Page 6 of The Crown of Moonlight
Even if I decide to treat him, I’ll need water and supplies, and he’s too weak for me to move him.I’ll have to work in stages.
With a sigh, I reach beneath my skirt and use my dagger to cut off a section of my chemise to serve as a temporary bandage before I leave to gather moss and pine pitch to slow the bleeding.
I push his coat aside, and something crackles in the left pocket—a folded piece of parchment sealed in wax.
A corner of the document is stained with blood nearly the same red-brown colour as the seal.The wax is warm from the heat of the Ever’s body, and it has lifted away from the paper on one side.It practically begs me to read it, but the Ever is still losing blood.
I set the document aside while I take advantage of his unconscious state and bind his chest as tightly as I can.Then I pick the document up again and weigh the potential invasion of privacy if I read it against my responsibilities.
It’s well past sunrise now, and Dunhaelic Keep will be in motion.Iain will be feeding the mares, Faolan checking the battlements, Morag baking, and Catriona carrying my mother’s breakfast to her solar.Peat smoke and warm yeast will mix with the scent of horses and heather on the wind.These are the scents of my beloved Dunhaelic.
There’s so little left of what my home once was, and too few people remaining in my care.All of them have lost as much in this war as I have, yet they work beside me every day to keep what’s left intact.I cannot—I will not—fail them.
The parchment unfolds with a whispered hush, and I read the first words.My heart kicks into a sprint as I realise the document is a letter addressed to the rebel king.
Your Royal Highness,
As no one in Alba Scoria has gambled more than I have in supporting your cause, I find myself deeply affected by our loss at Culodur and the difficulty in which Your R.H.finds himself.
Sir, I hope you will forgive a few truths upon which all our commanders agree.It was highly wrong of the High King and the Assembly of Tirnaeve to allow you to set up your royal standard here without having received the men, gold, and supplies needed to restore you to your crown.If the Raven Queen retains the throne of Alba Scoria, it shall be upon their account.
I must also acquaint Your R.H.that we are all convinced Lord Sean, whom Your R.H.considers the greatest of friends, committed gross blunders on every occasion.I never doubted that we might retreat from the queen’s forces without great loss, but I was overruled by this man in whom you have placed so much trust and who, I must assure you, has either betrayed you or is as unfit to be a general as he is to be a shoemaker.He has rendered himself odious to all our army and has disgusted them to such a degree that it bred a mutiny in our ranks.In short, you place too much confidence in him and in one or two of your other Siorai companions.
Please consider this warning as you plan your return from Eireen with Tirnaeve’s promises fulfilled and the additional mercenaries from there and Galia across the seas.I shall await word of your plans to land the reinforcements and stand ready to venture my life in the cause whenever Your R.H.returns.But to be sure, unless Lord Sean and your Riders give greater regard to my opinions, I cannot flatter myself with hopes of success.
I remain, with great zeal, Sir, Your R.H.’s most obedient and humble servant,
Seoras Mora
The letter trembles in my hand.I read it through a second time before folding it closed.
Lord Mora—General Mora—commands the rebel army.
This letter could change the outcome of the war.
If the Raven Queen finds out the rebel king means to land a force of Siorai warriors from Tirnaeve, along with hired soldiers from other mortal realms, she would scorch the earth to stop him.And does the king already know that one or more of his Riders may be a traitor?
General Mora could be wrong, of course.I know too little to make assumptions.My decisions are getting harder, and firm ground is vanishing from beneath my feet with every step.
Chapter 4
Out of Magic
Chyr
M
y head pounds like war drums, and my chest is on fire.I blink against the sunlight.The wind lifts the scent of pine mixed with blood and resinous smoke.
I’m sitting, and my back is propped against a narrow, lichen-crusted birch.The sun is high, so I must have drifted in and out of consciousness for hours.
Disjointed images shift through my mind: a beautiful face outlined in flame and moonlight, a voice commanding me to drink.Before that, or maybe after, the same voice is coaxing Tuirse’s mare to drink.
And Oran’s body…
Shivering, I remember his boot heels cutting through leaf-strewn moss as the woman dragged him up the hill and out of sight.
My mouth is as dry as ash and tastes of human whisky, which explains the pounding head.Was it the flame-haired woman who gave me that?But why?At least I couldn’t have drunk much of it, or as miserable as I am at the moment, I’d be feeling worse.
