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

The same hand that had struck down his grandfather.

“I ha' to do sa'thing, Christopher.” Vanessa spoke with clenched teeth and clenched fists. “I can't let them do tha' and get awa' wi' it.”

“Shh,” said Christopher. “There's nothing we can do here. We'll just have to hope I can reach the alliance.”

“I've got to do sa'thing. I wi' do sa'thing. I can . . .” She lifted her head and stared at the fire. “It's just patterns . . . in't it? Just . . . patterns . . .”

There was a light in her eyes that terrified him. He pulled her head against his chest once more. “Shh . . .”

A tap at the door, and Mirya and Natil entered. The harper bowed formally to Christopher. “I ask leave, my lord, to stay in Saint Brigid. There are folk here who require my skills.”

Christopher stood up. He might as well have held a hungry lion on a two-foot tether as command an Elf. “Natil, enough of this charade. I never really had you in my service.” He glanced at Vanessa. She trusted these beings implicitly, would have done anything for them. And he himself had told Natil that he trusted her with his life. Did a delAurvre say things like that so lightly? Was the sperm getting that weak?

“You'll always have a place of honor in Aurverelle, Natil,” he said. “You'll always be welcome. But I can't give you orders. And I won't. Stay if you need to. Mirya will . . .” He hesitated, stumbling over the past.

But Mirya bowed deeply. “I will take you to meet the forces of the alliance, Baron Christopher. But we must go now.” She turned to Natil, embraced her. “Farewell, my sister. Alanae a Elthia yai oilisi.”

Their heads were pressed together, and there was urgency in their faces. Natil's lips moved almost soundlessly: “Manea.”

So like humans. Were they really that different? His eyes aching, Christopher stooped and kissed Vanessa. The light was still in her eyes, and it reminded him unnervingly of the radiance that he saw in Mirya and Natil. “Adieu, sweet,” he said. “I'll be back. And then . . .”

She shook her head, laid her finger upon his lips. “Dan,” she said urgently. “Dan make plans, Christopher. Patterns can change i' a heartbeat, an' you might na wan' me after.”

Her words were grievous, but his signet was still on her hand, and her pendant—elven or not—was about his neck. He held her greedily, possessively, just like the delAurvres always held their women. “I'll always want you, Vanessa. No matter what. I'm not going to let you go again.”

But it was he who had to go now, and a few minutes later, Christopher and Mirya slipped over the edge of the village wall and lowered themselves to the ground in the deepest shadow they could find.

Mirya's impenetrable calm had returned. Christopher sensed that she was examining the encampment of the free companies as though it were an opponent in a hand-to-hand fight. Christopher heard shouts and laughter, but he could see nothing save faint variations in the darkness of the forest and the light from the torches and lamps that illuminated the free company camp. He was reduced to holding Mirya's hand—clasping the same flesh that had wreaked profound change on his grandfather—when they left the shelter of the wall and made for the ditch.

The ground turned soft beneath Christopher's boots, and he slipped in something fetid and slimy that he was glad he could not see. They descended, but though the Elf, as usual, moved noiselessly, Christopher found that the mud sucked at his boots with a sound that his tension magnified into shouts and thunderclaps.

Mirya put her lips to his ear. “Be easy,” she whispered. “The sentries are not close enough to us here. The difficulties will begin in earnest after we have passed the palisade.”

Christopher wondered whether she knew that, in reality, his difficulties had begun in earnest the moment she had revealed herself to be the Elf who had struck his grandfather.

Peach trees. He kept thinking of peach trees.

But he crossed the ditch with her, climbed the bank, and approached the palisade. It was badly broken, and they had no difficulty passing through. But as Mirya had said, they were now closer to Berard's sentries, and the entire area was ringed with guards and the horses and tents and equipment that inevitably accompanied the movement of nearly four thousand men.

“Hold,” Mirya whispered suddenly. “Hold still.”

Christopher froze. His hand started for the grip of his sword, but he stopped instantly when he realized that Mirya's order had doubtless included even such comparatively trivial actions.

“A moment, my lord,” said the Elf, and she slipped away.

Christopher stood motionless, stranded, blind, forcing himself to believe in the Elves and in their good will as he had once forced himself to believe that, yes, a man could walk from Nicopolis to Aurverelle.

And so he had walked. Truly, a man could journey a thousand miles on foot; and, to be sure, the Elves could bring healing and assistance. But where did that leave Roger? Had he been sick? That depended on one's point of view. Had he been healed? A matter of opinion. What the devil was healing, anyway? What was help?

A stirring, a sense of sagging, then silence. In a moment, Mirya was back at his side. He felt her take his hand again . . . immortal flesh, magical flesh . . .

. . . help and healing . . . like Vanessa . . .

. . . like his grandfather?

“Let us go,” she whispered. “If we are silent, we can gain the trees and cut through the forest, thereby saving time.”

Christopher glanced at her. “Mirya, the forest is on fire.”

“Haste is imperative, messire,” she said. “Berard will renew the siege tomorrow. I will deal with the fire.”

Christopher was baffled. “How?”

He sensed a smile. Then: “Elves are known for being ingenious.”

Together, they slipped towards the fields,