By the Light of the Moon (27 page)

Moira looked from Deagan to her father. She didn’t believe him. She tried to remind herself of Owain’s eyes when she had glowed and the disgust, tried to remind herself that she shouldn’t trust him either but she did. And Deagan’s voice wasn’t honest; it was too smooth and slick. She didn’t know what to say, swaying on her feet with exhaustion.

“My lady, won’t you do me the honor? Choose me and my side, bear my children and brighten my days?”

Moira started to shake now, fingers twitching up to her hair and folding a strand behind her ear. Deagan was holding his hand out to her and she stumbled a step back. She was well aware that all eyes were on her all of a sudden. Her father murmured something to Deagan but she couldn’t hear. Deagan’s face turned impatient and he stepped close to her, away from her father.

“Marry me, Moira. We would make a wonderful couple. I can make you happy,” he continued, face a grimace of a smile.

When Moira shook her head, it happened quite without her conscious decision. She still had no idea how to answer. Everything inside her was screaming “no” and her mother and father were staring at her. But then her head moved from side to side, and she followed its lead.

“No,” she exhaled, tears and exhaustion in her eyes. “No. I … I’m sorry. No.” And then she shielded her eyes from everybody and stumbled out of the hall and toward her chambers, ignoring Lady Cecile who was coming after her and slamming the door in her stepmother’s face before she locked it twice and reeled into her chambers.

Moira’s eyes closed, her hands grappled for the nearest poster of her bed and she clung to it as she sank to the floor and onto her knees. She could just reach the side of the mattress to lean her cheek against it, breathing in the smell of old cloth and stale hay. It was almost winter; they would replace it soon, she thought. It was one of the few true pleasures, sleeping in a fresh mattress. They brought with them the smell of the field and the sun and the wind somehow and over time it faded to stale castle air and sweat.

She didn’t know why that thought entered her mind when she knew well enough that, in that very moment, Owain was sitting deep inside the rock in a cell with nothing more than a bit of old straw to sit on. The thought made her body shake again. She had to talk to her father, she had to explain to him that Owain wouldn’t have done this without reason but in her current state she wasn’t sure she could walk, let alone speak. And her father would want to discuss Deagan Fairester and how badly she had behaved that night and Moira wouldn’t know how to bring the subject around to Owain.

Maybe if she tried to sleep just a little bit and would try to sneak down to him later to try and see him? And if she couldn’t sleep, maybe she could just rest a little, just until her body stopped shaking. Thinking of seeing Owain had worked before to make her strangeness more bearable. Except now all she could think of was Owain in a prison because of her; because of Deagan, because he loved her. It had to be why he’d done it, that was the only reason why any person would risk so much.

Unless it was duty. Duty was a term Moira understood only vaguely. It was complex and her life was too embroiled in its different shades to see it subjectively, but she still had a difficult time truly understanding it.

She was too tired to think about it and yet her mind couldn’t stop swirling around him, his eyes, his words, the night together and its end. It didn’t matter what he thought of her, she finally decided, rubbing her cheek against the fabric of her bedding. She could hardly even feel the hard floor under her knees. If she could free him, she would — if only to see him leave unharmed by his association with her.

From time to time, she heard knocks on the door, and heard them try the door-handle. Cecile was only the first and finally gave up when she received no answer. Bess was next, timid and sweet. Finally, her father with his gruff voice, artificially low because he despised airing out his problems with his daughter where anyone could hear them.

“Moira! Moira,” he hissed, knocking energetically. “You will open this door immediately, young lady and apologize to Sir Fairester. Moira!” He stood there a while longer, but his words didn’t quite connect. She heard them, knew what they meant but it was like she was standing in thick fog and everything around her still existed but didn’t make much sense or didn’t feel like it truly impacted her anymore. The world was hazy and dark and only contained the pain in her chest, the pulsing in her head, the thought of Owain and all the lingering swirling doubts. Fairester had never been her choice or her idea, and now, he was a mere distraction, a fly buzzing around in a quiet room and Moira simply didn’t have the energy to care.

“I don’t know what to do with you, you know?” His voice was even more quiet now, penetrating on that level where she did love her father and where disappointing him caused a certain stab in her side.

