Page 75 of The Crown of Moonlight
The low clouds muffle the sound behind me.I open myself up, let my senses expand around me, carried away on currents of air.Magic pulses in my veins, beating to a heartbeat that isn’t mine.I feel things beyond sight—I steer Eira around obstacles that are barely visible.I sense the rise and fall of the hills ahead, and I know we’re approaching the deep burn before I hear the water.
Eira launches off the bank and lands partway across, icy water soaking up my skirt as we splash to the other side.I pull more clouds down behind us.
The drum of hooves comes from multiple places now.I let my senses stretch again, searching for that sense of presence, of intrusion.The Riders have split in four directions now: one farther up the slope and three staggered behind me.
Eira gathers herself to jump a fallen log, and my focus snaps back into place.We clear the log and turn back towards the loch.The Riders follow.I know it’s Chyr, and goosebumps erupt across my skin.
But I’ve lost my focus, and with it, I’ve lost the clouds.They’re drifting higher into the sky.I can see the scoutlights now: Chyr on the road, moving fast; two Riders on the hill behind me, and the third descending in front of me to cut me off.
They’ve fanned out like hunters flushing game to kill.
Eira’s hooves gouge into the wet spring growth.Heather and brush rasp against her legs, the fragrance sharp and bittersweet.She stumbles and falls to her knees, and I dismount briefly to check that she’s all right.Then I push back into the saddle.Her flanks heave with every breath.But it’s not the running alone that exhausts her.I know she feels my fear.
The more the Riders chase me, the more I’m sure they’ll never let me go.Why else would they keep coming?And where fury fuelled my magic, fear chokes it and makes it weak.The realisation slams my heart against my ribs.
At my core, I’m nothing but fear.I can pretend all I want that I’m good enough, or strong enough, or brave enough.The magic feels my doubt.
Breathing deeply to calm myself, I walk Eira forward.The Riders are drawing closer.Their hoofbeats create vibrations, and the four males are bright spots of energy, a sense of otherness, as if the land is showing me they don’t belong.
The bog ahead gleams darkly in the moonlight, a wide, visible trap that smells of stagnant water.But it’s far shorter across than skirting around it.Cutting through might give me a chance—as long as my magic doesn’t run out.
Throat raw and dry, I send Eira into the bog.Her head shakes, and she bucks, trying to throw me off.I pour a stream of calming magic into her, enough that I can feel the Veilstone heating against my skin.She quiets and runs on, her ears still pinned flat against her head.
An eerie glow ripples across the water ahead.There’s less solid ground here, and the variations of green are harder to pick out at night.I rely more and more on magic, reaching down into the bog to sense what’s there and drawing power from deep within the earth.
The earth magic is gritty and raw, but comfortingly familiar.Its pulse throbs in my veins, the heartbeat of Alba Scoria.I use it to compress peat and stack it in layers on top of the highest ground, building a trail under Eira’s feet.
Eira squelches forward.The bog is greedy, sucking at her legs.Her nostrils flare, and she shakes her head.I talk quietly, calm energy following my voice as I stroke her neck.
But then I can’t find enough peat nearby to continue building the path.
Black water swirls on either side of us.Eira’s head jolts up, disoriented.She veers off the trail, and I catch her just in time.Swimming’s too big a risk—a pocket of mire could easily suck us down.
I slide off and walk to Eira’s head, then nudge her backwards until I find a route that gives me more peat to build on.Finally, we’re moving forward again.
“Chyr, stop!”A cry rings out, and I whip around.
The Riders have reached the edge of the bog, and three of the horses are skidding to a halt.
Chyr isn’t stopping.His height and width are stark against the darker background of the slope.Magic swirls around him, and his hair glows in the moonlight.The image burns itself into my mind.I know this is how I’ll remember him, dream of him.
Pain and regret and fear taste like blood on my tongue, emotions I can’t afford to feel.
Step by step, I build my path and keep Eira moving across the bog.Calming her must be using my Siorai magic, and that takes a toll.The flame inside me is guttering, dwindling to an ember.I swallow a rush of fear.
“Flora!”Chyr’s shout echoes over the water.“Wait.Stop, for the love of—”
A horse’s scream cuts across the words, a high-pitched squeal of terror.I turn and slip in the muck.My arms flail in an effort to regain my balance.
Chyr has followed me into the bog—no regard for his own safety.Or Bramble’s.My heart twists and leaps into my throat as I see her hind legs sinking.Water and clumps of peat churn around her.Her forelegs flail for solid ground that isn’t there.She’s panicking, her eyes rimmed white in fear.
Chyr throws himself from the saddle and catches the noseband of her bridle.He sinks to his hips in muck.
My heart plummets.I channel the magic around me and reach deep into the earth to lift the ground beneath them.The bog boils, and moonlight smears the moving water.
Raising the ground is harder across the distance.Yet the thought of losing them, of failing…I can’t give up.
“Steady, Bramble.”Chyr’s voice strains.“Steady—”
