Maze of Moonlight, Gael Baudino [ebook reader screen TXT] 📗

Natil answered as though she had expected his question. “One defends what is precious, my lord. You defend Adria. I defend you for that reason.”

“You didn't know I'd be doing any of this when you took service with me.”

“I did not. But at that time, we owed you a great favor in return for the favor that you bestowed on Vanessa.”

Christopher did not need patterns or telepathy to tell him that Natil's words held a touch of dissemblance. “You're trying to make up to me for what you did to my grandfather, aren't you?”

Natil nodded slowly, eyes downcast. “We are. We seek to mend what we once marred.”

Christopher stared straight ahead, jaw clenched. As he had suspected. Then: “That makes two of us.” He almost tried to hate her. How could anyone, immortal or not, ever make up for the absolute violation of a human soul? Berard of Onella and his free companies had taken Shrinerock, and the Elves had taken his grandfather. Shrinerock, though, could be rebuilt. Roger was gone forever.

The monkey on h is shoulder was becoming agitated, and when Christopher glanced at it, it stuck its tongue out at him.

He wanted to swear: even the monkey seemed to know more than he. “And Vanessa?” he said. “What about her? Or do you make a habit of reassembling peasant girls?”

Natil did not speak for some time. Then: “Vanessa is a kinswoman. Her grandmother Roxanne took an Elf for a lover, and by him she conceived Vanessa's father, Lake.” She bent her head. “Who is now dead,” she said softly.

“So Vanessa's part Elf.” Christopher was torn between frustrated rage and disappointed tears.

“She is,” said Natil. “There are many in the world who are so. In times past, Elves were loved without fear or shame, and therefore we loved in return. Only since the rise of the Church have our two peoples been sundered. Many of your race now bear within them a trace of the elven blood. It slumbers. In some it sleeps only fitfully, in others it awakens.”

But Christopher was not thinking of faceless multitudes: he was thinking of Vanessa. Elven she was, perhaps, but he had seen the fragile humanity in her. Warm, womanly, yet tortured with an affliction over which she had no control, she had leaned on his arm, looked to him for guidance, departed from him—he flattered himself—only with reluctance.

He turned to the Elf, tears stinging his eyes. “What the hell are you doing to us?”

Natil shifted the harp on her shoulder. She looked sad. “We try, my lord. We try to heal and to help. But we are fading as a people, and we do not see the patterns as we used. Perhaps for those very reasons we have become even more frantic in our efforts, for we know that we do not have much time or ability left to us.” She rode in silence for a time. Then: “We are old, my lord. Very old. But years do not always bring wisdom, and in any case, it appears that wisdom is not always useful.”

There was grief in her voice. Fading. And limited and fallible in that fading. But Christopher was angry. “You're just like us, then, aren't you?” he snapped, and he spurred his horse towards Saint Brigid.

He was tired and dusty, but he rode on, following the westering sun towards the southern borders of the Free Towns; and by late afternoon, Saint Brigid appeared out of the long shadows cast by the Aleser. Despite its walls, its palisade, and its ditch, the village seemed quaint and unassuming in its rustic simplicity; and Christopher wondered whether it had folded Vanessa, feral eyes and all, into its little bustle of life and living, whether she had found a secure place among its patterns.

They rode directly to the gate, and the stout man on duty stared at Natil, but not, Christopher noticed, out of shock or fear. “Fair One?”

“I am Natil,” said the Elf. “This is Baron Christopher of Aurverelle.”

The man goggled at Christopher. “But . . .”

“You're all in danger, my man,” said Christopher. “There's a massing of free companies at Shrinerock, and I can guarantee that they're going to be spreading out to strike at the Free Towns before summer's over. You'd better get your council together and start pike practice for the lad.”

But a cry went up from the street beyond the gate—“Christopher! Christopher!”—and the baron looked up to see a young woman running towards him, leaping and shouting. Her hair was blond and curling and unconstrained by braid or fastening, and she was dressed in homespun; but she had tucked up her skirts to free her legs, and when she saw that he had noticed her, she redoubled her speed.

He stared. It was Vanessa.

He swung down from his horse, and leaving Natil to make explanations, ran to meet her, drew her to him, wrapped her in his arms. “Dear Lady, Vanessa, you're safe.”

But when she looked up at him, smiling, it was not with strange eyes that held a mixture of forbidden knowledge and fear. Her face was clear, her eyes brown and calm, and within her he felt a wellspring of humanity and peace that nearly dropped him to his knees.

“Vanessa?”

Her smiles was genuine, open. As though to reassure him, she put an arm about his neck and kissed him. “It's me, Christopher. It's really me. See . . .” She held up her hand. “I've kept your ring. It's ne'er awa' fro' me.”

“But . . .” He stared at her. She was just a girl. Human. Wonderfully human. “But . . . what happened?”

“I cam to Saint Brigid because I thought I'd ha' a better chance here tha' i' Saint Blaise,” she said. “I wa' right. My grandma wa' dead, but a friend o' hers took me in. An' she helped me, an' the Elves helped me, too . . . and . . . and . . .” She