Blue Moon Rising (Darkwood) (39 page)

Prince Harald strode casually down the dimly lit corridor, his hand resting lightly on the pommel of his sword. His footsteps echoed dully back from the oak-panelled walls; the slow, regular sound eerily loud on the silence. From time to time, as he drew closer to Lord Darius’s quarters, a guardsman in full chain mail would emerge from some concealing shadow to challenge him, only to fall back on recognizing Harald’s grim features. The Prince ignored them, but was quietly impressed by the thoroughness with which Darius protected himself. Obviously he didn’t intend for his little party to be interrupted, and by setting his guards in ones and twos he avoided the attention that a large number of men would undoubtably have drawn. As it was, Harald estimated that a full troop of guards stood between Lord Darius’s chambers and the rest of the Castle, acting as both an advance warning system and a strategically placed fighting force. Harald smiled slightly. The rebellion seemed well planned, if nothing else. He was quite looking forward to seeing who would be waiting for him at the party.

Two tall, brawny guardsmen stood before Lord Darius’s door. They wore a featureless leather armor, with no colors to indicate allegiance. Their faces were impassive, but their eyes were cold and distrustful, and they held their swords at the ready as Harald approached them. They inclined their heads slightly as they recognized the Prince, but made no move to step aside. Instead, the taller of the two guardsmen indicated with his sword a small table to his left. Harald moved forward, and picked up a plain black domino mask from a pile on the table. He looked at the guardsmen, and raised an eyebrow.

“With the compliments of Lord Darius,” said the guard. “A masked Ball, in your honor, Sire.”

Harald chuckled softly. “Masks; how delightfully apt. But I don’t think I’ll bother, myself.”

He tossed the mask back onto the pile. The guard sheathed his sword, picked up the mask, and held it out to Harald.

“The Lord Darius was most insistent, Sire,” said the guard. “Nobody gets in unless they’re wearing a mask.”

“He’ll make an exception in my case,” said Harald. “Now stand aside.”

The guard smiled, and shook his head slowly. “I take my orders from the Lord Darius,” he said calmly. “Just as you do, Sire. Now put on your mask.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Then I’ll put it on for you … Sire.”

Harald hit him just below the breastbone with a straight finger jab, and all the color went out of the guard’s face. He bent slowly forward, as though bowing to Harald, and then fell to lie still on the floor. The other guard lifted his sword and stepped forward, only to freeze in place as the point of Harald’s sword pricked his throat. The guard lowered his blade, and tried hard not to swallow. He’d heard the Prince was good with a sword, but he’d never seen anyone move that fast …

“Who do you take your orders from?” asked Harald, his voice calm and quiet and very dangerous.

“You, Sire,” said the guard. “Only you.”

“Glad to hear it,” said Harald. He stepped back a pace, and sheathed his sword. “Open the door for me, guardsman.”

“Yes, Sire.” The guard glanced quickly at his companion, who was still lying on the floor, curled helplessly around the bright agony in his chest, and then moved forward and knocked twice on the door. There was the sound of heavy bolts being drawn, and the door swung smoothly open. Harald stepped over the fallen guardsman and strode unhurriedly into Lord Darius’s quarters.

All conversation stopped as Harald entered the Hall. The great babble of voices died quickly away to nothing, the musicians stopped playing, and the dancers froze in their places. Even the roaring flames in the huge open fireplace seemed muted by the sudden silence. Harald stopped just inside the doorway and looked about him. A vast sea of masks stared impassively back.

Darius’s Hall wasn’t all that large, as Castle Halls went, and the two or three hundred people present filled it comfortably from wall to wall. The number was about right for a Castle party, large enough to be impressive without being intimidating, but somehow the masks made a difference. Simple black domino masks predominated, but at least half of Darius’s guests had chosen to wear their own individual masks; ornate and bizarre, gorgeous and grotesque, the masks watched Harald with a fixed intensity that came close to unnerving him. Their unmoving expressions, their exaggerated glees or sorrows or snarls, were so far from anything human as to be almost demonic. Directly before Harald, to his left, a white-faced Pierrot stood arm-in-arm with a horse-headed mummer. To Harald’s right, a grinning Death leaned companionably on the shoulder of a shrieking Famine. A Fish stared goggle-eyed, and a Cat winked. And everywhere; simple black dominos and painted faces and lorgnettes of beaten gold and silver. Harald stared at the masks, and the masks stared back.

