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

dropped on their bellies, crawled under cover of what crops had not been entirely burnt flat by the drought or ground down by the passage of Berard's troops. Minute by slow minute, they inched their way forward as the stars wheeled and the moon threatened to rise.

A horse cantered across the fields, its rider holding a torch high. Mirya hissed a warning, and they both flattened themselves among the furrows. The Elf took a long, slow breath, tensed. Christopher sensed that she was doing . . . something. The rider passed. Mirya sighed.

“I did not foresee that,” she said.

“You're not foreseeing much these days,” said Christopher, but he felt the Elf flinch.

“Our time is over,” she said softly.

He might as well have struck her. “I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that.”

He caught a flash of her eyes. “There are many things we do that we later regret,” she said.

He knew what she was referring to. He struggled with words, but he knew none that could bear a sufficient weight of double meanings, uncertain emotions. “Mirya . . . I . . .”

“Peace. Let us go.”

They worked their way across the field, stopping frequently while Mirya examined the obscure patterns of the world, then continuing on. A waning moon was rising by the time they reached the cover of outlying bushes and the first ranks of trees, and Christopher looked back at the village, faint in the faint light. Fifty years ago, were it not for Mirya, the Free Towns, Saint Brigid among them, would have ceased to exist. There would be no tolerance today, no clasping of elven and human hands, no safe place in which a girl from Furze Hamlet could find the help necessary to free herself from her torment.

He put his hands to his face. “Oh, dear Lady . . .”

“May Her hand be upon you, Christopher.” There was a hint of benediction in Mirya's tone, but she turned and led him off into the trees.

Blindly, Christopher stumbled after her. He wanted to hate her, but he had begun to despise himself for that very reason.

***

Jerome was busy these days, for in the absence of both the master and the seneschal of Aurverelle, all the administration of the estate fell into his hands; and these matters, difficult enough in the best of times, were further complicated both by the drought and the current absence of almost every man who could wield a weapon.

He coped. That was his duty. As a man of humility and honesty, though, he freely admitted that the women of the barony were assuming the tasks of the men with astonishing spirit. Raffalda was showing a gratifying talent with large-scale accounts and organization, and the townswomen and countrywomen were picking up spades and hoes and tending to the job of providing water to the parched fields with fruitful determination.

But in the east, as though to mock their efforts, the fire that was eating its way through Malvern grew and advanced, spreading, stretching far to north and to south. The odor of burning leaves and wood was a constant presence, and driven by the strong east wind, smoke occasionally puffed across the treetops like a patchy fog. IF the fire reached the western edge of Malvern, the fields and villages of Aurverelle might well follow the trees into charred uselessness, but at times that seemed to be but a small thing when compared to the magnitude of the destruction that was overtaking league upon league of the parched forest.

Deer, panicked and disoriented, were appearing regularly in the fields close to the trees; likewise wild swine and bear. Birds fled in flocks to the safety of the Aleser. Badgers staggered out of the smoky haze that lay thick on the forest floor and lay wheezing among the dry furrows. Squirrels bounded up the road to Aurverelle as though to implore human aid. Everything that could creep, fly, or run was moving to the west, away from the fire, out of the forest.

And there were others, too. . . .

One of the village girls who was helping the understaffed castle by acting as lookout and messenger came running into Jerome's office late one afternoon, skirts and hair flying. “Lord Bailiff,” she said, eyes wide, “there are people coming out of Malvern!”

Jerome was on his feet in a moment, thoughts of brigands flashing through his old, methodical mind. Brigands. And only a few guards to defend the castle. Well, there were still old men, women, and girls left, and all of them were Aurverelle folk: the robbers would soon find out that they were not dealing with a bunch of flatlanders.

But as he was mentally sorting through what orders he should give, one of the remaining guards showed up with the news that the strangers were unarmed, that there were many women and numerous children among them. The smoke, he said, was pursuing them like hounds, and many had fallen gasping at the edge of the fields.

Brigands? No, something else. Something possibly even more urgent. “For God's sake, gather the men and women and go help them out,” Jerome snapped, and then, after blinking at the wall for a moment, wondering who on earth would have been in the forest besides hermits, he caught up his habit and ran down the corridor, down the steps, and outside, calling for a horse as he went.

His questions were answered when he reached the edge of the forest and joined the small group of field workers who were endeavoring to help the strangers. The latter, as reported, were many, and, yes, there was a sizable number of women, young mothers, and children among them, as well as a number of guards bearing the gryphon and silver star of the delMari family.

Shrinerock. What?

“My good Brother Jerome!” Martin Osmore was approaching. The lad was stripped to the waist, his skin was smeared with dirt, and his dark eyes were red with smoke. An older man leaned on his arm, and both looked infinitely