Moonrise

'… And?'

'A decisive blow may be struck in retreat.'

'And…?'

'Pain is too important to be suffered or inflicted without good cause.'

Then, the king had gathered Bajazet into his arms as if he were still a child, and hugged him hard before letting him go. Strong arms, and the scent of leather and chewing tobacco. 'Your First-father,' the king had said, '- the Lord Toghrul, would have been proud of you.'

And on the first day of Lord Winter's festival, the king had given Bajazet a sword – a rapier made by Guild- master Rollins himself, its blade (of imperial wootz steel) folded and hammered again until even Rollins had lost count of the doing, so the slender double-edge, slightly sharper than a barber's best razor, and needle pointed, could with great effort be bent into a curve – to then spring humming, perfectly straight. The sword's grip was wound with twisted silver wire, its coiled guard forged of simple steel. A fighting instrument, its only decoration a cursive along the base of the blade – with good cause.

This weapon, its belted black-leather scabbard matched with that for a long left-hand dagger as finely made, was the only thing of value Bajazet had with him under the frozen log. – And if he hadn't already been up and dressed for before-dawn's hunt breakfast when men in Cooper livery came kicking through the lodge doors, he would have had to flee naked out the upstairs window and down the wooden fire-ladder – Old Noel Purse shouting, Run… RUN! amid the noise of steel on steel, breakfast tables toppling, the screams of dying men.

Naked, Bajazet would himself have died in the icy day he'd been hunted through East-bank woods. But, up early for pig sausage and fried chicken-eggs when treachery came calling, he'd snatched up his sword-belt, then run in imperial cotton under-things, buckskin jerkin and trousers, wool stockings, fine half-boots, and a pocket knife with a folding blade. A long wool cloak as well – plucking that from a wall peg the only thoughtful act of a frantic scurry down the corridor from his chamber to the window and its fire-ladder, while a few brave men bled for him below. His only thoughtful act…

If he'd always been alone in the world – unknown, unknowing First-father or Second-father – he would not be weeping now, for shame. Shame at imagining what Toghrul Khan, what Sam Monroe would have thought of him scrambling along the hall, breathless as a girl, then half-falling down the ladder to run into the woods – the formidable duelist, the dangerous boy, proved only a Lord of Cowards, and a fool.

Old Noel Purse had said, 'Better not,' at the notion of going to the hunting camp. Had said, 'Better not,' but hadn't explained. Bajazet had assumed it was thought unseemly, with the king and

Queen Rachel lost for only months… But his brother – crowned

Newton-the-Second only weeks before – had said, 'Nonsense; I know you loved them,' and turned back to a desk half-buried in paper-work.

'Can't I be of some help…?' had been Bajazet's only and casual offer.

Newton had turned again to smile at him. 'And I'll need your help, Baj. I'd be a fool to waste the son of Toghrul Khan… But for now, one of us at least should be without care. So go hunting, for the both of us.'

It was… unbearable to remember. As the royal family's affectionate adoption of a baby boy – sent by the Kipchak chancellor to save him from Manu Ek-Tam, the would-be khan – as that was unbearable to remember. All memories that could be ended by simply standing up out of mud and ice from under a rotting log, and shouting until green-armored cavalrymen heard him and came riding. Then, out sword, and an end to it.

Only anger prevented him. Anger at himself – even more than at Gareth Cooper – for carelessness in not considering what opportunity must have been seen after the king's death, with Newton only nineteen, and kinder than most at Island. A kind and thoughtful prince. Too kind… too thoughtful. The king had held the river lords down, the Sayres, DeVanes… and Coopers. Had held New England to caution as well. Boston and its Made-creatures stepping lightly in country of the King's Rule.

Newton should have caught up those reins at his crowning, set the bit hard at once – with his adopted brother to help him. But Newton had been young, thoughtful, and kind. And his brother had gone hunting.

And now, was hunted… and deserved to be. It didn't occur to Bajazet to even wonder if Newton were still alive. Cooper and his friends – known also as friends of Boston – would have made no such blunder. As they must also have considered Newton's brother, and found him worthy of at least casual killing.

… He lay beneath his icy log into the evening, and made no noise, though his nose ran from weeping, his empty stomach muttered as glass-hours went by. Lying huddled there, Bajazet found that the rapier thrust, broken wrist, and bruised balls of almost two years before, had been no pain at all compared to the loss of loved ones.

Daylight faded slowly to nearly dark, so he lay safer though aching with cold, heard no hunting horns, and dreamed an uneasy dream of being warm and fed. A celebration, a shifting remembrance of Tom MacAffee's welcome dinner, Boston's Ambassador sent to Island after years of none, and bad feelings… The food at Bajazet's place, set on hammered silver, was lamb-chops, roasted carrots, and potatoes. He saw this clearly, and seemed to eat, but – distracted by MacAffee's laughter – somehow never quite chewed and swallowed, though he tried to keep his mind to it. In his dream, he did consider how clever Boston had been to send a fat and cheery man to represent so frozen and grim a state, its nastiness born in palaces of ice.

Bajazet dreamed, but was filled by no dream food, warmed not at all by the six great iron Franklins rumbling down the dining hall. He did watch the king and Queen Rachel, and stole glances at Newton, sitting beside him, with great attention, as if to be certain of remembering them, though his dream offered no reason for it.

… From the colors and confusion of that lamp-lit banquet, Bajazet woke – trembling with cold, sick with hunger – to the odor of leaf-mold, wet wood, and soaked snow. The evening wind, come with fading light, hissed in the trees. That wind mentioned death as it passed over, so – with lying still and dying the alternative – he rolled stiffly out onto frozen mud, sheathed rapier tangling his legs, and tugged folds of his cloak free of skim-ice. He managed up onto all fours, crawled a little way cramped and sore as if badly beaten… then, grunting like an old man with the effort, staggered to his feet to stand hunched, shivering in darkness.

'What…?' Bajazet asked aloud, as if his First and Second fathers both lived, and stood under the trees, listening. They listened, perhaps, but didn't answer him.

What should be done? What could be done, but run or die – and more likely run then die?

His First-father would likely have said, 'Surprise is the mother of victories.' But what surprise was possible, now? The hunters would hunt again in morning light – and be surprised only by how long it had taken to catch and kill him.

'Lessons learned?' His Second-father had asked in the Glass Garden.

Among the answers: a decisive blow may be struck in retreat.

Feeling faint, Bajazet leaned against a birch for strength, and felt that unless he attempted something, sorrow and shame would kill him, sure as the cavalrymen. He would fail, and wish to fail, and the horsemen or the cold would catch him. – Why not, instead of certain losing, at least attend his fathers' lessons?

'Something,' he said to the tree. 'Something surprising… and attempted by a man in retreat.' He'd called himself a man, to the birch, and supposed now he would have to be one while he lasted, and no longer only a young prince, the king's ward, and in so many ways still a boy.

He stroked the tree's sheeted bark as if the birch were a friend, and cared for him. 'Good-bye,' he said to it, imagined a poem about the dignity of its stillness, so superior to mens' foolish motions… then found the dog star through the birch's branches, and began to walk west, back toward the river, the way he'd come. It seemed a strange and foolish thing to do, to pay a debt of honor owed only to the dead, and himself.

* * *

He was walking, hurrying, hooded cloak wrapped tight against the wind, before he was clear in his purpose. Still, it seemed certain the way he'd come was the way to go… go quickly as he could, back through frozen tangle as darkness began to grow deeper.

Gareth Cooper – no doubt swiftly crowned King Gareth now – was a tall, slender man, as his father had been, stooped, prone to illness and not strong, though Coopers had always been strong