And then the sea of false faces suddenly parted, as two figures came forward to meet him. A little of Harald’s tension drained away as he recognized Lord Darius and the Lady Cecelia, and he moved his hand away from his swordhilt. Darius wore long heavy robes of dusty gray, whose cut and style fought in vain to make him appear slimmer. His mask was a black silk domino. Cecelia wore an ornate ball gown of blue and silver, studded with semiprecious stones, that covered her completely from neck to ankle without concealing any of her splendid figure. Silver bells hanging from her cuffs and hem chimed prettily with her every movement. Her mask was a dainty lorgnette of beaten gold on a slender ivory handle. Darius bowed to Harald, and Cecelia curtsied. Behind them, the sea of masks also bowed and curtsied. Harald nodded briefly in return, and Darius gestured urgently to the musicians at the far end of the Hall. A lively music sprang up, and the sea of masks was suddenly just a gathering of party guests as they broke apart to talk, or dance, or sample wines and sweetmeats and sugared fruits from the well-stocked buffet tables. Two servants moved forward and quietly closed the door behind Harald. He heard the heavy bolts slam home.

“Welcome, Sire,” said Lord Darius. “We’ve been expecting you for some time.”

“So Sir Blays informed me,” said Harald, smiling politely.

“Did you have any trouble getting here, Sire?”

“None I couldn’t handle.”

“Would you like me to get you a mask, Harald?” asked Cecelia brightly. “I’m sure I can find just the thing to suit you.”

“Indeed,” said Darius. “My guards were under strict orders to provide you with a mask.”

“They did try,” said Harald. “I convinced them it was a bad idea. After all, I am here to be recognized, aren’t I?”

“Of course, Sire, of course.” Darius gestured quickly to a passing servant, who stopped and presented Harald with a tray of drinks. Harald took a glass of wine, drained it, put it back on the tray, and picked up another glass. Darius waved the servant away before the Prince could try for a third, and then studied Harald warily. Something was wrong; he could feel it.

“Why did you choose a masked Ball, my Lord Darius?” asked Harald, sipping at his wine in a manner that suggested only politeness kept him from pulling a face.

“To be honest, Sire, it was the only way I could persuade most of them to come. No doubt the masks give them a comforting sense of anonymity. There will be an unmasking later, once we’ve all had the opportunity to … get to know one another a little better.”

Harald nodded solemnly. “Then if you’ll excuse me, my Lord and Lady, I’d better go and mingle with my fellow guests, hadn’t I?”

“That is the purpose of this party, Sire.”

Harald smiled, and moved away into the crowd of bobbing masks. Darius and Cecelia watched him go.

“Something’s wrong,” said Darius slowly, his right hand moving absently to the poison dagger concealed in his left sleeve.

“Wrong? I don’t see anything wrong, darling.” Cecelia took an elegant sip from her wine glass, and peered quickly round the Hall. “The party’s going splendidly; everyone’s here that should be.”

Darius shook his head stubbornly. “It’s Harald; the way he’s been acting. He should be more … well,
excited
, dammit. The people in this room could put him on the throne, if they choose to, but to look at Harald you’d think he didn’t give a damn what they thought of him.”

Cecelia shrugged prettily. “Dear Harald’s never given much of a damn what anybody thinks. He doesn’t have to; he’s a Prince.”

“You could be right,” said Darius. He drank deeply from his wine glass, and on lowering it was surprised to find it empty. He frowned, and put the glass down on a nearby table. This was no time to be getting the worse for drink. “Come, my dear; our guests are waiting, and if Harald won’t charm them, we’ll have to do it for him, damn the man.”

Cecelia laughed. “You mean Gregory and I will have to charm them; you’ll be too busy making political and business deals.”

“Of course,” said Darius. “It’s what I do best.”

They shared a smile, and then moved away in different directions.

Harald strolled slowly through the party, nodding politely to those he recognized, and smiling coldly at those he didn’t. He ignored all invitations to stop and talk, and wandered back and forth across the Hall until he was sure he’d seen everybody at least once. He finally ended up before the blazing open fire, and stood with his back to it, quietly enjoying the heat as it seeped slowly into his bones. Even the many thick stone walls of the Castle couldn’t seem to keep out the unnatural cold that had fallen across the Forest. Bitter frosts blighted all the Land, and every morning the snow lay more thickly on the Castle battlements. Even the moat was beginning to ice over.

