by Blake, Laila
Brock narrowed his eyes at her but didn’t say anything. Moira remembered little of the dates or wars Brock talked about when they turned their lessons to history, but she remembered other comments. There was the war for the city of Lauryl just before her father was born and Brock had shown her history books and the way they described as a force of conquering heroes, saving the city from a ruinous regime. But he had also told her of that regime the way he remembered it as a young man and how from his perspective, the conquering heroes had been nothing of the sort.
Nobody had ever told her what kind of people Fae really were. She couldn’t quite believe the stories of their powers; strange and outlandish and utterly too much like something a bolstering hero would want to hear about his enemies in a song about his victory.
“Why did the Blaidyn betray them?” she asked next, carefully crossing her legs under the long woolen gown and brushing her hair back, where always it defied the braid and little pins.
“They … thought that they would be better off throwing in their lot with humans,” Brock explained hesitantly. “According to legend, the Fae created them because death to an immortal is a horrifying prospect and they were dying by the dozen. They needed a force that would enable them to fight wars without as many casualties among their ranks.”
Moira nodded thoughtfully. “I wouldn’t want to live like that either.”
“Everybody has their role to play, my lady.”
She didn’t reply, just looked at the map and shrugged after a long time.
“Blaidyn are strong, very strong and very fast. They were a valuable addition to any army. They decided the war.”
“But there aren’t songs sung about them,” she said when her mouth felt like forming words again. She didn’t know what it was that made her feel uneasy or on edge, or why she needed to talk about these issues, but Brock was the only person she could ask.
“They killed thousands of men before they turned on their masters,” Brock explained with a shrug. “Treason can be necessary, but it is never heroic, milady.”
“Why is it treason?”
Brock looked at her face. She seemed utterly innocent in that moment and he felt a familiar surge of sympathy for the strange girl. Just for a flutter of her heavy eyelids, he had the desire of the younger man to touch those flyaway strands of hair and set her mind to rest but he quickly quelled those urges.
“I assume you are speaking philosophically?” he asked, a hint of a smile on his face.
“Well, if they were created to serve someone … they never had a choice. Nobody ever asked them if they wanted to fight for people who just needed them to die for their wars. They never promised, or if they promised, they had no choice. Treason is if … ” but her voice gave out against the steady glance of her tutor.
“Treason is the act of defiance against your betters, Moira,” he said gently, not unaware of her struggles and her rebellious little head, trapped in an oddly feeble body riddled with insecurities, little ticks and twitches. Not then though, there in that room, she sat quietly, eyes wide with focus. An odd beauty, but a beauty, nonetheless.
“What can they do?” she asked then, changing her line of questioning when the last one had made her feel small and insignificant.
“It depends on their age and their experience, but you don’t have to be afraid of the one your father hired. They are turncoats but they are not cruel, really. Not known to harm the innocent.”
“I am not afraid.”
“Good. And they do have weaknesses … ”
She looked up and Brock knew that he had her attention then.
“Fire, for one. They like water, but fire makes them uneasy. Too much sun. And then there’s the full moon, of course.”
When he saw her brows rise again, at that he let his eyes swing to the sliver of sky displayed by the narrow window. It was still light out, but afternoon was visibly drawing into evening. “You must know that the full moon compels them to shift into their animal form, so at night … ”
“ … they aren’t human.” she finished, wrinkling her brows in thought.
“They are never human, milady,” Brock warned. His eyes flickered. “Don’t you forget that.”
Moira looked down and shrugged her delicate shoulders. She didn’t approve of Owain’s presence in their house, but it was difficult to see him as anything but a person. He was quiet and polite and she couldn’t find animal or monster in his countenance.
“Are you keeping up with your star charts and the moon calendar?” Brock finally asked after allowing her to follow her own thoughts for a while. He was pleased when she nodded with a bit of an eager smile and he gave her an approving one in return. “Have you found any influence of the moon on your insomnia?”
“No,” she offered with a shrug, “Not really. We’ll see tomorrow.”
Brock grinned knowingly. “Indeed,” he said, and then straightened himself up to his full height, which despite his age, was still impressive. He let his eyes linger on her face for a moment longer, making sure she followed the steps he had so neatly laid out for her. He was positive of it when he saw a small flicker move across her face and then a smile. Then he patted her shoulder and ended the lesson.
• • •
Deagan was still angry. He had taken his favorite horse out of the rickety Bramble Keep stables — just one of the many things he was planning to modernize once this pathetic ruin was his — and gone for a ride and a hunt in the nearby woods. His crossbow had hit the mark in a squirrel, hardly worth the bolt that had torn through its tiny body like a sword through water and shattered on the branch behind it. He had left it for the carnivores and when no other wildlife appeared, he’d lost patience and steered his stallion back toward the Keep.
He and his delegation had been set up in a usually unused wing of the building. The vague smell of damp and moss seemed to hang there in a way it didn’t in the other rooms. It was a clear sign of tight-fisted housekeeping not to keep them constantly lit and heated. Another item on his ever-growing list of necessary improvements and he was beginning to think that the young lady was in need of several herself.
