Page 7 of The Crown of Moonlight
I can smell her on me: bog myrtle and rosemary, with an undertone of earth.The scent clings to my skin and to a clean bandage that gleams white against the filthy tatters of my bloody shirt and unbuttoned coat.
Earlier, when she was holding the sword illusion, she looked at me as though she hoped the blade was real so she could gut me with it.Yet when she had an opportunity, she tended to my wound instead.I warned her to leave, and she helped me anyway.
There’s no sign of her now, and the woods are hushed, save for the scrape of leaves in the wind.A murder of crows argues somewhere in their raucous voices.And now that the woman is gone, perversely, I wish she hadn’t left.I’d have liked a chance to thank her.
My stomach heaves, and I twist to the side as a wash of bile escapes me.I spit and wipe my mouth, but the taste of iron and acid remains.Sweat glazes my skin.
I set my hand on the ground to steady myself, and it’s only then that I feel the absence of the familiar thrum of power at my side.After four centuries as a Rider, the Sword of the Anvar’thaine is an extension of myself.I know its resonance and the feel of the magic it gives off even when it’s dormant.
Spongy lichen sticks to my palm as I force myself to my knees.I’m shaking harder now, teeth clicking like deathwatch beetles.My heart gallops unevenly as I search the moss and ground around me.Every movement sends fresh fire through the wound, but that’s the least of my troubles.
Despite the fever that grips me, the cold emptiness inside tells me I’m dangerously out of magic.My body won’t stop trying to heal the wound, so I’ll deplete myself back into unconsciousness if I don’t get ahead of it.
I reach for the Veilstone to draw more magic, but nothing comes: no threads of Tirnaeve’s golden power, no strength, no warmth to counter this freezing void.Shocked, I look down at my hand and see only a pale line on an empty finger.
The flame-haired witch must have taken the Veilstone, too.The sword’s absence might have been innocent enough—she could have set that aside somewhere as she dressed my wound.But there’s no reason for her to have taken the ring.None apart from greed.
A low rasp of panic clogs my throat.Shivering, I fumble with the fabric of my coat as I reach into the left pocket.
It’s empty.
Father of Curses, the woman has taken everything from me—my sword, my magic, my purpose.If that letter falls into Vheara’s hands, I’ll fail the king and break the oaths carved into my skin and soul.
My hands curl into fists at the thought of all the lives Vheara has shattered already.That will be nothing compared to the carnage if she’s allowed to keep the throne of Alba Scoria.A wash of red blurs my vision.
I will bloody kill the flame-haired witch.
Then I’ll get back everything she took from me.
Using the birch as leverage, I force myself to my feet.Darkness rushes in from every side, and I pitch back to the ground.
Chapter 5
Threads in the Mist
Flora
I
can’t move the Ever until he’s lucid enough to walk.He’s drifted in and out of consciousness for more than two hours while I cleaned and packed the wound with moss and fir pitch, treated his fever, and wrapped him in fresh bandages that I retrieved from our former steward’s house.Now all I can do is tend to the mare while I wait.
I manage to coax her across the ridge and down the other side to the stream that runs behind the Sacred Wood.Leaving her and Ari tied to a solitary willow tree growing along the bank, I go in search of something she can eat to regain a bit of strength.
Forage has been slow to return after the lean Highland winter, but spring grass, horsetail, and nettles all grow nearby.I collect two armloads and bring them back.
Ari has missed his breakfast, so he shows no restraint.The mare only sniffs at the offering, and I’ve yet to see her drink.Mud squelches beneath my boots as I step closer and scoop my cupped hands into the stream to try to tempt her.Her lips twitch against my palms.Her breath is warm, but the water is icy cold.She takes a small drink from my hands, then lowers her head to the stream and finally takes a gulp.
I rub my cold palms, then slip them into my pockets.My knuckles brush the three rings I’ve taken from the Evers.The jolt of magic feels stronger as I touch them, and I wonder if that’s because the stones are all together.Pulling them from my pocket, I can feel the heat they give off and hear a faint hum that comes from them.The gold threads dance and swirl amid the mist-blue crystals, reminding me of the Ever’s eyes, the way the colours shift through the layers.
The noose that’s been tightening around my neck since this war began feels as if it’s getting even tighter.Too many things are making me aware of my inadequacies: the deaths of my father and brothers, the Clan Council, and now the Ever.Things I haven’t wanted to face.Even the empty steward’s house is proof of that.
I never meant to avoid the place these past few months.Even so, when I went to get supplies to tend the Ever this morning, it was the first time I had crossed the threshold since Padraig and his sons marched off to battle with my father.The dust-covered stillness inside was thick with the ghosts of the hours I’ve spent there.It was Padraig who taught me to manage the farm accounts, helped me identify the best markets for our horses, and kept the old stories alive for me after the last of our oldest generation died.
Beside me, the mare lifts her head from the stream with her muzzle dripping.Both she and Ari prick their ears and turn to look down the long gully that leads past Padraig’s house.Then I hear it, too—the sound of wagon wheels and horses’ hooves moving along the military road that cuts between Padraig’s and the keep.
The mare whickers softly.I place a hand low over her muzzle, pushing out some calming magic to keep her from calling out any louder.Another soft neigh vibrates beneath my fingers.
Soothing the mare requires only a small amount of magic, but after conjuring the sword earlier, I’m surprised I have any left.Warm streams of it spill out from the three rings in my hand, though, and the gold threads in the crystals dance faster as my body soaks in the power.
