Maze of Moonlight

farmland, inspecting the henhouse and the cowshed as diligently as some nobles examined the mews.
By day, he labored alongside his people. At night, he took walks through the town, slipping through the streets at Pytor's side as though the Russian had acquired a slender shadow. But Christopher did not see himself as a shadow: he was, rather, a ghost, a spirit who, like the shades that had once besieged Odysseus, hungered for a taste of mortal blood that would add a sense of substantiality to his spectral existence; and he listened, smelled, and watched hungrily as the estate moved through the spring.
But he was still isolated, disconnected. Yes, he worked in the fields alongside the Hobs and Jakes and Tims of the estate, but they did not need him. If Christopher delAurvre did not exist, Hob, Jake, and Tim would continue their lives without any severe deprivation. Christopher knew that, and he knew also that, as a noble, his business was merely to consume the produce rendered him by Hob, Jake, and Tim. To be sure, he was also supposed to defend them, but he had seen enough French excess and idiocy on the battlefield to recognize the equivocation for what it was. Christopher, baron of Aurverelle, was a useless appendage, and the only difference between himself and the knights who had wasted their lives and the lives of others at Nicopolis was that he happened to know it.
And so the ghost stared at the pit of blood but could not drink, for it had so lost the memory of substance that it could not remember how.
***
Greetings to the baron of Furze, Paul delMari, from Bonnerel d'Aldar, priest of Furze Hamlet: may the Lord God bless His Lordship and keep him and all his household safe.
It is, my lord, with some misgiving that I write to you in order to acquaint you with what I consider to be a grave danger that has afflicted your prosperous and happy estate. As this matter falls more under canon law than under secular, I would, under normal circumstances, refer it directly to Bishop Wenzel of Furze, but in these days of affliction, the usual courses of action have become unclear and worrisome, and therefore I turn to you for advice and judgment.
As I am priest of Furze Hamlet, it is my usually pleasurable duty to have the acquaintance of the thirty or forty souls in my care. Sometimes this duty, though, turns grievous, and indeed it has done so in the matter of Vanessa, daughter of the farmer, Lake.
Vanessa did not grow up as do most children—that is, as the holy apostle said, thinking like a child, speaking like a child, and having the cares of a child—and though I tried for a long time to deny it, I have come to believe that Satan and his minions possess the girl. . . .
***
Paul delMari tossed the letter aside. He could guess what the rest of it said. As he had suspected, there was more to Lake's request than the farmer had been willing to state. Fortunately for Vanessa, she had left the estate two days ago in the company of Martin Osmore. Fortunately for Lake, Paul delMari was baron of Furze.
Paul left the library, climbed the stairs, passed down the hallway. A burst of laughter from the solar told him that Catherine and Isabelle were gossiping. Isabelle doubtless showing off her embroidery while Catherine exhibited whatever new knife or sword she had acquired. Farther down the hall, though . . .
He stopped before a door, swung it open. The room beyond was empty save for a bed, a table and a stool, a wardrobe, and a small writing desk with a scuffed and worn footrest. Martin's room.
And Vanessa had gone off with Martin. Yes, everything did indeed fit together, just like the Elves had always said. Like music. Like a dance. And Vanessa was doubtless playing some part in the melody and footwork that went on all the time, that included all things; and Martin . . .
What part did Martin have? Was he merely a means of conveying Vanessa from one part of Adria to another—a subordinate harmony—or did he serve some other purpose?
“Ah, my son,” said Paul to the absent fosterling. “I would have knighted you, had you asked. But you didn't want that, did you? You were a peasant, you said, and you knew your place. For whatever reason, you had to hide . . . just like me.”
He sighed, closed the door. He would have to think of something to say to Bonnerel, and he would have to be jolly when he said it. Good man, Bonnerel.
***
Etienne of Languedoc was a small, thin man who seemed to possess, despite his fine horse, his jewelry, his sword, his attendants, and the insignia of the Avignon papacy, the demeanor of a tenacious little spider; but Pytor bowed deeply to him anyway. Etienne's ways were doubtless what had allowed him to survive for so long the intricacies of Avignon politics, and in any case the monsignor's party had been waiting outside the gates of Castle Aurverelle for the better part of an hour. The churchman, accustomed as he was to proper receptions and entertainments, was angry.
But he was still outside the gates, and Pytor was about to make him even angrier.
“Master suggests,” said the seneschal, “that you stay at the inn.”
The small crowd of townsfolk who had gathered to stare at the Avignonese when they had first ridden up the street had stayed on to watch, and now the men were beginning to wink and nudge one another, the women to giggle. Stay at the inn! And to the face of a papal legate! Now that was the delAurvre style.
Etienne looked puzzled. Christopher's reply was obviously so outlandish that he was at first baffled by it. “At the . . . inn?”
A fine place for a Russian slave! thought Pytor. A May heat wave, the wind kicking up dust devils everywhere,