“More wine,” he grunted at his manservant when he stepped into his chambers to stand by the fireplace. In the capital, it was still summer with warm glowing days; here, the change of color in the leaves had just begun and there was already an uncomfortable chill in the air. And of course, the village tailor didn’t sell anything he’d consider wearing. Even the Rochmonds didn’t seem very intent on displaying their social stature through their clothing. All the wool and fur and leather made more sense now, but there had to be something that could be done with it that livened up the fabric and the dire appeal of a room filled with backwater nobles. Maybe he really was wasting his time here. The income from crops, lumber and ore from the mountain mines explained the fief’s riches and the old man didn’t seem to spend a lot.
In the end, Sir Deagan would do his family, whose fief was less rich in resources, a great boon, but the price seemed rather high that day.
“Where’s Devali?” he asked the manservant when he returned with a crystal decanter half filled with the dark red liquid and placed it on the table next to a fresh glass.
“I assume she is in the town inn, Sir.”
Deagan huffed. Of course the man would assume that. He himself had placed her there out of considerations of politeness. It hadn’t seemed right to bring his consort into the house of the lady he was pursuing. Now, however, these qualms were beginning to ebb away.
“Get me the crone, then,” he decided, pouring himself a glass before he brushed his hair back. He emptied the first glass in a few quick gulps after the manservant had left with a bow but when he poured the second, he stepped back toward the fire. There he stood, warming his back, letting the day pass in his mind again.
It had started so promisingly. Lord Rochester had proven once again to be a pleasant and polite fellow. Heavens knew how he could have begotten such a strange daughter. He was deep in a somewhat one-sided analysis of the events in the orchard, when he heard the quiet knock on the door and the old crone entered. He yet had to call her by her given name, which made him feel uncomfortable in a way he shouldn’t feel about a servant. As useful as she was, Deagan feared her magic, as he feared all those with powers he didn’t match.
“You asked for me, sir?” Iris asked in a pleasant, submissive voice that never completely failed to placate the young man’s worries.
“You said you could make her mine,” Deagan said without preliminaries. He was tired of patience and more tired of the constant corroding effect it had on his pride. She was just a woman, a rich, spoiled girl who should have been grateful for his attention. “Make her mine. Do what you have to do.”
Iris bowed her head in assent and then looked up at him again. She slowly took a small step toward him and her eyes grew a little more probing as she considered his face.
“You attempted to woo her?” she asked shrewdly. Deagan, in turn, only acknowledged her question with a courtly cock of his brow. That much was obvious and he disliked her look, as though she was trying to see right into his head, into his ambitions and flaws — into all those places he liked to keep hidden, even from himself.
“What exactly did you do?”
“Is that important? You said you had the power to make a potion or a tonic or … something. Do it now.”
Iris eyed him carefully. He was impatient and angry and she could see it all flowing out of his gestures and his face. It wouldn’t be good for her to anger him but there were other matters to consider. And finally, she inclined her head to the side, a softer and gentler look on her face.
“My liege,” she began slowly and bowed deeply. “You speak wisely and as you said, this is indeed where the path seems to be headed, to be sure.” Holding her hands demurely entwined in front of her body, she gave him a smile that appeared pleasant, yet alien on her face; too young, too sweet. “But if you were to win her heart without the magic, sir, surely the union would be more meaningful for you.”
“What are you talking about?” Deagan grunted, but clearly not completely averse to listening. “Get to the point.”
“Well, do you like her?”
Deagan breathed in deeply through his nose. His nostrils flared. His eyes hardened. Finally, he shrugged contemptuously and shook his head.
“And you dislike her because she is not receptive to your advances?”
“I dislike her because she is a cold fish who can’t even muster enough courtesy to listen to a man who is complimenting her. She is clearly overestimating her charms or her looks … how could I like such a creature?”
Iris nodded; she hadn’t met the girl yet, only seen her from afar once or twice. It wasn’t her place to judge, she knew.
“And therein lies the issue, my liege,” she finally answered with grave gentleness in her voice. “A potion might make her yours, but you won’t feel like you truly conquered her. It is as if you went out for a wild and trying hunt but after the first missed shot, someone handed you a dead stag for you to take home and with which to display your hunting prowess. Wouldn’t the praise sound dull, wouldn’t the meat taste stale in your mouth?”
Deagan clearly did not like this advice; his face made that unequivocally apparent but neither did he speak up or disparage her. Instead, he mulled it over, grunted out a sigh and then went back to the table to refill his glass. This time, he gulped the wine down again. By now, his cheeks were a little redder than before and he plopped down on a chair in a manner slightly less gracefully than he usually would.
Iris, for her part, did not move. She did not even watch her benefactor and just stood there, waiting for him to mull the situation over, to reach a conclusion by himself. She had not lied to her mother — she didn’t have any feelings for the girl. A spoilt young lady, Moira did not feel like a sister — she did not look like one, nor were they connected by memories or duty. And still, the idea of poisoning her — forcing her affections towards Deagan — made her stomach crawl. He did, in the end, even though the shift from anger to a defeated expression worried her a little.
