Page 1 of The Crown of Moonlight
Chapter 1
Stranger in the Wood
Flora
W
ar is never glorious.That’s a lesson we women learn at our mothers’ knees.Apart from those closest to the royals, no human in Alba Scoria will benefit from this battle for a throne the Sun King stole from us and gods that were never ours.
I was as happy as anyone when another of the Everfolk came through the Veil from Tirnaeve and ended four centuries of the Sun King’s tyranny.But the Raven Queen has proven herself more cruel than any of us imagined, and I’ve no doubt the so-called king challenging her for the throne would be no better than his murderous father.
Battle by battle, the destruction marches towards our doorstep, and I’m preparing in every way I can: storing food for a siege, making candles, and preparing medicines to tend the injured.With my father and brothers dead and our warriors scattered, my position is tenuous at best.The Clan Council may never accept me as Chief, and even if they do, there’s no guarantee the Raven Queen will repeal the Sun King’s law that prohibits women from leading clans.None of which changes my determination not to let Dunhaelic fall.
Like everyone else these days, I’m tired to my marrow and feel a noose getting ever tighter around our necks.These early-morning runs to exercise the stallions have become my only chance to clear my head.
Today, the cold bites deep.My fingers are numb holding the reins against Ari’s steaming neck.The sun spills pink and crimson over the hilltops behind us, but ahead in the Sacred Wood, frost and gloom still linger beneath the mid-April canopy where the old military road climbs through the ancient trees.
I normally turn back at the edge of the Wood, but today I give in to a whisper of rebellion instead.Urging the stallion faster, I lose myself in the sensations: the surge of his muscles, the chuff of his breath, the thunder of hooves on hard-packed earth.Crouched low over Ari’s mane, the wind whips my face and billows my kilted skirt.
Faster and faster we run, until abruptly, Ari snorts and throws his head.His shoulder drops out from under me, and he turns to bolt back the way we came.
I fight to keep my seat and hold him back.
“Easy, lad.What is it?”I pull him in a circle, patting his neck as I force him forward again.He watches the slope on our right with his ears pinned back and his eyes rimmed white.
Nothing stirs around us.Nothing rustles.
Yet the stallion bucks and fishtails, jolting me against the pommel.Pain flashes white, and I circle him again, keeping him moving.
Then I realise that I’ve been slow to understand.It’s always hard for me to pinpoint the source of sound.My left ear is deaf, but I don’t need both ears to hear whatisn’tthere.
Silence coils around us.Gone is the usual dawn chorus of thrushes and blackbirds, whose morning calls can seem insistent enough to wake the dead.Gone, too, are the rustlings of squirrel and hunting cat, of marten and deer and capercaillie.
Something large must be hiding among the trees.
This is the perfect place for an ambush.Centuries of wagon wheels and iron-shod horses have worn the road away, leaving steep banks of earth and roots on either side that cut off any escape.The thick-trunked trees would give good cover for a highwayman or a deserter to lie in wait, but it could also be some of our own men returning.
I whistle the five notes of Dunhaelic’s signal call and wait.
No one answers.
Still, part of me clings to the hope that a few of our warriors might have survived the recent battle at Culodur.They could be weak.Wounded.Either way, I need to know.
Shifting Ari’s reins to one hand, I draw the dagger from my belt.My fighting skills are basic at best, but if all else fails, I have my one trick of illegal magic to help.The ember of power that lives inside me has burned low these past months, but with luck, it would be enough.
I kick Ari sharply.He rears in protest, then surges into a gallop.I run him ten yards, wheel him, and use his momentum to scramble up the bank.
Weaving through trees and low-growing brush, I search for intruders and follow a diagonal line towards the ridge to cut off anyone lurking near the road.The haunting stillness follows us, and Ari’s footsteps rustling through the leaves and bracken sound impossibly loud.Then twenty yards below the ridge, a gust of wind stirs up a strange, sweet scent.
Fingers of ice shiver along my back.
I’ve encountered this stench before—only once, but some memories burn themselves into your soul and refuse to fade.The smell hurls me back four months into the landscape of my nightmares.
I’m walking among the bloated dead on the battlefield where I went to retrieve the bodies of my father and oldest brother.Searching each corpse for familiar features, I stumble over the severed head of a Grey—its bleached irises staring sightlessly, ash-coloured skin stretched over features twisted by the queen’s corrupted magic.
I back away in horror and fall onto its headless body.The sweet stench is everywhere.I lurch to my feet and brush at the crust of dried blood clinging to my hands, my skirts, my bodice—wherever I touched the Grey’s stained uniform and scarlet cloak.
The memory chokes my lungs.Gulping deep breaths, I blink away the tears that blur my eyes.
