Moons' Dreaming (Children of the Rock) Read online

  The queen looked up when he mounted the two steps of her dais and stood beside her seat.

  “What’s happened to Emlie?” Pirse hardly recognized the harsh voice as his own. It was simply a voice, asking the question which had been haunting him all afternoon. All that mattered now was the answer.

  “I sent her to Hion in Rhenlan.” His mother’s expression was completely bland, her voice calm as it fell on the emptiness and space between them. “I knew exactly what I was doing.”

  “But something’s gone wrong,” Pirse insisted. “I haven’t met anyone on the road who would face me. What have you done? Abdicated to Hion? Agreed to have Emlie marry Damon?”

  Her continuing mild stare maddened him. He took her by the shoulders and gave her a furious shake, and got no more response than if he hadn’t touched her. She seemed to still be alone, her words not answers to his question, but merely thoughts spoken aloud to herself.

  “Mother, let me help.”

  “Shapers should stay to their own lands. Hion has no business in Dherrica. I told him that.”

  Fear, an acid bite at the back of his mouth, began to burn into his mind as well. “Mother, when is Emlie coming home?”

  “She’s dead.”

  Pirse stared, appalled, into gray eyes the mirror of his own. The mirror of Emlie’s. He tightened his grip on his mother’s shoulders, clenching his fingers with what he knew was bruising force, but she remained oblivious to him.

  “No,” he croaked. It was a lie. If he left this madwoman to her empty throne room he’d find Emlie in her quarters. She’d smile, happy to see him as always. He’d tell her about killing dragons and she’d show him a new kitten. She used to cry about the death of dragons.

  “Yes, she is,” the queen’s insistent words cut into his thoughts, shattering and scattering them. “The messenger came this morning. I never believed Hion would go to such lengths. But it hardly matters, does it? She’s dead.”

  “No,” Pirse repeated more insistently. “Not that beautiful, innocent child. Who could harm Emlie?”

  Who would send a little girl into such a dangerous situation? How could this woman he was holding have done such a thing?

  She was still speaking. “They held a perfectly formal execution. They took her into a public courtyard, read the sentence, and the executioner strangled her. They executed my baby. She died like a common criminal. The messenger from Rhenlan said she cried, but didn’t make any real fuss. How like her to die quietly. Such a gentle thing.”

  “Shut up!” The cry tore itself out of Pirse. “Stop it!”

  “How will the Redmothers remember it?” the Queen droned on, gray eyes focused, but not focused, on something in the middle distance beyond Pirse’s shoulder. “I can’t stop thinking that because she obeyed me, she’s dead.”

  “No.” Pirse didn’t shout the word this time. It came out as a whisper, barely audible in his own ears, ignored by his mother, who was lost in her own horror-filled thoughts. Pirse dropped his hands and stepped back, those simple actions almost beyond his strength. All the energy that had driven him on the long road home, all the tension that had wound through him these past hours, evaporated like a dead dragon in the sun. Dead. Emlie, his pretty, sweet sister, was dead.

  Pirse turned his back on the queen and walked away. At the entrance to the great hall he turned randomly to his left, his mother’s monotonous voice following him along the corridor. Emlie was dead. He knew he should feel something, say something, but what? How? Denial hadn’t helped, and comfort was beyond him, for himself or for Dea. What was the point? Emlie was dead.

  He lifted the latch on the first door he came to, and stepped into a black, windowless room. He didn’t know where he was, didn’t care. Emlie was dead. The trembling returned to his aching legs and back. He was aware of tears on his face, and an empty hollow of grief where his heart had once been. He sank down on the stone floor, curled into a miserable ball, and let exhaustion carry him into the welcome dark.

  Chapter 6

  Pirse woke with a crick in his neck and, for one blessed moment, no idea where he was. Then the memories came to crush him: Chasa’s warning, the long ride home, Dea shattered with grief, Emlie dead.

  Groaning, Pirse got to his feet and fumbled in the darkness until he found the door. Light from the wall sconce in the corridor outside answered his first question. He had taken refuge in a storage room, its walls lined with dusty shelves and a heap of wall tapestries.

