Page 33 of The Crown of Moonlight
I pull magic through the Veilstones as quickly as I can and spool it inside myself to build a reserve.It won’t be enough for a direct confrontation, especially since I have no way of knowing what abilities the Greys retained from their lives as Siorai.But power is never about strength alone.It’s about knowing how and when to wield it.
The second Grey arrives at the open gate in the outer curtain wall, his six soldiers close behind.Instead of crossing the bridge into the keep, he has the men fan out to search the buildings along the outside perimeter.The stables seem to draw his particular interest.He approaches them himself, dismounts, and strides inside.
Long minutes tick by before he comes back out.He crosses to a small field where a half-dozen mares are grazing, their bellies too swollen in pregnancy for the hard trek to Ben Aran.These, along with several older mares and a few of the less valuable horses, as Flora explained last night, are decoys meant to make it less obvious that most of the stock is gone.
The Grey doesn’t look convinced.His gestures are abrupt.He’s angry.
The mares lift their heads at his approach, then pin their ears and race towards the opposite end of the field.
Magic-sense isn’t one of my stronger skills, but even from here, I can feel the Grey’s corrupted magic rasping like thorns against my skin.
I wonder who he was before the Gloaming and Vheara’s corrupted magic twisted him into this abomination.Was he convicted and punished before my time?Or did I banish him to the Gloaming myself?
The Riders and I may hunt criminals and oathbreakers as a unit, but it’s the Sword of the Anvar’thaine, my sword, that weighs and passes judgement, unlocks the doorway to the magicless twilight world between the worlds, and dooms them to eternal punishment.
Trying to find anything of the Siorai he once was in the Grey’s misshapen features is pointless.The Gloaming and Vheara have obliterated any traces, anything redeeming.
The Grey peels away from the pasture fence, turns, and shouts an order.His soldiers scurry to comply.One brings his horse.The rest wait while he mounts.Then, they run behind him as he canters across the bridge towards the keep.
Beyond the road, the first plume of black smoke drifts skyward from the mill, thickening quickly before being chased by flames.
The destruction of the outbuildings has begun.
The first of the Greys has reached the gate.He disappears from view beneath the curtain wall, and I cross the solar and stand at the window that overlooks the empty courtyard.
This is the weak point in Flora’s plan, although to be fair, I couldn’t think of a better one.The idea of avoiding a fight is one I’m still struggling to embrace.Ridersarethe fight.It’s the reason we exist.
Flora hoped that by meeting the Grey at the gate, she and her armsmaster—a grand title for the grizzled old soldier long since beyond his fighting days—could offer their explanation and convince the Grey that there’s no need to search the keep at all.
With the gate out of view, I have no way of knowing how the Grey reacts.Or whether Flora and Faolan are safe.
Whether they are still alive.
The minutes tick by, and nothing moves in the courtyard.No one emerges beyond the gate.
Behind me, Flora’s mother must finally feel my tension.She’s fallen silent.I glance back at her, and her hands are clasped in her lap.Her face is pale, the skin fragile in a way that suddenly shows her age.
How much of what is happening does she actually understand?There have been occasional flashes of shrewdness in her eyes that make me wonder if she has truly lost her mind, or if this refusal to acknowledge that her husband and sons are dead is a deliberate attempt to push reality away.
Partly out of sympathy and partly from a need to do something other than stand and wait, I point to her cup and then to the teapot on the table.She smiles and gives me an exaggerated nod, and after I pour out the tea for her, she pats the bench beside her.I march like a soldier and gesture towards the window.She purses her lips and looks away.
The Grey finally appears below me in the courtyard, followed by five of the six soldiers in the group.They fan out to the various sections of the keep: the chapel, the forge, the guard tower, the barracks, the kitchen.The Grey rides directly to the stable where the valuable horses are kept, dismounts beside the door, and disappears inside.
The rain has stopped, and the sun is out, though clouds still chase across it.I watch the area near the gate for any sign of Flora, the armsmaster, or the sixth soldier that never emerged.The Grey must have ordered him to detain Flora and Faolan until the rest of the keep has been searched.
Dread pools in my stomach, and the sound of my own thudding heartbeat is too loud.Then Flora darts into view with the missing soldier close behind.He grasps her arm.She wrenches free, and Faolan steps between them, trying to protect her.
The soldier draws his sword and holds it to Faolan’s throat.
My hand flies to the hilt of my own weapon, ready to shadow-walk to the courtyard.But my hand clenches empty air above the useless skirt.
The Pit take me for giving up my weapon, for not arming myself, or at least making sure there was a sword nearby.I haven’t been thinking straight.Flora shouldn’t be down there with only a man too old to fight beside her.
Drawing harder at the three Veilstones, I coax more magic through them.Demand more.They scald my skin as the magic increases.
Flora catches the soldier’s sword arm, every line of her body begging him to spare the old man’s life.Miraculously, the soldier lets the blade drop, an inch, then two.
I feel a heartbeat of relief.But that’s a mistake.