“Your mother and I … we are trying. Things can’t continue this way, you know that, don’t you?”

Still Moira didn’t answer. This time she didn’t know what to say or how to focus her mind on finding something. Again she wondered whether he knew that she wasn’t normal or what he would do if he found out. She was his only daughter, but she was already a disappointment. How many more before he would simply cast her out and adopt a more worthy next Lord Rochmond to inherit his estate and run it in his example.

And then she would be free. The thought was terrifying and beautiful and Moira’s eyes filled with tears when she realized it.

Before any of it, however, she would have to protect Owain. It was entirely possible that unable to deal with Moira about his frustration, her father might let it out on Owain in his sentence.

“Father?” she forced her mouth to ask. It was muffled by the mattress and when she got no answer she didn’t know whether he had left already or whether he just hadn’t heard her. Then, the fog moved in closer again with its dizzying lethargy and it picked her up and moved her through the room, into her bed, underneath a warm and beautiful body where everything was safe and good and she wasn’t afraid of anything.

When she came to again, it was from another little knock on the door. Without knowing quite how, she was sure it wasn’t her father or even Lady Cecile. She didn’t move, even though for a moment, she tried to lift her head and then thought better of it and left it where it was, breathing out against the fog. Then it knocked again, gently almost.

“Moira, child?” a voice asked and for a moment it was so unexpected that she didn’t know how to place it. She frowned and then did sit up a little, looking at the door and how strange it looked coming in and out of focus.

“Moira?” It was Brock. She recognized it better when he grew more insisting, just like he sounded when she didn’t pay attention in his lessons. She tried to clear her throat but even that was too much effort and she wanted to give up. There was a strong urge inside of her to crawl to the door and open. Brock didn’t come to her chambers usually, she didn’t think he had ever come to meet her there and she wasn’t used to disobeying him.

But even if she had wanted, in that moment, she wasn’t sure if getting there wasn’t beyond her. She moved forward onto her hands and knees and everything whirled and turned around in her head like spinning too fast around a pillar in the garden like she used to do as a child.

In the next moment, she heard the door clicking open. She didn’t know how much time had passed but when she opened her eyes again, it felt like little more than a second when Brock lifted her up and placed her on her bed. She did think that he was astoundingly strong for a man of his age. The room was gloomy in the low firelight, but he went around to light her oil lamp and a few candles before he returned to her with a cup of steaming liquid.

“I thought … ” she started, her tongue heavy. “Door, locked.”

He just smiled benevolently and shrugged. “You must have forgotten child. I just pressed it down. How are you?”

She shrugged and swallowed past her dry and swollen throat. Why was Brock in her room, had he really carried her? She blinked again, but he still sat there on a chair next to her bed in his long brown robe and his white beard.

“You … why?”

“You aren’t well, child. I brought you a tea that will give you strength. Let me help you sit up.” And with those words, he moved to the head of the bed and easily pulled her up against the headboard and stuffed a pillow behind her back. “Better?”

Moira nodded, confused, still eyeing him.

“Did he … leave?” she asked weakly.

“The young Sir Fairester?” Brock asked with an expression on his face that she couldn’t quite place. “He certainly said he would. He told your father that he has been wasting his time, that he wouldn’t spend another night in this castle. I don’t know, child, he will be gone soon. Don’t worry.”

Maybe she was dreaming after all. It made the most sense for the moment. But then during the last days, nothing had felt entirely like reality. And thinking back neither had anything she had done with Owain; surely, such an exciting story was one for books and other people.

“Thank you,” she whispered and tried to smile at her aging tutor. “I … I didn’t know you … you made tea.”

This made him chuckle and he lifted the drink back into his hand, gently bringing it to her lips.

“I am very old, Moira, I haven’t always lived in a castle where maids and cooks take on these tasks. And I like it, I like knowing what I put into my teas. Different herbs do different things to you, you know? Some make you sleepy, some make feel awake, some give you strength, some make you happy.”

