Maze of Moonlight by Gael Baudino (top 20 books to read txt) 📗

The ground rose and turned stony and unfit for trees. Bits of scrub and weeds did little to soften a barren landscape. The two men puffed their way up, their boots clattering on loose shale and gravel. “They say that this is what all of Shrinerock looked like before Adrian worked his miracle,” said Paul. He laughed quietly. “I wonder, though, if Adrian had anything to do with it.”

“Elves?”

Paul nodded. “They've been here from the beginning, Christopher. I wouldn't be surprised at all to hear that they magicked up a spring and turned a little patch of Adria into a garden.”

Garden. And how about some peach trees? Christopher winced. “Do they . . . always do things like that?”

“Once.” Paul's boots sent a rattle of gravel down the slope. “It's different now, of course. They've faded, and it's harder for those who are left. Natil . . .” He shook his head, suddenly tight-lipped.

Christopher struggled after him. “What about her?”

Paul extended a hand, dragged Christopher up the last few feet. “She may have given everything, Christopher.”

Christopher stared. Everything?

“They're like that,” said Paul. The moonlight glinted in his blond hair. “That's all they seem to want to do. Give. Just as human beings always seem to want to . . .” He shrugged, shook his head. “. . . take.”

And Roger, a human being, had certainly taken. Gold, people, lives: it had all been the same to Roger of Aurverelle. Christopher, himself preoccupied with what life offered—or could be made to offer—found himself struggling with the idea of an entire race whose bent seemed so utterly opposite to anything he had known before.

Giving. Helping. Healing. Natil might well have killed herself to aid the survivors of the delMari estate after selflessly entering the service of a man whose ancestors had waged a genocidal war upon her people. Before that, Terrill and Mirya had braved Castle Aurverelle in order to bring healing to a dying peasant girl.

Christopher suspected that he knew why, but it was a grievous knowledge. “Paul . . .”

Paul had started off up another slope, but he stopped, turned.

“Did you know Vanessa, Paul?”

“I never met her. I knew her father, though.”

“What . . .”

“Charming girl, Christopher?”

Christopher blushed. “Very nice,” he said. “And very hurt.”

Paul strode up the slope. “Yes,” he said, “I heard that you took her in. And Martin, too. My deepest thanks. How is she now?”

Christopher followed him to the crest of the rise, laid a hand on his arm. “How should I know?”

Paul swung around, perplexed. “Isn't she with you? Martin said she's stayed in Aurverelle.”

“She did. But then she went down to Saint Blaise.”

Paul shook his head. “She never reached Saint Blaise.”

“But Ranulf—“ Christopher's voice caught, for, a short distance away, Natil lay stretched out on the rocky ground, unmoving. Her harp lay at her side as though it had been dropped, and someone was kneeling beside her, holding her hands.

Shocked by Paul's words, frightened for Natil's welfare, Christopher ran to help, his hand reaching for the grip of his sword. Natil did not stir, but the stranger with her rose gracefully. Like Natil, he was clad in green and gray, but his hair was as pale as frost. His gray eyes examined the baron piercingly, and then he touched his forehead and bowed.

Christopher recognized him, recognized his garb, recognized the immortal light. Terrill. An Elf. But he had guessed that already. Dizzy with confusion and worry, he knelt beside Natil, took her hand. “Dear harper . . .”

She did not appear to see him. Her eyes reflected the moon and the stars, and her gaze seemed to go through him, stretching upwards or inwards into regions that he knew he could never comprehend. But her lips finally moved. “Fear not.”

Fear not? “Natil! What the hell happened to you?”

Terrill spoke. “The spell was a difficult one, Baron Christopher. Natil took what she needed from the stars . . . and from herself.”

Giving. Giving and giving and giving. Christopher put his hands to his face. “Dear Lady . . . please . . .”

“She will recover,” said Terrill. Christopher noticed that he wore a sword, and that his hand looked ready to go to the grip in an instant. But the Elf nodded with as much reassurance as he seemed able to muster. “Be at peace. It is difficult to kill one of my people.”

Weakly, Christopher sat down on the ground. Paul hurried up, cried out at the sight of the harper.

“She will rise by morning,” said Terrill. “It would be best for you to follow your people, Paul.”

But Paul embraced Terrill, then knelt and kissed Natil's hands. “There is more valor in your fingers, sweet lady,” he whispered to her, “than in all the armies of Europe.”

Natil murmured a reassurance, but Christopher could only mumble, “But . . . where the hell is Vanessa?”

Paul looked up. “I don't know, my friend.”

Terrill spoke again. “Vanessa is in Saint Brigid. Two days' ride from here.”

Chapter Twenty-four

Berard had finally cuffed Joanna out of her incessant sobbing and into something resembling acceptance of the fact that she was chained to his bed, that she would remain chained to his bend, and that no amount of tears and hysterical weeping was going to change the fact that she was chained to his bed. He was just slipping into sleep when the pounding came to his door. “My lord!”

Heart racing, sweating from the oppressive heat, Berard was on his feet in an instant. “What's the matter?”

The voice was muffled. “The doors and windows of the castle, messire. They're . . . funny.”

Funny? Startled and sleepless, Berard wondered who had been idiot enough to disturb him against his express orders. “I'm not impressed by your sense of humor, soldier.”

Joanna was crying again, but he silenced her with a kick, then pulled on a robe and went to the door. But the latch did not yield to his hand. It did not even rattle. In fact, the iron itself appeared