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

clothes were relatively plain, with just enough ornament to show that she could have had much more had she wanted to . . . but she did not want to, you see.

She curtsied to Christopher, her round face touched with worry. “We're very grateful, my lord,” she said softly. “Very grateful.”

“What became of that churchman, anyway?” said Matthew. “I'd like to have a bit of a talk with him.”

“He's dead,” said Christopher. “I killed him.”

Matthew quickly changed the subject.

Martin, Christopher saw, was a commodity, one to be raised like a crop of wheat, weighed and fingered to find its worth, and sold to the highest bidder. Matthew had already picked out a fine wife for him—“Ah, Martin,” he said when he told him of it, “she's a good woman! She has potential . . . and money!”—and had most of the lad's life already mapped out.

Martin suffered through the reunion in silence and took his mother's anxious cooing over his wounds with comparative dignity. Christopher nodded his approval, and even graciously commented upon the lad's role in the battle—one that he made sure included ropes about the wrists and the blacking of eyes—for which Martin looked unutterably grateful.

And then the mayor and his family went off as they had come: with pomp, and silks, and attendants, and all the little perquisites of noble blood that the wealth of Saint Blaise could buy . . . save, of course, the blood itself.

Christopher watched them go. Not once had any of them so much as mentioned Vanessa.

He was, he knew, obsessing on her. She was a peasant from Furze Hamlet, a village girl who had been burdened with some unfortunate talent that more than likely would eventually take her to the stake along with all the rest who had been rejected and abandoned and consigned to the fiery embrace of the Inquisition. Yvonnet escaped because of his position, likewise Christopher himself, but Vanessa, Martin . . . it was only a matter of time.

But Vanessa had become a good deal more than a girl to him. She had become an emblem of himself. Fighting. Fighting against the Etiennes that populated the world. Fighting against the lies and the dearth of honor. Fighting, perhaps, even against the fate that was slowly catching up with her. She could have let Etienne have his way with her. She could, he was convinced, have let herself die by now. She had not.

He ascended the stairs, entered her room. She was failing, and he could now only watch helplessly. No skill, no amount of money, no medicine could preserve any longer a body that had simply been battered into wreckage. It would take a miracle to save her, and Christopher had seen enough even before Nicopolis to know that miracles did not happen.

That afternoon, he thanked Guillaume and Pytor and Jerome and Raffalda and the physicians who had tried to help, sent them away, and settled in at her bedside.

He could not even hold her hand. Too many bandages. What little of her face showed through the layers of white cloth was raw and bloody. He did not even know what she looked like, had never heard her speak his name.

No matter. It was over now, and as the hours crawled by toward sunset, he sat beside her, waiting for the end.

The sun was touching the summits of the Aleser Mountains when Pytor knocked. “Master.”

“What is it, Pytor?”

The Russian opened the door and stuck his head in. “Master, there are physicians at the gate. They say they have come to see Vanessa.”

Vanessa was hardly breathing. “They're too late,” said Christopher. “Give them supper and a place for the night, and send them on their way.”

Pytor looked uncomfortable. “Master, they say they have come from a great distance. They wish to see what they can do.”

Christopher had wanted no interruptions and no company during these last minutes with his beliefs, and the thought of disturbing Vanessa with more futile examinations and proddings revolted him. But he could not help but wonder and hope: maybe. And if maybe, then possibly. And could he deny Vanessa—or himself—that chance?”

Vanessa suddenly dragged in a deep breath, held it, let it out, paused. Christopher, teeth clenched, stared at her swathed face for some time. Abruptly, Vanessa dragged in another breath, held it . . .

A fighter. “Send them up.”

Pytor returned a short time later with a man and a woman. Their garments were unremarkable, and they entered quietly. But their faces and their eyes made Christopher stare and brought him to his feet to acknowledge them, for their faces were very fair—the man's as womanly as the maid's—and their eyes seemed to reflect more light than what came form the hearth and the windows.

The man regarded him dispassionately, almost coldly. “My name is Terrill, my lord baron,” he said, bowing. “This is my assistant, Mirya.”

Mirya was tall and straight, her hair the color of red gold and her eyes as green as emerald. Christopher could not but stare at her. “You say you've come . . .”

“From far away,” she said. Her voice was a firm contralto, at once expressive and calm.

Christopher's brow furrowed. “You're physicians?”

Terrill named his credentials. They were impeccable. Montpellier. Prague. Bologna. Tolouse. Orleans. But as he spoke, he kept glancing uneasily at the bed in which Vanessa lay, and Mirya made as if to hover anxiously over her. Their faces had turned drawn at the sight of her, and their demeanor was fairly shouting: Please, let us stop talking and start working.

Christopher could see that their interest was as sincere as his own. He did not ask why. He looked at Vanessa, looked at himself, his hope. “Please . . . can you . . .?”

Terrill nodded slowly. “Leave us alone with her.”

Christopher hesitated. Alone? What if . . .?

Terrill's eyes flashed. “You cannot help us by your presence.” His tone was as cold—and as earnest—as his eyes. “Please, my lord.”

But Christopher's doubts refused to be quashed. Others had