  He doubted that the answer to his next question would come so easily. Emlie was dead. Gods help me, what do I do now?

  All right, maybe that answer was easy, too. Pirse brushed at his dusty clothing and started back down the corridor toward the great hall. It didn’t matter that he was furious, hurt, disappointed, and grieving. He had to talk to his mother. He blamed her as much as Hion for Emlie’s death, but probably not as bitterly as she blamed herself. Blame wouldn’t bring Emlie back. They had to decide what to do next, how to respond to Rhenlan’s barbarity.

  By the time he approached the throne, Pirse had ordered his thoughts and started to run down the list of urgent actions to be taken. Check the status of the border guards, of course. He opened his mouth to address his mother, and only then wondered at her silence. She sat on the throne, watching his approach. No, not watching him. He stepped onto the dais, but her eyes continued to stare sightlessly past him.

  The front of her gown was dark with blood.

  Pirse’s legs buckled. He reached for Dea’s hand, and at his touch her body slid off the throne and crumpled into an untidy heap on the tiles.

  “Rock and Pool, boy, what have you done?”

  Pirse turned, still on his knees. Captain Cratt strode down the center of the great hall, Uncle Palle at his side. They stopped at the foot of the dais and Palle pointed an accusing finger at Pirse.

  “What did I tell you? He shirks his real duties, he profanes his sacred trust, and now he thinks to claim the throne!”

  Cratt’s bald head gleamed in the torch light. “You can’t do it, Your Highness. Best to hand over your sword, and trust the Law Readers to judge fairly.”

  “My sword?” Pirse repeated. “Law Readers? Cratt, what happened here?”

  “The queen is dead,” Palle proclaimed loudly. “And I, for one, will not stand by and see her murderer profit by it.”

  “Her murderer?” Pirse’s voice rose in outrage as he surged to his feet. “You accuse me? Cratt, you can’t possibly believe—”

  “I’ve already examined her,” the captain interrupted him. “Anyone who has fought with you will confirm it. There’s no mistaking the marks of a dragon sword, and no question that you’re the only man in Dherrica to wield one.” He put one foot on the lowest step of the dais, hands spread in entreaty. A spasm of pain twisted his face. “You were seen, Highness. The last person to enter the hall before… before she was found. Firstmother help us, the queen is dead. Your sister’s dead. Shaper killing Shaper. No more, Highness, I beg you.”

  The snick of Palle’s sword sliding out of its sheath broke through Pirse’s stunned disbelief. A drawn weapon, the sense of danger—these things he understood.

  His fingers found the hilt of his sword. Palle’s sneering face was the snarling visage of a dragon. Training and experience took over. Pirse dodged under his uncle’s first lunge, swung the heel of his free hand against the side of the man’s head with bone-numbing force, leapt past Cratt’s lunging grab, and ran from the hall.

  * * *

  Palle rolled groggily to his hands and knees in time to see the prince disappear through the doorway at the far end of the great hall, Cratt three paces behind him. Palle staggered to his feet, groped for his sword where it had fallen at the edge of the dais, and ran after the pair.

  He caught up with Cratt halfway down the corridor, where the guard captain lay doubled-up on the floor. Head throbbing furiously, Palle shoved his boot under the man and flipped him over. Cratt clutched his ribs, breathing in broken
gasps, but the only blood visible came from a gash on his forehead.

  “Idiot! Why didn’t you stop him?” Palle demanded.

  Cratt wouldn’t, or couldn’t, answer. Palle cursed him and hurried on. Perhaps it was for the best to have the guard captain out of the way. Palle gingerly touched the aching spot on his own skull. He found no blood, but it still hurt. One more score to settle with his beloved nephew.

  Lights guttered around the courtyard, and several guards were milling about near the entrance to the stables.

  “Nerri!” Palle shouted as he hurried down the stairs. The man he’d singled out turned an inquiring face toward him.

  “Have you seen Prince Pirse?”

  Nerri indicated the stable door. “Yes, sir, he’s just getting a horse.”

