Maze of Moonlight Gael Baudino (poetry books to read .txt) 📖

dabbed at his moist lips with a cloth. “I never did, though. And I don't know if Roger did, either. But toward the end, he was certainly going on about them. He even claimed that the people who broke into the Château and freed the witch were Elves! Think of that! And then when he came back from his hunting . . .”

The old man hesitated, coughed, shrugged with embarrassment. Christopher glared again, and he went on.

“Well, he said once that Elves sometimes knew a little more than humans.” Amos was deeply embarrassed. “His very words, my lord. Please excuse me.”

It was something Christopher had learned to live with. Roger had believed in Elves, and had once claimed to have actually met one. Even Pytor, loyal though he was, had blushed at that, but Roger had been old, and that was, perhaps, some excuse. But Roger had not been old when he had talked to Amos, and hearing someone like the scribe go on about his grandfather's weakness (was it just simple insanity, then?) with such embarrassed familiarity gave Christopher a queasiness that had nothing to do with the indigestible meal he had eaten that night. “Excused,” he said with difficulty.

“I'm sorry, my lord.”

Christopher forced a smile. “No need to be sorry, my man. My deepest thanks to you for your help.”

“May I say, my lord . . .” Amos mumbled another apology, dabbed again at his mouth. “. . . that Aurverelle has had no finer master in my memory than yourself. Roger went home a few weeks later, and he was a credit to his lineage. And you're certainly a worthy, worthy grandson.”

Christopher acknowledged the clumsy compliment with a short nod, for he had spent altogether too many years attempting to live down both halves of his grandfather's life. But he shook the old man's hand, handed him a bag of coins for his trouble, and left the room as he had come: unannounced, worried.

Had Amos told him that Roger had experienced a religious vision in Beldon Forest, it perhaps would have been more acceptable to Christopher, but to be confronted with reasonless, irrational conversion when what he had wanted was . . . was . . .

Retracing his steps, pausing and frowning at the numerous crossings of hallways and corridors, he realized that he had not known what he had wanted. A reason, perhaps. An explanation.

Well, perhaps he had it, unpalatable though it was. And maybe his own madness—capering and fruit throwing—was yet another piece of delAurvre tradition that had been passed down to him courtesy of Roger. Unpalatable indeed!

He heard the cathedral bell tolling and realized that he had spent more time than he had thought trying to find Amos. The banquet would be over by now, and he would be missed. Well, he could always tell them that he had gotten lost. Given the complexity of the Château's hallways, it would be a believable story.

But when he found his way at last to the empty hall, he heard the tread of numerous thick boots and the clink of mail. Lengram's voice echoed faintly down the stairwell: “He's not? Then find him! The baron wants him confined before dawn!”

Yvonnet's agitation, Natil's worry. Everything was becoming clear to Christopher. The baron of Hypprux had indeed been a cat in a cage, but now the cat was loose.

“Ever hear of mice with fangs, cousin?” muttered Christopher. But he knew he was in trouble. He was separated from his guards, unfamiliar with the layout of the Château, and he did not even have a sword.

He turned and started back toward the servant's wing, but more footsteps were approaching from that direction. Hesitating only for an instant, he ducked behind a hanging just as a group of servants came in, picked up a load of dishes, and left. The sound of boots and mail grew louder.

Christopher stuck his head out from behind the hanging and was about to run when he heard someone else coming. He pulled his head back in as another servant entered the room . . . on tiptoe. As Christopher watched, unseen, the man looked about carefully, seized an uncut loaf of bread, and thrust it into his tunic. Suddenly aware of the approaching soldiers, he started, looked for some escape, and finding none, darted behind the same hanging that concealed the baron of Aurverelle.

He was unconscious in a moment. Christopher held him and kept him from crashing to the floor as the soldiers arrived.

Lengram was complaining. “Well, damn you, look for him.”

And to Christopher's horror, the soldiers broke up into twos and threes and spread out for a thorough search. One pair began to poke about the banquet room, their efforts obviously half-hearted. Christopher here? Nonsense.

And then one lifted the tapestry and found himself confronted with the unexpected sight of an unconscious man flying straight at him.

The servant was a clumsy projectile, but the soldier went down. Loudly. As his companions stared, then shouted for help, Christopher made for the stairwell, darted up a floor, then suddenly cursed himself when he realized that he was heading straight for the rooms that Yvonnet had given him. Of course they were going to be looking there.

Only one flight up, then, not two, and he darted into the corridor that presented itself. In the distance, he heard more footsteps, the clang of a sword against the wall. But he had been followed up the stairs by the second soldier, and the man was just sucking in a breath to call for help when Christopher spun, set his feet, and smashed his gloved fist into the mail at the man's throat. A muffled crunch of breaking cartilage, and the man fell, but the distant footsteps suddenly were not so distant. And now there was movement on the stairwell. A great deal of movement.

He grabbed the dying man's sword, shoved him into the shadows, and scurried for the marginal shelter of a window embrasure. He had been an idiot to