Harald shrugged, and sipped at his wine. Across the Hall, Darius was glaring at him. Harald looked away. He wasn’t ready to talk to anybody yet. Instead, he amused himself by watching the masked guests as they moved gracefully through the intricate measures of a dance, or gathered in hungry little groups round the buffet tables and scandalmongers. It seemed to Harald that, for all the different kinds of masks, there was still a definite pecking order. High Society had their own individual and highly stylized masks, each with its own subtle clues as to who’s features lay concealed beneath. The lesser nobles wore the wilder and more bizarre masks, as though making up in originality what they lacked in social standing. The traders and the military made do with the simple black domino masks that Lord Darius had provided.

Directly opposite Harald, three men wearing no masks stood together. Harald inclined his head slightly to them. The three Landsgraves nodded in acknowledgment, but made no move to approach him. Harald frowned, and met their eyes in turn. Sir Blays stared calmly back, Sir Guillam bobbed his head and simpered nervously, and Sir Bedivere … Despite himself, Harald shivered suddenly as he tried and failed to meet Sir Bedivere’s cold, dark eyes. He knew now, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that if he had fought the Landsgrave that day in Court, Sir Bedivere would have killed him easily. Harald glowered into his empty glass. He hadn’t forgotten or forgiven the Landsgrave’s insult to his father, but he vowed to himself that if it ever came to a fighting insult again, he’d have more sense than to challenge the Landsgrave to a duel. He’d just stab the man in the back, or put ground glass in his wine.

“Welcome to the party,” said a chill voice, and Harald looked up to find himself face-to-face with a black-and-white Harlequin mask. Its rosebud mouth smiled politely, but no humor showed in the pale blue eyes behind the mask.

“I know that voice,” murmured Harald. “Lord Vivian, isn’t it? You’re in charge of the Castle’s guards, in the Champion’s absence.”

Lord Vivian reached up and slowly and deliberately removed his mask, revealing a gaunt, raw-boned face so pale as to be almost colorless, topped with a thick mane of silver-gray hair. There was a calm and studied stillness to the face that suggested strength and determination, but the eyes were hard and unyielding. Fanatic’s eyes. His frame was lean and wiry, rather than muscular, but there was a deadly grace to his few, economical movements, and Harald noticed that Vivian’s right hand never strayed far from his swordhilt.

“I command the Castle guards,” said Lord Vivian slowly, “Now, and always, my King.”

“I’m not King yet,” said Harald.

“You will be,” said Vivian. “The Champion isn’t coming back. His body lies rotting in the Darkwood. I speak for the guards now, and every man-to-arms in this Castle follows my orders. With us at your side, no one will dare dispute your claim to the Forest throne.”

“Indeed,” said Harald. “But why should you support me, rather than my father? You swore an oath of allegiance to him, upon your life and your honor.”

“That was before the coming of the Darkwood,” said Vivian flatly. “My oath to protect the Land takes precedence over all other oaths. My loyalty is to the throne, not who sits on it. The Forest is endangered, and your father is no longer capable of doing what must be done.”

Harald raised an eyebrow. “I take it you have something in mind for me to order as King?”

Vivian smiled coldly. “Take the fight to the enemy, Sire. Unite all the guards and men-at-arms into a single great army, and send them forth against the darkness. Under my command, they will butcher the demons and drive them back.”

“And then?” asked Harald.

“And then, my troops will set a wall of fire between us and the demons; a searing, bright-burning flame that will drive the foul creatures back into the darkness from which they came!”

“Even assuming such a tactic would work,” said Harald thoughtfully, “hundreds of the outlying farms would be lost in the fire. Thousands of peasants would die.”

Vivian shrugged. “Regrettable, but necessary. If the Darkwood isn’t stopped, they’ll die anyway. What does it matter if a few peasants must die, if by their deaths they ensure the survival of the Forest Kingdom? I’m a soldier; my men and I take that same risk every time we go out into battle. Afterwards … we can always build more farms, and the lower classes breed like rabbits, anyway.”

“Quite,” murmured Harald. “Still, I fear the Barons would not take kindly to such widespread destruction of their lands.”