A Trace of Moonlight

by Allison Pang

  “Help me get Ion on the horse. I can’t carry him myself.”

  Somehow we managed to half pull, half push him onto the mare’s back, his dark skin stark against the white.

  “Hold on,” I whispered to him, trying to squash the rising panic in my chest. “Don’t lose it now,” I muttered to myself, giving Sonja what I hoped was an encouraging smile. I picked up the plant, holding it close to me. Its song had dulled again.

  Talivar continued to struggle with his own mount, his voice tight as the horse pranced in irritation. “Can you get up behind me? We cannot stay here.”

  “I thought I shouldn’t ride with the Hunt?”

  “I have no time for this,” he snarled. “Get your ass up here and let’s go. The CrossRoads are fading and we are out of time.”

  Sonja boosted me up behind the elf and handed me the sapling. I wedged it between me and Talivar, my hands wrapped about his waist. “What about Ion?”

  “Give me the reins to the mare.” He snapped his fingers at Sonja. Her eyes narrowed, but she did as he asked, watching impassively when he tied them to the pommel of his saddle. “Good enough.”

  The stallion half reared beneath us, forcing me to scramble quickly to keep from pitching onto the ground.

  Sonja heaved a sigh as she mounted Ion’s horse. “I’ll make sure he doesn’t fall off.”

  “Hold on, Abby,” Talivar murmured, his knees squeezing the horse sharply. It snaked forward, but he pulled its head tight, the remainder of the Hunt wheeling behind us. I wrapped one arm about the elf’s waist, pressing myself up against him as hard as I could while still keeping a death grip on the plant.

  I tracked the white mare beside us, hoping Brystion wouldn’t be jostled too much. I cringed at the way his jaw slackened. Between the antlers and his hooves, it felt as though we had hunted down some rare and precious animal, and were bringing in the kill for butchering.

  I exhaled against the vision, trying to push it away. The Hunt moved forward in a wave of fiery breath and ebony manes. Talivar shouted something over his shoulder in elvish, pointing toward the Door that lit up like a beacon in the dimming of the day. As a whole, the host poured through the gateway and onto the CrossRoads.

  Another wave of nausea swept over me and I pressed my cheek against the elf, trying not to vomit all down his cloak. His hand fumbled over the one at his waist to give it a tight squeeze, the heat of his skin leaching into mine.

  And then there was no more time for thought. The road bucked and trembled as we thundered over the cobblestones. Silver floated about us like snowflakes made of ashes.

  The hounds loped besides us with an eerie silence, pink tongues lolling. Or perhaps they barked and I could no longer hear anything except the sound of my own breath or the rush of blood in my ears as my heart beat a sharp staccato against my chest.

  We galloped through a void of cold, the chill seeping into my skin and through my veins, and I finally understood what Talivar had meant. The Hunt moved on the outskirts of reality, perhaps . . . the lost souls searching for something they would never have again.

  Again and again we came across offshoots of the CrossRoads that were vanished, the cobblestones slanting into nothingness. Doors shattered upon our approach and we veered away only to find ourselves dead-ending more often than not.

  The hounds milled around the horses’ legs as we stopped again and Talivar swore. “Enough of this shit.”

  . . . and time blurred . . .

  . . . the Hunt slipped in and out of the mortal world, shadows among shadows upon a moonless night as we straddled the very edges of the fabric of the existence . . .

  . . . through a cornfield and over the hillsides of a hundred hapless farms, through the waking dreams of poets, the almost-seen shadows of what might have been or almost was or could never be, night terrors wrapped in magic . . .

  Over a bridge spanning the sea . . . up the middle of Times Square, black riders on black horses, crows and ravens, and white dogs with bloodred ears.

  For a moment we wavered in the mortal world and I caught the eye of at least one hapless bystander, his mouth dropping open as we thundered past. “Frodo lives!” I shouted, fighting against the burble of hysterical laughter in my chest.

  And then we winked out of his vision, nothing more than a forgotten dream and an odd story he’d tell in the bar that night . . .