  Palle reached the bottom of the stairs. “Stop him!” he shouted. Heads turned in his direction, eyes widening at the sight of the naked blade in his hand. A clattering of hooves was clearly audible from the stone-flagged central aisle of the stable. Palle ran forward. “Do you hear me? Stop the prince. He’s murdered our queen!”

  On the other side of the courtyard one of the watching kitchen maids began to wail. The guards nearest the stable scattered as a horse and rider burst into the open. Pirse was astride Captain Cratt’s huge roan. Sword in his hand, the prince gave a wordless yell and kicked the mare toward the gate.

  Two guards sprang forward to close the courtyard doors, but they were too slow. One was knocked aside by the horse’s shoulder. The other would have been trampled outright had the animal not given a small leap as she knocked him down. Then Pirse was gone, no more than a shadow bending low over the horse’s neck.

  Palle screamed, “After him!”

  More guards came streaming out of the barracks, aroused by the commotion. Cratt’s second-in-command, Onarga, ran toward him. “A full patrol, sir?” she asked.

  “Yes, yes! And saddle my horse.”

  Onarga was not very imaginative, but she was well disciplined. Within a few moments, a groom had brought out Palle’s horse, and an armed and mounted troop was assembled in front of the gate.

  Palle swung into his saddle. “Corporal Onarga, you will remain here, in command of the castle, until I return.”

  “Captain Cratt?”

  “Inside,” Palle snapped. “Prostrated with grief. I do not have time to wait for him to recover. I want riders sent out in all directions. They are to inform every village of Prince Pirse’s betrayal. Send special messengers to Kings Hion and Sene with the same news. Due to the tragic circumstances, I must assume responsibility for ruling Dherrica.”

  Onarga listened to his orders with a concerned frown. “Sir? Wouldn’t it be safer for you to stay here?”

  “Do not delay me with foolish questions!” Palle could not argue with her, because she was right. The last thing he wanted to do was ride in pursuit of Pirse. However, he had no choice. If Pirse surrendered peacefully and started proclaiming his innocence, there were too many people who might be inclined to believe him. Only by leading the hunt could Palle be sure that his nephew would be killed trying to evade capture. Palle needed Pirse dead. Then no one would question Palle’s right to be king, or wonder if Dea’s wounds could have been caused by something other than a dragon sword.

  “Dispatch the messengers,” Palle continued relentlessly, “then see that all of the Queen’s councilors are made aware of what has happened. One of them can deal with my sister’s body.”

  Palle signaled the guards and spurred his horse forward. Although his nephew had a few minutes’ lead, it wouldn’t be difficult to find him. The sight of Prince Pirse galloping madly through the night would arouse enough curiosity to insure an easy trail. Besides, Palle knew of only two places he might go. Depending on his frame of mind, Pirse could head toward Rhenlan, intent on revenge against Hion. Of course, crossing the border was out of the question, and within a day all of Dherrica would be turned against him. Therefore, if the boy was thinking clearly, he’d take the road toward the one place where no troop of guards could easily follow—into the northern jungles.

  Palle sent two of the swiftest riders ahead of the main body of the troop. They would close the gap separating them from the prince, and likely discover his intentions within a few miles.

  After that, all they had to do was catch up with him.

  * * *

  One nineday after Princess Emlie’s execution passed, and then another. Dael personally escorted the Dherrican messenger to the king’s audience chamber, and stood by as Hion received the news of Dea’s tragic death at the hands of her mad son. Palle’s first act as King of Dherrica was to gift the contested river valley and forest to Rhenlan. Dael accompanied Damon on a tour of the border region, a show of strength and promise of protection for the battle-weary populace.

  Vray did not return. No one spoke of her at court, and few in Edian itself gave a second thought to her absence. On the rare occasions that Dael heard her name mentioned in town, the curiosity was always mild and short-lived. Princess Vray was in training to be the kingdom’s Redmother, after all. People considered her wise to look beyond Edian, to get to know the other towns and villages and study with Red and Brownmothers throughout the kingdom. Perhaps she would even visit Sitrine or Dherrica. Didn’t both of Rhenlan’s powerful neighbors have Shaper princes of a marriageable age?