Moira looked at him for a long time, and then at the tea. She blinked again and gave him a sad half-smile. She didn’t think a tea was capable of that last feat but she was willing to give it a try. If just for him. Opening her mouth, she let him tilt the cup gently and feed the warm liquid. It was more than tea, tasted strongly like plants and maybe fruits and honey and something else. But he encouraged her with a nod and tilted the cup stronger.

“Good girl,” he cooed and Moira swallowed and swallowed. The more she drank, the less she wanted to. It didn’t taste good, not at all. Her stomach started to revolt, tried to reject it and throw it back up. She wanted to tell him to stop, wanted to shout, wanted to beg; but Brock pulled back her head by her hair and held her nose closed. She could feel liquid running down the sides of her mouth but she couldn’t help but swallow, more and more until she couldn’t remember anything else.

Until the fog moved in darkly, sweeping her along into its depth, to the ocean, into the ground, into the center of a mountain with the world on her body, holding her down, holding her down, holding her still, holding her still.

• • •

The night was cold, the smell of snow was in the air and Iris was almost sure she could feel the first flakes on her face and on her bare hands. Whenever she looked at the torches carried by Deagan Fairester’s guards, there was nothing to see in the warm circle of light they threw around the flame. She was walking at the very end of the procession, falling back more and more with each step of the marching young men. They followed Fairester on his horse, who seemed in no mood to slow down more than he had to. He hadn’t graced her with a single glance but she had quickly packed her things when everybody else did.

She knew well enough that she couldn’t expect anything more from the Fairester household; likely not even the ship fare back. But the castle itself was even more dangerous for her and so she had marched out with the group as though she still belonged to them. She had, of course, heard what had happened, and silently thanked the stars for their mercy — but it left her without a place to turn. She shivered in her scarf, like the others, she had underestimated the cold so close to the mountains and her old bones rebelled at moving so fast in those temperatures. Rubbing her arms through the woolen dress, she realized that the torches were so far ahead now, she could hardly see the ground under her feet.

It was a fair punishment. Maybe she would freeze in the darkness. She had heard once that it didn’t hurt; that once your body was cold, a person just became calm and almost euphoric before they were swept away into the lands beyond. It didn’t sound so bad, not after what she had done. Moira’s Blaidyn guard, the only one possibly strong enough to protect her at all, was imprisoned, Deagan gone; the castle was Brock’s once more.

But now he knew who Moira was and how valuable she could be for so many deeds and plots. She had caused this, Iris knew, she alone. She blamed her mother as well; it was only because of her that she was there at all, and then her silly sister had started to come into her glow at the worst possible time. Iris still didn’t know why. She didn’t doubt, however, that it wouldn’t take Brock long.

By now, the torches were mere round little golden globes in the distance and Iris hugged herself. It was a long walk into the village. Was Maeve still there? Was she dead? The latter seemed most likely, despite what she’d said. Fae valued their immortal glow, and they didn’t kill easily. But if someone had dragged her back to Fae, she might as well be dead for what good she’d do for Iris.

She rubbed her face, it felt raw and freezing and then she pushed her hands into her coat. Her nose had started to run and she sniffed every few steps. She was walking in complete darkness now, carefully stepping one foot before the other in the direction of the distant torches. It wouldn’t be enough for long.

She had a fire-making kit with her. Maybe it would be better to take a break, try to get some light, try to make her own torch. Just as she thought this, she felt the distinct feeling of snow on her face. She held out her hand, and then brought it to her mouth. The filigree structure of snow crystal melted on her tongue. The flakes seemed enormous and fluffy, the kind that would be stunning in the morning. Maybe by then, she would be a statue, frozen and laid to rest under a blanket of first snow.

Iris tried to keep going. She could almost see the path now, the pure and brilliant white of the crystals reflected the light of the crescent moon at least a little. At the same time, the longer it snowed, the more there was. Soon there was snow all around her and Iris lost her bearings completely. She wanted to cry, wanted to curse her fate despite the nasty little voice that kept insisting she didn’t deserve any better. She had denied her little sister any kindness, any feeling of love at all and now she was lost in the snow with no place to turn to. How far away was she from the castle now? Could she go back? She’d seen the lamps and the torches on the battlements for a long time, but there was only snow now, darkness and snow.