  “Oops,” Talivar muttered. We veered back onto the CrossRoads, silver dust churning, but it was stronger here, the road far more stable than before. We had to be getting closer. For a moment I let myself hope we’d get there in time, that we’d save everyone and make peace between the Paths.

  Until the ground opened up beneath us, the magic of the CrossRoads melting into the blackness like snow into pavement . . . only there was nothing there. I choked back a scream as we hurtled into the nothing, and then I was falling, falling . . .

  The world ended with a whimper, the way I always suspected it would . . .

  Twenty-two

  I clawed my way out of the darkness, my head on fire. In the distance, there was the muffled sound of music, but it was as though I moved underwater, every note thick and muted. My eyes fluttered open, but I was rewarded only with more darkness. I lay there for another minute, my brain trying to collect its thoughts about whether I’d just died again.

  Because surely I had.

  On the other hand, I was pretty sure the stiffness in my wrist hadn’t been there the last time I’d passed on, and after another moment I attempted to sit up, grunting at the twinge of pain in my arm.

  Oh.

  That’s right. I was carrying a potted plant.

  “Shit.” I lurched to my feet, staring blindly, but I couldn’t see a damn thing. “Hello? Anyone there?”

  In the distance a soft light flared, the plant in my arms beginning to hum, leaves unfurling with a delicate silver glow. I peered around me, swallowing a scream as the light expanded.

  Bodies littered the ground, elves and angels, daemons and mortals. Frantic, I whirled about, my breath rushing out with a whoosh as I saw Talivar getting to his feet. Beside him, Ion sprawled, still passed out, but a quick check showed that he was still breathing. And Sonja . . . there, also on the ground, but otherwise unharmed.

  Of the Hunt there was no sign at all.

  “What happened?” I stretched out a hand to the elf, pulling him up. “What’s going on?”

  He let out a small cry of disbelief as he took in the carnage, his finger outstretched to point to where the Tree had stood, its burned-out husk toppled over . . .

  . . . where Melanie crouched, still playing to it, even though the sound her instrument was making hovered so weakly that it seemed scarcely more than a seesaw note over and over.

  I staggered toward her, still holding the sapling.

  “What happened?” My voice was a hollow whisper and the breath of the wind carried it away.

  Melanie glanced up, her soot-covered face streaming with tears. “Everything.” Beside her, Nobu curled in a ball, the feathers on his wings shredded down to the bones. “He was trying to protect me.”

  I knelt at his side, turning his face so I could see it. Blood, ashes, cuts.

  “He’s got a pulse, Mel.”

  “His wings . . . they’re gone. And he won’t wake up. None of them will.”

  I took a closer look in her lap and realized Phin drooped between her knees, his once-brilliant white fur nothing more than cloudy ash. “It’s like what happened before. When the Queen shut down the CrossRoads . . . only far, far worse.”

  That had been a small group—only the OtherFolk of Portsmyth had been directly affected. But this . . .

  “The Tree cracked and fell over,” Melanie said numbly. “And then, I don’t know. It was like an explosion. I was knocked down, but Nobu threw himself on top of me . . .” She let out a half sob. “He was always so vain about those damn feathers.”

  I slumped and squeezed her hand. “He’s alive. Let’s make sure
to keep him that way, okay?”

  She blinked up at me. “How? The Tree is dead. It’s not singing to me anymore.” She let out a small gasp, turning to see the pot in my hand. “. . . but that one is.”

  I squatted beside her. “Maurice had it. It’s the last surviving bit, but there’s something wrong with it.”

  She nodded. “It’s got an edge to it. Like it’s angry.”

  “Well, it has every reason to be,” I pointed out dryly. “Maurice was feeding it . . . his blood and his dreams and God only knows what else.”

  Her bow drew against the violin. “Where is the motherfucker now?”

  “Dead. Or near enough.” I pointed at Brystion, who still remained slumped on the white mare. “Ion has his soul.” My lower lip began to tremble. “I don’t know. It’s just so fucked up.”

  She put her arm around me and the two of us sat there for a moment, two mortals caught up in a whirlwind of OtherFolk magic.

  “We’re pretty fucked, aren’t we?” she said finally.

