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

. and she had brought her own kind of magic. And now Christopher was dancing in the streets of Maris, offering his glove to all of Adria.

He was not yet free. But he had gotten his bindings loose.

Christopher and Natil finished up, and the baron, his tongue lolling out the side of his mouth, rolled on his back, received a scritch on his belly from the pretty harper, then rose and padded off after her, now and again sticking his tongue out at the laughing townsfolk. If he recalled that the monkey had behaved in just such a fashion before its encounter with Natil had turned it into a model citizen of Aurverelle, he also kept in mind that the parallel had been first drawn by himself.

They ducked into the portal of a small chapel, and Christopher counted the coins they had collected. “Thirty pennies,” he cried gleefully. “Just enough for dinner . . . or . . .” He glanced at the crucifix on the wall, waggled his eyebrows roguishly, “. . . or to buy Jesus.”

As charming in motley and tatters as she was in furs and fine cloth, Natil shook her head and sighed at his poor taste. “Baron Ruprecht will be providing dinner,” she reminded him. “You should rest before we have to perform.”

“Yes . . . you're probably right.” The cathedral bell began to toll. “My God, is it that late?”

“It is.”

“I've been having too much fun.” Christopher stretched out his arms and laughed. “I haven't acted like a madman for some time now. I rather miss it.”

“You are not mad, my lord.”

He laughed again. “Really, Natil: you say the most absurd things sometimes. Who but a madman would do this?”

Her eyes were knowing, almost unnervingly so. But, nonetheless, Christopher liked her and trusted her. In fact, the particularly audacious entertainment that they had planned for Baron Ruprecht tonight—late tonight—would have been impossible without her.

It would be difficult, dangerous work. Pytor had wrung his hands at the idea, and Jerome had crossed himself, but Christopher was actually enjoying it all. “Come on,” he said. “I'll race you to the fortress. Last one there is . . . umm . . .”

Natil lifted an eyebrow.

“. . . is an Elf! How about that?”

She laughed, and Christopher bounded out of the alley at a run. He beat her to the gates easily.

Chapter Eighteen

“Now,” whispered Natil.

Silently, undetected by the slumbering acrobats and entertainers who had been granted the shelter of the great hall of Maris after the Easter feast, Christopher and his harper rose. Deep as they were within the high, multiple walls of the fortress, there was not even a faint glimmer of moonlight at the windows to relieve the absolute darkness; and Christopher wondered how they could ever find their way across the hall and into the corridors without causing an uproar. But Natil took his hand and led him unerringly toward the doorway, speaking in the faintest of murmurs to tell him to step over one of thee sprawled sleepers or avoid a table or a chair that had been left out.

If there were guards nearby, their attention had apparently wavered for an instant. Christopher and Natil, unnoticed, crept out of the hall, followed a corridor towards the deserted kitchen, and finally stood in a cul-de-sac just off the pantry.

Christopher could see nothing. He had been forced to take Natil at her word when she told him to rise, step, or turn. The harper's perceptions, on the other hand, seemed undiminished. She knew where she was. Judging by her movements, the castle might well have been fully lit by the sun. It was incredible that she could find her way through the darkness, and yet Christopher was somehow not surprised.

Working sightlessly, he stripped off his tatters and motley to reveal a tunic and stockings of simple, dark cloth. Soft shoes, a long knife at his side—a sword, he knew, would have been too clumsy—and a coil of rope over his shoulder completed his arrangements. Save for Natil's beloved harp, they left everything else in the cul-de-sac. If they were successful tonight, they could retrieve it at will. If not, it would not matter.

“I'm ready,” he said.

“The hand of the Lady be on you, my lord,” said Natil. And again, she took him by the hand and led him through the darkness.

She had said much the same thing to the errant monkey, but whose hand? What Lady? He was sure that she had not been referring to the Virgin. But Christopher supposed that the harper's blessing, whatever it meant, was as good as any, for ladies' hands had been on him throughout his life, and it was from soft arms and softer faces that he had learned much, whether sterility, compassion, or rebirth.

The windows of the upper floors looked out above the encircling walls, and the light of the moon and stars poured into the corridor. Outside, the fortress and the sleeping city lay silver in the heavenly light, and beyond them, the sea glittered, sparkling.

He was still holding Natil's hand, and he saw that she was clad in the same tunic,breeches, and boots that he had seen before. She slung her harp over her shoulder. “Do you wish to continue?” she asked formally.

He grinned. “You know I do. This is the best thing I've done since I rode off to Nicopolis. Better, in fact.”

Natil's eyes twinkled. “Indeed.”

She bowed, touching her hands to her head and opening them wide, then turned and put a foot out the window. Unlike the Château, the fortress of Maris was without ledges, almost without any sort of handhold whatsoever, and she spent a minute or two examining the wall before, feet on the sill and fingers hooked under the lintel, she stretched up and found a hold. Christopher stared as she lifted herself with the strength of one arm.

He leaned out and peered upward. The harper's garments blended with the wall even in moonlight, but he saw that she