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

“All right,” he said. “You hold out. I'll try to make sure that the free companies never make it this far.”

Abel stuck out an almost black hand. “We trust you, Baron Aurverelle.” He grinned. It was an unlikely thing for a man of Saint Brigid to say.

Christopher took his hand. “Could anyone have imagined this happening fifty years ago?”

Abel laughed. “Times change. Some things fade, others come to take their place. But I'll tell you, m'lord: the baron of Aurverelle will always have friends here in Saint Brigid.”

The time of the Elves was over. It was up to human beings now. Sickness, and death, and what dull embers of loyalty and friendship could be fanned into flame. Memories that knew no more than a few decades, hearts that were anything but steadfast, hands that knew murder as well as comfort: these were all they had. The legacy of elven blood and elven heritage was sleeping—perhaps it would sleep its way into death—and those who bore it called themselves but men and women, saw nothing but what was before their eyes, and worked to carve their lives out of unseen patterns and shadowy mazes of moonlight.

He said good-bye to Vanessa the next morning, and as he held hands with her just inside the village gate, and as the hot wind from the east blew dust and straw about their feet and the sun threw light against he tower of the church, he recalled another parting. “I . . . could ask you to stay,” he said.

She understood. “I ha' no place in Aurverelle, m'lord.”

He put his finger to her lips. “Christopher.”

He dropped his hand, and she smiled. “Christopher.”

“You see, Vanessa,” he said. “You say my name like one born to the gentry. I couldn't ask for more.”

She blushed. “You're making fun o' me.”

“No, not at all. How could I make fun of someone I love?”

She looked ready to cry. “Oh, dear Lady, Christopher . . .”

He took her by the shoulders. Symbol she had once been, symbol and guiding light—but now she was a woman, and a determined, courageous one at that. A fitting mate for a delAurvre, regardless of her parentage. “Don't you feel it? Don't you feel anything for me?”

She made a face through misting eyes, forced a laugh. “It's like out of an old tale.”

“Things like elven blood and magic are out of an old tale, too,” he said. “And—who knows?—someday, you and I will be a part of an old tale ourselves, and our names will live on in chimney corners and children's bedrooms long after our . . .” He grimaced at his wayward tongue. “. . . peach trees are all planted.”

She blushed again, dropped her eyes, then, impulsively, threw herself against him and held him. “I do love you, Christopher,” she whispered. “You helped me. You ta me in whan e'eryone else turned me out. An' you were e'erything to me that e'eryone else wan't. But . . . but I . . .”

He shushed her. “No. No decisions now. You've told me enough. That's all I need for now.” And he held up her hand: his signet glittered on her finger. “You bear my token. And I . . .” He drew the moon and star pendant from his tunic. “I bear yours. Whatever happens, we're together.”

Vanessa touched the pendant. “Tha's an elvish symbol,” she said. “It's the moon and star o' the Lady. I know tha' now.” She colored, dropped her eyes. “I know about my grandda, too, and about my da. They—”

“I know,” said Christopher. Elvish meddling. But Roger had meddled, and now Christopher was meddling. There were all sorts of meddling, he supposed, some more comely than others. “I don't care, Vanessa. You're human. That's all that matters. That's the Vanessa I love.”

He kissed her, and then she stepped away as he sprang into his saddle. Her hands were clasped, her face earnest. A wife watching her husband go off to war? He wondered. He hoped.

Hope. The Elves had given him that, too. Should he curse them for that? Should he hate them?

“G'bye, Christopher,” said Vanessa.

He thrust the thoughts of immortals from him, smiled down at her. Hope. The Elves had none, men and women—blind though they were—had all. “The French have a better word,” he said. “And since, my beloved lady, they're supposed to know all about such things as love and chivalry, maybe I'll take a lesson from them.” He wrinkled his nose. “For once.” He bent, caught her hand, pressed it to his lips. “Adieu.”

Chapter Twenty-six

For four hours, the men of the Fellowship of Acquisition had pounded at the lithified gates of the castle with an improvised battering ram, and the granite had finally cracked, shivered, and crumbled, but just enough to allow one rider to squeeze through at a time. Berard had given orders for the aperture to be enlarged for the wagons and guns, but he and a dozen of his men who possessed the fastest horses had threaded their way out and prepared to set off along the south road.

“What about the baron of Furze and his people?” his new lieutenant had asked.

“Burn them.”

“What?”

“Fire the forest. It's tinder dry. And I want the men ready to ride by afternoon. And when they are, Jaques, bring them after us. Bring everything: cannon, supply wagons, everything.”

His mind had burned with thoughts of Christopher delAurvre, and now, two days along the south road, it was still burning. All had been going along as planned, and then the baron of Aurverelle had appeared, skipping lightly through the intricacies of his plots like a monkey scampering among the roofs and towers of Shrinerock. Somehow, Christopher had sealed up the castle. Somehow, he had known about that crossbow bolt. And Berard feared that somehow, if he were not killed quickly, he would bring the Fellowship's glorious and profitable future to dust.

He and his men camped that night to the south