“So what do you suggest?” he asked, smacked his hand onto his thigh harder than he’d intended to do and then took another deep sip of his wine.
“If it pleases you, sir, I would ask you what happened exactly this afternoon. And together we will find a way to change the next encounter. I can mingle with the staff; ask about her — her interests, her desires, her dreams. You will hunt her down, sir, I have no doubt about that.”
Deagan allowed himself a small smile and Iris returned the gesture. She didn’t yet know how, but for a little while longer, she knew she could assuage his impatience.
Chapter Seven
The hard wood at the edge of her bed-frame was digging into the back of Moira’s thighs. She didn’t move, though. She just stared ahead at the opposite wall, her concentration fixed on breathing. In and out. In and out.
There was a deep exhaustion in her bones and her flesh and her heart that had nothing to do with whether she would be able to sleep. And, day by day, it was getting harder to withstand its pull, like tentacles seeking their aim and pulling her down into the depths. Moira was afraid of that place, had spent her whole life afraid of it, or so she thought. That place was dark and she didn’t know if a person could come back from it. She had seen madness before — true madness — and she knew she was always dancing on the balance.
Her back was turned on the open windows where a beautiful harvest moon was rising over the forested mountains. It was large, with that typical orange cast of autumn and it was hard not to look. Moira had always loved the moon, her silent companion when she couldn’t stand the human ones anymore. It felt to her like she had spent years on that windowsill, staring up at the moon. It was beautiful, but apart from that, it was the sentinel of softer times. When the moon was high in the sky, the castle was quiet and Moira could breathe more easily. And the moon never judged her for it, never commented. The moon just hung in the sky, comforting.
That night, however, she was facing away from it. Couldn’t look at its warm, orange face and its slow ascent across the firmament. It would be too tempting, would make sitting inside near unbearable. She wanted to be out there, in the fields and by the river, out there where the moon cast its brightest glow of the year.
Her ribcage almost crackled with the breaths she took, gasping for air. Her chest expanded and contracted, and then started again. For a while, she looked down to watch it. In and out. In and out. Sometimes that helped but all she wanted to do was to take one peek at the moon, just one. She deserved it, she thought. She’d sat through the entirety of dinner with Sir Fairester and her parents and some other invited guests who the young nobleman had seemed to regard with disdain. Clearly, he dined with more distinguished folk back at the capital. And so, he’d focused his attentions on her. He seemed content to talk while she listened and nodded occasionally or gave him a lackluster smile.
That made it easier and he had stopped flattering her so much, which had made her uncomfortable before. That night, he had talked about the musicians in Lauryl and how he’d heard that she played the lyre and how nice it would be for her to come to his family estate there, partake in the rich cultural offerings of the theaters or the music groups for hire. Moira, for her part, found the idea of a crowded theatre horrifying, but she didn’t say that. He also expressed his desire to hear her play and she found herself nodding almost in spite of herself. She never played for anyone, but to explain that would have taken more words than she’d trusted herself with at that time.
In the end, Lady Cecily helped the conversation along and for once Moira was grateful. It wasn’t new to
her to be talked about rather than talked to, or be included in the conversation and she knew that it was entirely her fault. She could sit back and concentrate on breathing, on trying and trying to block out all the other people talking over each other in a cacophony of voices that all intruded on her brain.
How did anyone keep a single thought in their head in a place like this? She knew nobody else found this difficult, they were laughing, talking, eating — all at the same time. And if the person on the next seat was a little too loud, they raised their voices even louder. It was an almost unfathomable feat for Moira and she knew better than anyone else how detrimental that was to her role as Lord Rochester’s only daughter. She would never be able to be a graceful companion in meetings like this, the way her stepmother was.
Lady Cecily had simply leaned over with a bright smile and mentioned how fond Moira was of nature and of taking walks outside. The comment had made Deagan smile almost immediately and while Cecily turned her attention back to other guests, Deagan launched into an account of the countryside near the capital. He described the beaches especially and the majesty of the ocean, the smell, the sand, the way the sun glowed orange when it dipped beneath the blue horizon. It did sound beautiful, Moira had to admit and for the first time, she almost enjoyed listening.
He promised to take her there sometime and this was where Moira lost that feeling again. Travel scared her, too. Traveling was being on horseback or more likely in a ship for days and days with no true place to retreat, nothing that was really hers, where she could try and recover like she was doing now.
Except it wasn’t working. Breathing became harder rather than easier, it hurt more with each breath. The moon, always the moon.
She reached up into her hair and pulled out the last of the pins and ribbons that held it together. Her scalp always prickled uncomfortably with anything weighing her hair down or keeping it in place. It tumbled down and she opened her dress. It was the new one Cecily had commissioned for her when she’d seen the way Sir Fairester dressed. Clearly, he had to look upon all of them and see nothing but country folk. Moira didn’t mind, but her stepmother did and Moira had never truly asserted herself against any kind of clothing pushed on her. This dress itched in places and felt stiff and restrictive. The fabric had an interesting iridescence when the light hit it but it didn’t move the same way cotton or wool did. It rustled with each movement and Moira didn’t like it. It felt better off than on, like most of Lady Cecily’s expensive adornments.