes. She was looking at him steadily. Was the world still tilting? This
was all too much.

“Giorn?”

He blinked. Niara was looking at
him oddly. He smacked his lips.

“Gi, you look pale.”

The world began to clear. “It’s
Raugst,” he said.

“What of him?”

“I suspect he may not be what he
seems.”

Concern touched her eyes, but he
did not know if it was concern over Raugst being an agent of the Enemy or
concern that Giorn was going insane. Possibly he was, he thought. Did he truly
imagine that Rian’s avenger was some shape-changing thrall of the Great Dark? It
was absurd! He had saved Meril!

“Gi, are you all right?”

“I’m fine. But I fear Raugst is an
agent of the Enemy.”

“Gi, I really think you should sit
down.”

“I know, I really should, but
listen.” He lowered his voice, though the wind was so loud he doubted anyone
nearby could hear even if they strained their ears. “Duke Yfrin could not have
shot Father. I know it in my bones. But he
was
shot, and perhaps a spy, pretending to
be
the Duke, just as you demonstrated to me, is the culprit.”

“Gi, I really think . . .”

He smiled tightly. “Niara, I know
what you think, and you’re right, but just answer me this: can you use your
arts to . . .
examine
Raugst? To find
out if he is what he seems? If you can do that, then I’ll have evidence enough
to place him in custody. The testimony of the High Priestess would carry more
than sufficient weight.”

She looked at him for a long
moment, and he did not like to imagine her thoughts.

“Trust me,” he said.

She did not blink. He tensed
inwardly. But at last she let out a breath and nodded. “If I were able to touch
him, and not just fleetingly, then yes, I could read him. But how could I get
that close? If he’s an agent of the Dark One, and I can’t believe that he is,
but if so, then why would he let me do that?”

He did not want to suggest the obvious
way. “I could have some soldiers hold him down for you.”

“Without proof? I don’t think it’s
a wise idea. Especially if you are to be baron soon. Do you truly want to start
your rule with the torture of a duke—that’s what the people think, true or not—coupled
with the harassment of the captain of the Castle Guard? Giorn, I really think
you need some rest.”

What he needed was a drink. “Find a
way. If you can’t read him by tonight, I’ll have some soldiers help you. I
don’t care if it makes me into a monster in the eyes of the people if it will
prevent a true monster from walking amongst us.”

She looked all around, as if
checking to see if they were observed, then reached out and squeezed his hand
tenderly. “Be well,” she said. With that, she turned and left, leaving him in
the shadow of the Tree.

He watched her leave, feeling
something go out of him. Perhaps she was right. Perhaps he was not in his right
mind. And yet, he could not start questioning himself now. All he needed was a
sip of wine to clear his head.

He walked back to his tent and
rifled through his things. He found the bottle. Only a sip left. Disgusted, he
took the sip, flung the bottle to the ground and quit his tent. He would have
to ask the cook for another. Only the cook knew how much he’d been drinking of
late.

Just as he quit his tent, a figure
bumped into him. He flinched, momentarily thinking it was Raugst. It was Meril,
blond and handsome.

“Giorn,” he said, clapping Giorn on
the shoulder.

“Meril.”

The smile slowly left Meril’s face,
replaced by concern. “Come,” he said.

“I have to . . .”

“Just for a moment.”

Reluctantly, Giorn allowed himself
to be led into the shadow beside Meril’s tent. Meril and Raugst had been
drinking in it a lot, and it stank of spilled alcohol. Giorn breathed the smell
in deeply.
It’s all well and good for
Meril to get drunk
.
HE has no
responsibilities
.

“What is it?”

Meril looked at him earnestly. “Brother,
I . . .” He swallowed, and there was something nervous about the action.

“Yes?”

“It’s Niara.”

Giorn’s impatience left him. “What
of her?”

Meril sighed. “I’ve seen how you
look at her, brother, and she you. I know . . . well, I
know
.”

“Know what?”

“Don’t make me say it, not with all
these ears about. But you know, and I know.”

“There’d better be a point to all
this.”

Meril regarded him warily. “There
is, Gi. Remember the tale of Orin Feldred and Saria—how she betrayed him, her
own husband, to Vrulug.”

“I remember.” Orin Feldred was
their ancestor, if on the wrong side of the sheets, the hero of many tales who
had begun the revolution that had taken back this land from Vrulug when he had
occupied it long ago. His wife Saria had been working
with
Vrulug, though—some said she was his lover—and ultimately she
betrayed Orin, who died terribly. “How has this any relevance to Niara?”

Meril eyed him steadily. “Women
will get you killed,” he said, and his green eyes bore deeply into Giorn. “And
that
woman will get you killed more
slowly and more painfully than most.”

The urge for a drink was very strong
now. “Is that all?”

Meril slumped. “That’s all. Just be
careful, Gi.”

Giorn nodded and left. Where was
the cook? He needed a drink, now worse than ever.
Saria!
How could Meril dare compare Niara to that witch? No two
women could be less alike.

But as Giorn headed in the cook’s
direction, a group of mounted soldiers rode up to him breathlessly, grass and
dirt kicking up in a cloud behind them. Startled, he jumped back and glared up
at them. They were not from his company, but from the wall at Thiersgald, he
could tell from their uniforms. They were sweaty and covered in dust from their
ride.

“What’s this?” he demanded. For a
moment, he had a terrible thought, that Thiersgald itself had been attacked.

“Word just came from the south, my
lord,” said the captain, breathing heavily. “From Feslan. Borchstogs attack
from the Aragst, a great host of them. Feslan begs our aid.”

