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

up from the southeast. Already the vegetation that had been spurred into enthusiastic growth by the arrival of spring was beginning to wilt, shrivel, and brown. People were talking about drought again, but the monkey did not seem to care: it liked the sun.

It looked up at the baron of Aurverelle and stuck out its tongue. “The monkey agrees,” said Christopher.

Natil was sitting on the floor, tuning her harp. “I daresay, my lord,” she said, “that the monkey is no expert on madness.”

“On the contrary,” said Christopher. “He's quite knowledgeable. For instance, he's taught me that what most people call madness should actually be referred to as sanity.”

Natil lifted her head, smiled. “The monkey is wise, my lord.”

Christopher put his hands behind his head and stretched out. “I wish my vassals were as wise. But Paul delMari . . .” He shook his head. “I'd hoped for better. His was the first letter I sent off. That was a month ago. I even sent it with my best messenger. But I've heard nothing from Shrinerock. I can't understand why he's delaying. It's just a good thing that the companies haven't done anything yet: without Shrinerock to cover the southern part of the country, we'd be in trouble.”

Natil nodded, eased two strings into consonance.

“What . . .” Struck by a thought, Christopher sat up. “What do the patterns say, harper?”

Natil lifted her head, and for a moment he wondered if he had, in some way, offended her. “There are many things fading in the world,” she said slowly, “and the vision of the patterns is among them. In the Château and in Ruprecht's fortress, I saw what was nearby and imminent. Shrinerock is distant. I cannot see as far as I used. None of us can.”

None of us. Did that include Vanessa? But Christopher saw the grief in Natil, for what had been for Vanessa a source of torment was apparently for the harper a talent and a gift, one to be shared, one with which she could help and heal. But it was fading. Natil was amazing and, in her own way, terrifyingly powerful, but she was fragile, too; and as Christopher had responded to Vanessa's fundamental humanity, so did he now to that same quality in Natil.

From the courtyard below came the rapid sound of a horse's hoofs clattering on cobblestones, the shouts of the servants. Hoping that the commotion marked a reply at last from the master of Shrinerock, Christopher rose form his bed and went to the window. But it was not a messenger from the baron of Furze. The rider was a slim, dark young man whose demeanor, even at a distance, held a touch of nervousness. Christopher wondered why Martin Osmore would pay a visit to a madman who knew too much about his shameful relationship with Yvonnet; but hoping that, whatever Martin's reasons, he might be induced to share some news of Vanessa, he pulled on his boots and went downstairs with Natil following and the monkey on his shoulder.

Unlike his father, Martin was exceedingly conscious of the social gulf that separated him from Christopher. At the baron's approach, he dismounted and bowed deeply, and upon straightening, he searched Christopher's face as though for some indication of what kind of reception he might receive today.

The monkey chuckled and pulled on Christopher's ear. “Yes, little friend,” he said, “I've been tamed a bit also.” He offered his hand to Martin. “Don't be afraid. I won't eat you.”

“God bless you, Baron Christopher.”

Christopher called for the grooms to take away Martin's horse, waved the servants away, and personally led him towards the door. “Did you want to make this a formal visit, Martin?” he said, wondering how it was that he had become so gracious a host. “Shall I tell Raffalda to draw a bath and set out clothes?”

Martin blushed, at once overwhelmed and a little frightened. “If it please you, my lord, I think I'd just as soon speak now.”

Christopher stopped on the porch. “All right, then. What is it? Has your father finally decided that Aurverelle might be a worthwhile ally?”

“It's not that at all.” Martin looked extremely worried. “It's Baron Paul. I've written to him fairly regularly, and he's written back. About once a week. We were very close, almost like . . . uh . . . father and son . . .” Martin looked uneasily at Christopher. “. . . but lately, I haven't heard a word from him. No letters, nothing. I wrote again after a fortnight, but the messenger didn't come back, and there's still no word from Shrinerock.”

And Christopher had written a month ago. No reply. And the messenger had not returned, either.

A shout from the watchman at the top of the great keep, but Christopher was too intent upon Martin's words to make out what he was saying.

“I'm worried,” continued Martin. “I've talked to Father, but he isn't bothered by anything: he just wants me to get married. But lately, I've heard some rumors. Nothing definite, you know, but they all say that's something happened down by Furze.”

And the free companies had disappeared. Nearly four thousand men . . .

The guard at the top of the keep was still shouting, and he had become insistent enough that Christopher finally listened to him:

“Smoke! Smoke to the southeast!”

The realization struck Christopher like a leaden fist, and, pulling Martin after him until the lad understood and followed on his own, Christopher ran across the court to the stairway that led to the top of the keep. Cursing, taking the large steps two at a time, while the monkey clung to his neck and shrieked with fear, Christopher bounded upwards.

When, panting, he burst out into the open, he looked off to the southeast. It was as the watchman had said: beyond Malvern, beyond the wide dairylands that stretched from the far edge of the forest to the Bergren River, a pillar of smoke, black and gray, was rising into the cloudless sky.

Martin