Maze of Moonlight

mad, that is all.” He took up a lit torch, took the beggar by the hand and drew him into the courtyard. “Come on, man,” he said. “We'll have you dry and fed in a moment. It is lucky for you that Russians have an affection for madmen.” But the beggar had abruptly ceased his capering and was walking quietly at his side, head first down, then up, regarding muddy cobbles and tall towers with equal wonderment.
But Pytor found that there was something about the beggar's gait, something almost familiar, that struck him with a sense of unease. And it seemed suddenly not at all remarkable to hear this second set of footsteps—quick and light, even through the rain—blending with his own.
Grandpa Roger? What?
The guards on duty threw open the door of the keep, and torchlight spilled into the night. The beggar blinked. “Fiat lux!”
“Now, now . . .” Pytor took him into the vestibule. “Let's get you something warm, for the love of God.” He lifted his head. “Raffalda! Where are you? Someone call Raffalda!”
The beggar was bobbing his head. The gaunt irony had left his eyes, and he regarded the room sadly, a little dazed. “Will I . . . will I sleep in my own bed tonight?” he said in a small voice.
“You'll have a straw mattress in the hall just like—” Pytor broke off as though something had caught in his throat, for the beggar's daft tone had moderated, gentled, turned into something else. Something disturbing.
Raffalda's footsteps were approaching, but Pytor held his torch close to the beggar. No, he realized, this was no old man. This was a young man worn by years and deprivation, damaged by pain and travel. Moreover, this was a young man—
Grandpa Roger? His own bed?
Pytor suddenly felt hot, dizzy. He found himself trying to peer beneath the man's sunbleached hair and beard, almost afraid to believe, almost afraid to see. Was it possible? Beyond all hope?
The beggar blinked in the light and studied Pytor's face as earnestly as Pytor studied his. Beneath the dirt and the sunburn, the lines of madness and fatigue, a light suddenly kindled, and he laughed sheepishly and a little hysterically. “Hey-diddle-dee!” he said. “Not one word of greeting for your old cock-a-whoop, Pytor?”
Pytor stared, transfixed. Then, just as Raffalda entered the room, grumbling about bad nights and worse beggars, he thrust a torch into her startled hands and fell to his knees, embracing the beggar about the waist, pressing his cheek against the filthy and vermin-ridden garments, weeping out loud and without shame.
Christopher of Aurverelle had come home.

Chapter Two
October. All Hallow's Eve. Outside, snow falling, muffling sounds, muting the scraping of branches across the thatch. Inside, Lake sitting up by a low fire.
By habit and will—not by need—he usually went to bed early, but tonight was different. Tonight, he stayed awake, and if he dozed at all before the flickering coals, it was only for appearance's sake, an attempt to convince himself, despite birth and heritage, that Lake of Furze Hamlet, like any doughty farmer anywhere, could, at the end of the day, feel a weariness that only sleep and oblivion could cure. Humans dozed before winter fires. Humans fell into and fought their way out of dreams that were variously pleasant or disturbed. And so Lake forced himself to do the same.
But though, through self-discipline and work, he had gotten the knack of such things, he did not sleep now, for he was listening for the knock that would come to the door. He would have a visitor tonight. He knew it. He did not doubt it. He hated his knowledge, and his lack of doubt.
Up in the wide loft, Miriam, his wife, breathed softly in unfeigned repose, and Vanessa's fourteen-year-old restlessness rustled the straw and feathers of her bed.
Vanessa. Did she sleep? She seemed to. But that, perhaps, was her only normal quality. Lake rose, crept to the stairs that led to the loft, peered up anxiously. It was important that Vanessa be asleep tonight. It was important that she remain asleep. She saw enough already: it would not do at all for her to hear also.
The fire crackled abruptly and sparked once, twice, and the mules and oxen grumbled sleepily in the adjoining stable as they hunkered down amid dry and plentiful litter. Vanessa groaned softly as though in reply. Lake bowed his head, wondering what she saw in her dreams, frightened because he suspected that he knew.
An hour dragged by. Two. Distantly, he heard the bells of the Benedictine abbey, and he began to wonder whether he had been wrong, to hope that the subtle but unmistakable feeling that had prompted him to remain awake by the fire was false, the product of worry about himself, his past . . . and his youngest daughter.
A tapping on the door: measured, light.
Lake stared at the fire. In the corner of his mind, he detected a barely perceptible glimmering. It was inviting, gracious. He thrust it away.
Once more the tapping; this time softly, reluctantly, as though it would not be repeated again. With yet another anxious glance at the loft, Lake rose and crossed the room, lifted the bar softly, and swung the door open.
The night was cold and black, but even if the glow from the fire had not illuminated faintly the gray-cloaked figure standing in the snow outside, Lake would nonetheless have seen enough to confirm his feelings and his vigil, for there was a light about his visitor that seemed to shine from within. It played softly on his womanly face, and it echoed the gleam of starlight in his eyes.
“Varden.” Lake spoke reluctantly. “I . . . expected you.”
“Be at . . .” Varden hesitated, then nodded slowly. “Be at peace. May I enter?”
In answer, Lake turned away from the door and went to stand before the fire with folded arms. Behind him, Varden entered and shut the door, but though Lake heard the rustle of a cloak