  Dael heard all the good-natured speculation, and said nothing. Duty filled his days, and most of his nights. He adjusted patrol routes to include the newly acquired territory, oversaw the training of new guards, and dealt with all the petty squabbles that ebbed and flowed in a busy capital like Edian.

  Vray did not return.

  * * *

  Pirse took the path because it was narrow and appeared infrequently used. He had no idea where it led. That didn’t matter, of course, because he didn’t know where he was to begin with. He hardly remembered who he was. All that was important was that he keep moving. He didn’t remember why it was so important, but he had something to do, and he wouldn’t be able to do it if they caught him.

  The path wound across the valley floor, crossed the wide river at an ankle-deep ford, and climbed the side of a hill. He watched his feet moving forward, first one, then the other. When the swarm of insects buzzing around his blood-matted hair became too thick to see through, he summoned up the energy to wave them away with his right hand. His left hand and arm he kept firmly pressed over the gash in his side. Despite his efforts, every other step jarred the wound. But the dull pain had been with him for so long now that it hardly registered on his over-stressed senses.

  The forest teemed with life, undisturbed by the passage of one Child of the Rock. He knew how to pass through the forest without alerting its inhabitants. His pursuers did not. They would never be able to approach him undetected here. That was why he had come. He could trust the forest to hide him.

  He rounded a bend in the path and stopped, swaying. Was his bleary vision failing? Staring down at the path, he thought he saw four feet, two his own dust-covered hunting boots, the other two clad in soft hide shoes. He waved feebly at the cloud of gnats and flies in front of his face, but the extra set of feet didn’t disappear.

  “You don’t look at all well.”

  Somehow he took a step back and raised his head. The owner of the voice, and the feet, was a short man with bent legs and a round, pleasantly ugly face.

  “Stay back,” he croaked hoarsely.

  “Watch where you’re—”

  His next backward step fell on the crumbling edge of the path. Below him was nothing but vertical hillside. He flailed with his right arm. The man paused in mid-sentence, grabbed Pirse’s arm, and hauled him forward to safety.

  “—going,” the man concluded. “You’d better come inside.”

  He was short but very strong. After a few moments of unfocused and totally ineffectual resistance, Pirse found himself in the back of a cool cave, drinking from a cup of water held to his lips by the man.


  “Now I know who you are. You’re Pirse, the Dherrican prince. You’ve been very helpful, you know.”

  Hearing his name after so many days of solitude was a jolt. Pirse pushed the cup away. “What do you mean? Who are you?”

  “We’re both dragon slayers.” The man put the cup aside and began unlacing the front of Pirse’s tunic. “You only kill the small physical ones, of course. But every little bit helps.”

  “Small?” Pirse protested automatically.

  The man pried Pirse’s arm gently away from his side, then tsked in disapproval. “I don’t like the look of that. You need a Greenmother. Perhaps Savyea will come.” He stood. “I’ll go get her.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Morb.”

  Pirse stared at him. “Grandfather’s wizard?”

  “Not anymore,” Morb replied. “Don’t move now.” With that final admonition the wizard closed his eyes and vanished in a puff of greenish smoke.

  Pirse closed his eyes. A wizard. He’d fallen into the hands of a wizard. Wild coincidence to have met anyone. Except that he didn’t believe in coincidence. Not where magic was concerned. His steps must have been guided by the gods—the callous, capricious, useless gods. Since he was a boy he’d been appalled by his mother’s lack of belief. She, and the rest of Dherrica’s Shapers, refused their responsibility to parent a new generation of Dreamers. He had expected King Sene of Sitrine, who had made sure his brother and sister married Keepers according to tradition, to prosper and triumph over his neighbors. But were the gods just? No. Rhenlan gained in strength and prestige, not Sitrine. The gods did nothing.

  The cave smelled suddenly of mown grass and clover. A hand touched his forehead, too close to the tender skin of the knife gash there.