Dark Moon

'Did you think I would not find out?' he said.

'You have killed him,' she answered. 'What more can you do to me?'

'Much more!' he hissed. Without another word he punched her full in the face, then thrust her down below the water.

The spirit of Sirano recoiled from the sight. Her legs kicked out, thrashing water over the floor, but the fourth Duke maintained his grip until all struggles ceased.

The room spun and Sirano opened his eyes. He was lying on the floor of the empty bathroom, a small cut on his temple from where his head had struck the edge of a marble sink.

Slowly he rose.

For two years he continued to study, mastering all that he could of spell-making. On the night of his eighteenth birthday he lit the black candles in his room and placing a grass snake in a round glass jar along with a lock of his father's hair, he painstakingly worked through the Five Levels of Aveas. There was no feeling in him, no anger, no sorrow. When at last he had completed the spell, he rose from his knees and, carrying the snake in the jar, walked slowly along the corridor to his father's apartment.

There were two young serving maids in his bed. Sirano whispered two Words of Power and touched each of them on the forehead. Both rose silently, eyes flickering, and deep in a trance returned to their own beds. Drawing up a chair, Sirano gestured towards the lanterns set in brackets on the walls. They flared into life, casting flickering light on the sleeping man. His face was fat now, bloated with rich living, and a vein throbbed at his temple.

'Wake up, Father,' commanded Sirano. The Duke jerked as if slapped.

'What in Hell's name?' He glanced to his left and right. 'Where are ... ?'

'Gone. Tell me why you killed my mother.'

'Get out! Get out before I fetch my whip!'

'No more whips,' said Sirano softly. 'No more beatings or cold words. Just answer my question.'

'Are you mad?'

'As in insanity, you mean? I do believe that I am. It is not an unpleasant feeling. In fact there is some comfort in it. But let us get back to the question at hand. When you walked into that bathroom she said, "You have killed him. What more can you do to me?" You said, "Much more." Then you drowned her. Why?'

Colour drained from the Duke's face as his mouth opened, then closed. 'How . . . ?' he whispered at last.

'It doesn't matter, Father. Nothing matters except your answer. Speak.'

'I ... she ... I loved her,' he said. 'Truly. But ... it wasn't enough for her. She took a man to her bed. One of my Guards. They were planning, I think, to have me killed. Yes, to kill me. I found out.' Anguish twisted his face. 'Why do you want to hear this?'

'The man you killed. Was he tall and dark, with blue eyes?'

'Yes. Yes, he was.'

'I see,' said Sirano. 'I have often wondered why your mistresses never swell with child. Now I know.

Your seed is not strong. And you are not my father.'

'No, I am not!' shouted the older man. 'But you will be the Duke when I am dead. I raised you as my own. You owe me for that!'

Sirano smiled. 'I think not. That was just ego on your part. You robbed me of the love of a mother and a father. You have made my life miserable. But I am eighteen now, and a man. I am ready for a man's duties. Goodbye, Father. May your soul burn!'

Rising, Sirano spoke a single word. The snake in the

glass shimmered, then was gone. The old Duke made to speak, but something swelled in his windpipe. He scrabbled at his throat and his body writhed; his hand lashed out, striking the wall with a dull thump. His legs thrashed below the sheets, a low gurgling choke came from him. Sirano watched him die, then reached down and opened the old man's mouth.

The head of the snake was just visible. Wrenching open the Duke's jaws, Sirano pressed his fingers down into the throat, drawing out the serpent. It flapped and writhed around his wrist. Moving to the window, he flung the creature out into the garden.

After the official seven days of mourning, Sirano took the Blessing and donned the mantle of the Duke of Romark. The ceremony over, he took his advisors to the ramparts of the high west wall and pointed at the mountains of the Eldarin.

'There is great danger there, my friends,' he said. They are sorcerers and shape-shifters. What are they planning, do you think?'

Eight years later the twenty-six-year-old Sirano sat listening as his captains made their reports. The forces of the Duke of Corduin had been repulsed, with heavy losses on both sides, on the western border. The renegade corsair, Belliese, had savaged a Romarkian supply fleet in the southern seas, and captured two war galleons. Elsewhere there was only one victory that could be described as anything but pyrrhic. Karis and her lancers had smashed a mercenary force heading to relieve a small fortress town eighty miles north of Loretheli. Two hundred and forty enemy soldiers were killed for the loss of fifteen dead and thirty-one wounded. The town had surrendered to Karis a day later, its treasury of 12,000 gold coins now swelling the Romark coffers. As the officers discussed tactics, Romark found his mind wandering, his gaze focusing on Karis. Tall and slim, her long dark hair held in place by a silver circlet, she radiated a martial beauty that Sirano found intoxicating. She was not classically beautiful, for her nose was long, and her face somewhat angular. Yet there was something about this warrior woman that stirred his blood as no other could.

Dismissing the captains, Sirano gestured for Karis to remain. Rising from the table, he moved to a beautifully crafted cabinet at the window wall of the large study, removing a cut-glass decanter. Half filling two crystal globe glasses he passed one to Karis.

'My congratulations, Karis. Your raid was an exemplary lesson in tactics.'

Karis gave a short bow, her large dark eyes holding to his own. 'This is what you wished to discuss?' she asked him.

'I have nothing to discuss,' he said, 'but I enjoy your company. Sit for a while.' Karis stretched out on a couch, leaving no room for the Duke to join her. But she lay back with one foot on the floor, the other leg straight, and Sirano did not try to stop his gaze from dwelling on her open legs and the cut of her blue silk leggings. Resisting the urge to run his hand along her thigh, he drew up a chair close to her and sat, sipping his brandy. Karis smiled at him, her expression cat-like.

'I hear you have a new mistress,' said Karis. 'Is she sweet?'

'Indeed she is,' he told her. 'She even tells me she loves me.'

'And does she?'

'Who can say? I am rich, and I am powerful. Many women would find that attractive in itself.'

'So modest, Saro,' she chided him. 'You are also handsome and witty. I don't doubt that you provide your partners with great physical joy.'

'How kind,' he said. 'Are you still cavorting with that mercenary lieutenant . . . Giriak?'

She nodded, then sat up and drained her brandy. 'He is young and strong.'

'And has he fallen in love with you?'

She shrugged. 'He uses the words wonderfully, with exquisite timing. I think that might be the same thing, don't you?'

'It certainly is for me,' he conceded. 'But then I am not entirely sure I know what love is. Neither do you, dear heart. . . unless of course we are talking of your first love, battle.'

Her eyes narrowed. 'You misread me, Sirano.'

He chuckled with genuine humour. 'I do not believe that I do. There are many in all the Duchies who wish for this war to be ended, but you are not among them. War is life to you. The day peace comes -