Page 48 of The Crown of Moonlight
The laugh that spills up my throat sounds rusty.How long has it been since I laughed?But then I spot the beast she killed.
The carcass of the hound lies a few feet away with a wound where Flora split its abdomen, and Flora’s sword rests discarded on the ground beside it.The blade is covered in the black, treacly gore that lives between the bones and shadows of Vheara’s Ravenhounds, and it’s a sword—not a dagger.
Illusions disappear when they’re no longer fed with magic.Seeing the sword lying on the ground makes my chest go tight.
“Your sword isn’t an illusion.It’s real,” I say, the words coming out more like an accusation than I intend.I soften my voice before continuing.“How did you manage to transform the metal in the dagger?Andmake the weapon strong enough to use?”
She tilts her head.“What’s the point of a sword that can’t be used?Anyway, I told you it wasn’t an illusion.Not believing me was your choice, not mine.”
I close my eyes at her innocence and my own blindness, and I shake my head as I hurry back inside the hut to strap on the rest of my weapons and gather our things so we can leave.
Flora did tell me the sword wasn’t an illusion, but I assumed that she was bluffing because she’s human.Few Siorai are powerful enough to create something from nothing.Even now, I don’t think she grasps what she’s done.What she is or might become.
Few Siorai can call tremors from the earth.Or heal as Flora heals.
None of it should be possible for her, but Flora excels at impossibilities.
The two of us each pull an extra plaid around us for warmth and fold the remaining plaids into the packs, then we saddle the horses quickly.Flora’s movements are sluggish, and she tries to pretend that her hands aren’t shaking.
The magic she poured into me—magic I can still feel coursing through my veins—came at the expense of her strength.
I should be grateful to her, but I’m terrified for her instead.
Flora’s only beginning to touch her magic.Whether that’s Siorai magic that the Veilstones or I have woken, or it comes from the ancient Cailleach magic, or some combination of the two, she doesn’t understand it.She can’t control it yet, and that makes her doubly dangerous.
What wouldn’t Vheara do to have that sort of power?What would Flora become if Vheara turned her?
The questions slide through me like ice.
Vheara can never learn that Flora exists, and yet I’m about to drag her into territory that will be crawling with Vheara’s eyes and ears.Flora’s magic could make the difference in reaching Muilean on time, but my oaths—No, I refuse to think like that.
I give her a leg up into the saddle, and she looks at me with her brows creased.
Another Ravenhound bays somewhere in the distance.
I think of the way she threw herself into the fight to save me, and something thickens in my throat and slips down into my chest, making it hard to speak.It’s impossible to miss the shadows beneath those clear grey eyes, the way she clutches the reins to keep her hands steady.
I wish I could let her rest.It’s still hours before nightfall, and travelling through the day is riskier.But we can’t stay here.
Where there are Ravenhounds, Vheara’s Greys may not be far away.The hounds not only serve as scouts—the Greys also use them to drive prey to slaughter.
After tying Bramble to Eira’s saddle, I mount behind Flora, and we both adjust our plaids to cover our heads against the rain.I settle my arms around her to keep her steady.She sits determinedly upright as we first set out on the long traverse across the slope, then the effort becomes too much.She slumps back against me.
The icy rain stiffens my cheeks and turns Flora’s hands red on the reins.Her soft warmth feels good in my arms, and the floral hint of bog myrtle that clings to her is bright and heady.
Her curves are maddeningly close.
My body responds without permission.She must feel it, because her breath hitches.The tension between us becomes a torment as she guides the mare along a faint trail heading west and uphill through gorse and bare boughs of heather.
Both of us watch the slopes for signs of Ravenhounds or Greys.We can hear the baying now and then, and we’re careful to say nothing in case our voices carry.Then, finally, we have some cover among the trees.The rain slows beneath the branches, but water streams off the leaves overhead.
Keeping her voice low, Flora turns her head slightly towards me.“Did Vheara create the Ravenhounds the same way she made the Greys?”she asks.“Or were they always like that?”
“They were Shadehounds before she turned them, yes.But Vheara and the Greys are far more dangerous because they retain all their Siorai abilities, and their strength is only limited by the amount of suffering they can inflict and absorb.”
“Are you saying that Vheara is like the Greys?But I thought…They say she’s beautiful.”
“That’s vanity.Illusion.Beneath the mask, she looks like any other Grey.Corrupting magic will always exact a penalty.”