A chill poured through Giorn’s
veins.
War. So it’s happened at last
.
After news of the Borchstog bands storming the border fortresses in Havensrike,
he had known something like this would happen eventually, but he had not
thought it would happen to
Felgrad
.
. . The riders were floating around in his vision, but they began to steady as
the news sobered him.

“How many Borchstogs are in the
host?” he said.

“None are certain, my lord, but
they are numerous enough to have besieged Hielsly.”

Giorn balled a fist at his side.
Hielsly
. It had to be Hielsly, holder of
the fabled Moonstone. He knew what he had to do, though he hated to do it,
especially now, but there was no other way. As commander of Fiarth’s army,
Giorn was the closest and best hope for Hielsly, capital of Feslan, Fiarth’s
neighbor to the south.

“We’ll break them,” he assured the
soldiers. “We’ll save Hielsly. Have word sent to Thiersgald to ready the army. We
go to war at once.”

He had forgotten about his thirst.

Giorn knelt beside his father. This might be the last time
he would ever see his sire, and he committed every detail to memory. Lord
Wesrain wheezed wretchedly, his eyes open but blank and lifeless. He wore a
blue tunic under green jacket, and the leaping candlelight danced on the Silver
Stag of the Wesrains emblazoned over his breast. A crimson blanket edged in
gold was laid over him, keeping him warm. His head lay in Iarine’s lap, and she
stroked his hair and wept over him. His wife Giorn’s mother had died giving
birth to Rian, and Iarine was the closest confidant the Baron had, and the
closest thing Giorn had to a mother. Dark-haired and dark-eyed, wearing green
velvet with a thin gold chain for a belt, she looked very beautiful now, and
very sad. Her love for Harin had been genuine.

“I’m so sorry,” Giorn told her.

She nodded, and tears spilled down
her olive cheeks. “I know.” She looked up. “He has told me often how proud he
is of you.”

A knot formed in Giorn’s throat. “I
must leave,” he said, his words thick.

“Yes.”

He reached out and squeezed her
hand. “Take care of him for me.”

She smiled. Tears gathered at the
corner of her mouth. “I will.”

He leaned over and kissed his
father on the forehead, which burned. “Father, be well. Come out of this. You’re
stronger than any poison. The barony needs you. I need you.”
Niara and I both,
though he hated to
think the thought. He loved his father and wanted him to live for more than
selfish motives. But those motives were there, and they shamed him. “The barony
needs you,” he repeated. “Not just the barony, the kingdom. You’re the right
hand of the King. I can’t fill your shoes, and it’s near blasphemy for me to
think I can. So please, Father, come back to us.”

After one last look at his sire, he
stood to go.

Iarine stopped him. “Giorn.” When
he paused, she said, “Your father would want you to accept the crown of the
barony. He would understand.”

“Thank you.” That made it easier,
as she had intended. He nodded farewell, and thanks.

The afternoon was warm, but the sun
descended swiftly and darkfall would bring swift chills. He needed to leave
soon so that he and his men could reach the highway before night fell. Their
horses could navigate the cobbled road without fear of a broken ankle.

Before he left, he summoned his
officers, royal guests, his brother and Niara in a tight gathering in the
center of camp. The cook and his helpers had built a great bonfire there for
warmth and to roast the night’s dinner, and the sparks flickered all about,
coasting like fireflies on the ever-present wind. The tall grass waved
underfoot. All was rustling clothes and billowing canvas tents and leaping
shadows. It was a day of portents and doom.

Raugst stood tall and dark, a silhouetted
shadow against the fire, yet somehow his eyes glowed bright and savage. Giorn
tried not to look at him lest his glance give the game away.

When they were all gathered, Giorn
looked each one in the eye. “You all know that my father your lord and mine may
well not last the night, let alone the week. I hate to admit the possibility of
his passing, but I would be a fool and a traitor if I did not. Thus I now
petition you all to declare me the Sovereign of Fiarth until such time as my
father can wrest the crown back from me. Would that he will! All who agree to
this proposal say Aye.” Most of the highest nobles in the barony were present
at the Hunt, he knew, and their votes would carry sufficient weight to make
this legal.

“Aye!” they roared, or most of
them. Giorn could not tell if Raugst said anything or not. But at their vote,
he felt a weight press down on him, and he could not meet Niara’s eyes.
We can be no more
.

“Good,” he said, and turned to
Meril, looking grave and somewhat resentful. Giorn did not blame him; he would
likely have felt the same way. “Meril.” Meril, who had been lost in a reverie,
glanced up in surprise. “I temporarily give you the Crown and the rights
attached to it. While I am away at war, it is yours. The land needs a present
ruler, not one far away and with other concerns. It will free me to do what I
need to do, and it will give the people someone to look to as leader. You’re
free to act on mine and Father’s behalf, and on behalf of the barony. I retain
only the right to the offensive military of Fiarth, which I will take with me
to Feslan.”

Meril’s chest swelled proudly. Seeing
it, Giorn tried to suppress a smile.

“I accept, brother,” said Meril.

“Good. I have the utmost faith in
you.”

“I will do you proud.”

“Of that I have no doubt. Now,
gentlemen, my friends, I must away. I hate to hurry this, but the Borchstogs
care little about our problems, and while we tarry here the Feslans are dying.”

“May the Omkar give you speed,”
Niara said.

“And may they shield you from
harm,” Meril added.

“Aye,” said Raugst, stepping forward,
his eyes still glinting strangely, “and may you drink of black blood before
you’re through.”

Giorn shuddered but tried to hide
it. He fixed his eyes on the villain, who was still only a tall shadow against
the fire. “Before I leave,” he said, “I have one order of business I must
address.” He unsheathed his sword and stabbed it toward Raugst. “I’m arresting
Raugst for the attack on my father.”