Page 35 of The Crown of Moonlight
It isn’t Flora.Dangling where the Grey holds her, Flora makes a raw sound—half snarl, half sob—and goes rigid in the Grey’s grasp, her eyes fixed on the small, still bodies.
The Grey closes his eyes in ecstasy, feeding on her sorrow, her rage, her terror.
The wrongness of his magic hits me like a physical assault.It’s dizzying, nauseating, making it even harder to force myself upright through the wave of weakness.My foot catches in the stupid skirt.
Then three things happen at once.Flora’s mother breaks from the stairwell and rushes out into the courtyard.Flora screams, “No!”And the Grey twists his hand, releasing his air magic in a tight coil of power.
Flora’s mother crumples to the ground, her neck snapped to an impossible angle.The courtyard falls still, no sound, no motion.Then Flora’s scream knifes through the terrible silence.The sound carves into my soul.
Fury pulls magic from me.
Drawing from the Veilstones with the last of my strength, I twist air into a cord of wind, wrap it around the hilt of the Grey’s sword, and wrench the weapon from its scabbard.
I pull the sword into my hand.Then I lunge forward and plunge it through the Grey’s back into his heart.
Flora stumbles as he falls.
The female Grey is off her horse and running.She flings a mist of black and red emotion at me—the remembered anguish of victims she has tortured.All their terror, pain, and loss of hope.I’ve seen this attack on the battlefield, seen how the red mist sinks into men and claws through their skin until they go mad.
But I’ve learned from that.
I send a burst of fire at the mist and sear it to harmless ash.
My body is nearly empty—weakness pulls at my limbs until every step feels like I’m wading a river of mud.Desperate, I drag every last scrap of magic from the cooling Veilstones and use the stream of wind I crafted to slam the iron portcullis closed.Then I coil the stream around the female Grey and the six soldiers with her and fling them all back against it.
They slide down the portcullis and fall in heaps to the stones beneath.The men stay down, barely moving, but the Grey crawls to her hands and knees.
Every fibre in my body burns—the price of emptying myself of magic.The bandage feels wet against my chest, and I suspect I’m bleeding again.None of that matters.My knees buckle, but I force myself upright.Push myself into a run.
The sword I took from the Grey feels almost too heavy to lift, but I swing it to sever the head of the female Grey while she’s still disoriented and slow.
I can’t tell how many of the human soldiers are still alive, but Faolan—the old armsmaster—is already beside me, his sword poised to finish them off.
Flora kneels on the damp cobblestones, tears flowing down her cheeks.She cradles her mother’s body, shock and grief etched on her face and in her stillness.When she lifts her head and finds me, there is only pain where there should be accusation.She should blame me.
Her silence breaks me open.
I want to go to her, but I’m the last thing she’ll want now.I’m the one who failed her.And there are still soldiers here, those who arrived with the first Grey.
It’s almost a relief to spot them scattered around the courtyard, hanging back.The one by the chapel backs away when he sees me and darts back inside the building.The three others can’t seem to decide whether to advance or retreat.
Fighting humans is hardly a fight at all.I may be weak and empty of magic, but I’ve had centuries to learn my craft.I am very good at killing.
Chapter 16
Choose a Side
Flora
T
he first dead soldier rolls into the Hall hearth with a sickening thud.The smell of blood, urine, and loosened bowels mixes with the char of smoke that’s still rising from the outbuildings in the glen.
I refuse to break down, but tears leak anyway, and my throat aches with the effort of holding back my screams.
My mother is dead.The thought is a hole in my heart, and I brace my palm flat to the hearthstone to keep from sinking to my knees.
I can’t help thinking she wouldn’t have died if I’d forced her to go with the women and children up to the shieling huts.That seemed too cruel and dangerous at the time—she would never have agreed to go.We’d have had to tie her to a horse, and she’d have needed to be kept in restraints or she would have tried to walk back on her own, regardless of the danger.But at least she would have been alive.
