Page 5 of The Crown of Moonlight
A faint pink stains her cheeks when her eyes meet mine.“Do you have a flask?”she asks.“Where are your supplies?”
“We lost them.We’ve been on the run for days.”
Her brows furrow in what looks like disapproval, and I don’t know why that bothers me.Her opinion shouldn’t matter, but I find myself trying to explain: “We’ve been evading the queen’s hunters since we lost the battle at Culodur.With the three of us injured, we were too slow to outrun a pair of Greys who were closing in.The other Riders took all but Tuirse’s mare to draw the Greys away—”
“There are Greys close by?Here?”The woman’s skin has gone pale as if she knows exactly how dangerous that would be.
I’d like to reassure her, but I can’t.“If not those two, then others will be coming.The queen will keep searching for us.For anyone who survived the battle.She is out for retribution.”
A cough racks my body, and my knees fold out from under me.The bark of the tree grates against my arm as I slide to the ground.The woman runs towards me, but thinking about Vheara and all the destruction she will bring to her enemies makes me remember the danger I’m putting this woman in simply by being here.I can’t—I won’t—put her at more risk.
“You should leave,” I say.My tongue feels stiff, and the woman’s face swims in and out of focus.“Save yourself.Pack what you can carry and move your family south.Stay somewhere far from the Highlands until the queen’s thirst for revenge is spent.There may be little left here by the time you return, but at least you’ll be alive.”
Her lips move as she responds, but my ears ring, and I can’t hear anything.The ground lurches sideways and rushes up to meet me.Sky and forest and moss-furred earth all blur to black, and my breath escapes when I hit the ground.
The woman’s soft hand on my skin is the last thing that I feel.Her touch is warm and kind—and the Father only knows that kindness is more than I deserve.Still, I can’t help but crave it.
Chapter 3
Mercy Is a Weapon
Flora
T
he Ever crumples to the moss.His pale hair spills around him, and the sharp lines of his jaw go slack in a way that only heightens the shock of seeing all that immortal strength toppled to the ground.
I inhale deeply and try to will myself to stay calm.The scent of birch and pine resin and cool, wet earth serves to ground me.Somewhere a thrush calls and another answers.
I press my hand against the Ever’s throat, feeling for his pulse.It’s there, faint and thready.He isn’t dead.Not yet, anyway, but there’s too much blood seeping from his chest.
Why isn’t his body healing itself?Evers are meant to be able to survive almost any wound, and this injury must have happened days ago.
Though really, it would make things simpler if he died.Wouldn’t it?
He’s unconscious, and his sword lies within easy reach.The pommel glimmers in the sunlight, a solid globe of yellow crystal with a heart that glows like fire.I can feel the heat and magic rolling from it, so there’s no doubt the weapon is made of celestial steel.
He probably wouldn’t even feel it if I thrust the blade into his heart.Then I could bury all three Evers deep enough to ensure no one would ever find them.
I stare down at him, trying to work up the courage to take the sword from its scabbard.But even unconscious, there’s something about him that is equal parts magnificent and vulnerable.Something almost human in the way his brows draw together, leaving a small crease that speaks of tension, and in the way that pain etches small brackets around his lips.
Like generations of women in my family, both of my grandmothers were healers.The thought of betraying what they taught me makes my heart pound and my stomach sink.
Mercy is a two-edged weapon.I have no doubt it will come back to make me bleed.But I can’t bring myself to kill the Ever, and I won’t let him die.
His presence here is dangerous, but if I kill him while he’s defenceless, I’d be no better than the Everfolk.
Cursing myself, I drop to my knees beside him.Cold damp from the moss seeps through my skirts as I lay him on his back.
He doesn’t wake, even when I unfasten the buttons of his coat and use my dagger to slit his shirt open.A thick, blood-soaked bandage is wrapped around his chest and stomach.I slice through that, too, and my nose wrinkles at the sharp, metallic tang of something that isn’t the iron found in human blood.This is more like the air after a lightning strike.
The sodden bandage drips with blood as I peel it back to reveal a gash that starts a hairbreadth below whatever passes for the Ever’s heart.Bone gleams white between torn flesh crusted with unnatural streaks of black, then the wound grows shallower down the laddered muscles of his abdomen.By the time it vanishes under the waistband of the breeches that sit low across his hips, it’s little more than a thin pink line of healing skin.
The Ever groans beneath my touch, rolling his body towards me, his breath too hot against my wrist.
The blackening worries me more than his fever does.I’ve only seen this sort of reaction once—when my brothers shot a boar with arrows dipped in wolfsbane.It took the poor, poisoned beast days to die.
Unless I help him, the Ever won’t survive.He certainly won’t be strong enough to leave.It’s a full day’s ride to the boundaries of Domhnall land in every direction, and if he collapses again, there’s no telling who might find him.
