Maze of Moonlight by Gael Baudino (read with me TXT) 📕

and tallies to the floor. “Damn you all! Are you all so blind that you can't see it?”

He realized in the next moment that they probably saw much too well. Since the bizarre happenings at Shrinerock, the possibility of magic had stuck in everyone's mind like a foul odor. If Shrinerock, then . . .

He's just a man. He can die. He can be killed. Berard sat down again, glared, cleared his throat. “I trust that you all are not.”

Glances among the men: furtive, worried. Berard suddenly felt as though he were back in Italy. Raoul: was he Bologna? Jaques: maybe he had decided to be Florence today. Marcus, Ravenna. Old Gonzago, who had been the leader of the successful assault on Ypris, could be none other than Milan, the Visconti viper.

What were they thinking, all of them? Open rebellion? A dagger in the heart one fine morning?

Sweating, Berard bent, retrieved the maps and tallies, spread them out again on the table. “We're . . .”

Again, the glances. Oh, yes, well, he's off on his damnable obsession again. Raoul, will you see that his wine has a little something extra in it tonight? There's a good fellow.

He swallowed, forced himself to go on. So far, nothing had happened. Bonds of loot and women still held them to his will. It was not too late. If he could take Saint Brigid . . .

“. . . we're losing too many men. Now, I suggest a diversion that will make all of this relatively easy.” He indicated a portion of the village wall. “Gonzago, Raoul, Jaques: tell me what you think of this . . .”

***

Shrinerock by starlight was a darkness against the dark sky without a shred of homeliness or cheer about it. Its stone windows, pocked by holes where Berard's men had battered through, stared out at a night landscape of burned villages, and a sense of uncanny power lay heavily about it, one that could not but be increased by loneliness, abandonment, and the constant, unwavering roar of water from the spring far below.

Jehan, Mirya, and Christopher rode up the road from the flatlands, dismounted, and approached the gate. Jehan set fire to a torch, and as the light flickered over the walls like the uncertain fingers of a blind man, the young man's face, already a mask of despondency over his drunken betrayal, turned dark with self-accusation.

“Seen enough?” said Christopher.

Jehan shook his head. “You have to understand, Messire d'Aurverelle: this was my home.”

Christopher looked at Mirya. The Elf, drawing on sources of strength unavailable to humans, was recovering quickly from her exertions in the forest, but her renewed vitality had not taken the bleakness from her eyes. She stood, arms folded, watching the distant flames that were devouring Malvern. She knew all about losing one's home . . . or one's world.

He touched her shoulder. “I'm sorry, Mirya. I'm truly sorry.”

She nodded. “My thanks, dear friend.”

He blinked. Friend? Now he was a friend of the Elves? What was next? Sleeping with them?

But Jehan was stalking deliberately towards the hole that had been rammed through the gate. “Are you two coming?”

Mirya started off, but Christopher put a hand on her arm. “Is this wise?” he said. “Jamie and the others are going to be wondering what the hell we're doing up here. They've made a generous offer: I don't want them to think I don't give a damn about it. And the longer we delay, the more time Berard has to breach the walls.”

“The barons trust you,” Mirya replied. “They and their men are already on their way to Saint Brigid. They can go no faster. And as for Jehan . . .” She looked at Christopher meaningfully. “It would not be wise to leave alone one who is so close to despair.”

Fretful though he was, Christopher understood. Jehan resembled at present a certain baron of Aurverelle who had returned from crusade with a soul full of ashes. “Yes . . . yes. I know.”

“Come then.”

They followed the young man through the gate and across the courtyard, entered the residence, ascended the stairs tot he bedrooms and living quarters. The rooms were essentially intact: the free companies had doubtless enjoyed the appointments of a well-furnished castle.

Jehan turned, lifted the torch. Vaulting, beams, torn tapestries. An overturned table and an occasional pool of dried vomit witnessed the excesses of Shrinerock's most recent inhabitants. “It's been over ten years.”

Christopher shook his head. “It's gone, Jehan.”

“Maybe . . .” The young man looked down the corridor. “There are other stairs, other rooms. I want to look.”

Jamie and the barons were waiting. Saint Brigid and Vanessa were waiting. “Dammit, Jehan! For what?”

“Something I've lost.”

Down one hall, then another. A stone door with a hole battered in it. Jehan poked his torch in, then stepped into the room beyond, leaving his companions in the corridor.

It was an ordinary enough room. Beside a bed, there was a table, a desk, a bookcase well stocked with leather bindings. Clothes still hanging in the wardrobe were set into eerie motion by the flickering light.

“This was my room,” said Jehan, his voice echoing down the hall. “They didn't keep it for me. They gave it to Martin.”

Christopher kept his impatience in check. “I'm sorry, Jehan.”

“For what, messire? I believe the better man won.”

But as Jehan brooded on the room, Christopher realized that Mirya was standing stiffly, staring, her sight apparently turned inward. Christopher had seen her so before, in the forest and elsewhere, but she had always seemed at ease with her inner vision. Now, though, she looked almost frightened.

“What is it?” he said. “Mirya!”

“Something is happening,” she replied distantly. “Something is changing. The patterns . . .” She gasped suddenly. “Dear Lady! It is Vanessa!”

Christopher understood nothing. “What? What's she doing?”

“She is . . . changing the patterns.”

He goggled at her. “Can she do that?”

“She has before. But . . . this time . . .” The look of distance and fear deepened.

She fell silent again, closed