  “Probably. Suppose we ought to do something about it, eh?”

  “Yeah.”

  I glanced up to where Talivar was searching through his people laying upon the ground. “I cannot find Moira.”

  “She was here.” Melanie pointed toward the closest edge of the ridge. “But I think her people may have spirited her away.”

  “You would accuse her of abandoning the field?” Talivar let out a disbelieving snort.

  The sapling perked up at his outward display of hostility, the song changing into something eager. I laid my hand on Mel’s shoulder, shaking my head at her, but she’d felt it too.

  “Stop, Talivar. We’re all under tension right now. We’ll find everyone. Please.”

  Our gazes met but he looked away first, nodding at whatever he’d seen in my face.

  He swallowed hard when he saw the wreckage of Nobu’s wings and knelt beside me. “What do we do?”

  “The Tree. We have to plant the sapling . . . but as to the rest of it?”

  “Guess we’ll start small, then.” Talivar helped me to my feet and Melanie laid the violin carefully on the ground next to Nobu, placing Phin beside him.

  Together, the three of us began hauling away the remainder of the old Tree. Chunks of bark sloughed off beneath the pressure of my hands, sap smearing like blood.

  The branches were surprisingly light; whatever had made it so magical had truly fled. “I feel like we should bury it,” I muttered. “Give it a proper send-off.”

  “A wake for the Eildon Tree?” Melanie arched a brow at me and even I had to admit it was a tad ridiculous, but somehow it seemed fitting, given what a mess everything was.

  “We’ll burn it,” Talivar stated. “The wood alone could be used for some future dark purpose and we can’t risk that. Perhaps we can place the ashes upon the soil of the new planting.” He gazed sideways at me. “Maybe the knowledge of what it was will seep in that way.”

  I shrugged. I was always a fan of osmosis.

  We couldn’t find a proper shovel, but I gently laid the sapling into the hole left by the Tree and somehow we managed to pack the dirt in around it, using a pair of abandoned shields to tamp it down. Talivar emptied the remainder of his wineskin on it.

  “That’s that, aye?”

  I cocked my head at the sapling. Its song was oddly attentive. “I get the feeling it’s waiting for something.” I nudged Melanie. “Play for it. Something . . . kind. Something that tells it of the good in us.”

  “But there has to be a balance, Abby.” She bit her lower lip. “I can tap into what’s left of the Wild Magic . . . but if what you’ve said is true, it’s only been exposed to Maurice’s dreams. Even if I can undo that, it will be . . . I don’t know. False?”

  “Not to mention dreadfully unfair,” came a smooth baritone.

  Melanie nearly jumped out of her skin, her jaw dropping even as she snatched up her violin. “Y-you,” she stuttered.

  The owner of the voice slung a matching violin from his shoulder, the very twin to Mel’s except for the golden gleam of the woodwork. Dressed in a fine wool suit that heralded from the turn of the nineteenth century, the stranger bore an air of smug anticipation. His fingers seemed abnormally long as they stroked the neck of his instrument. It hummed when he plucked absently at a string.

  His eyes raked over Nobu’s fallen form. “No one to save you now,” he said gravely. “Would you challenge me again?”

  “If I did I sure as hell wouldn’t choose a song you’d actually written,” Melanie muttered, stricken.

  “The Devil’s TouchStone, I take it?” I got to my feet, pushing my way in front of my friend to block his vision. Stupid, as always, but I wanted to give her a moment to compose herself. In the distance, I could hear the EarthSong of the Tree become a question.

  The man smiled. “Merely a placeholder now, but the title still holds for the moment.” He held up one of those elegantly fingered hands to halt my next words. “But I am not here for that.” He glanced down at the sapling. “It needs more than the knowledge of mere mortals to make it whole. The Tree of Good and Evil, as they say, is about choices. One must know both sides of the story.”

  “To be tempted by it, you mean,” Talivar said archly.

  The violinist shrugged. “Hardly your concern, elf. My Master is not interested in your sort . . . save for that which is owed Him by your people.” He eyed Melanie’s violin, his hand outstretched. “May I?”

  She hesitated and he chuckled. “I meant no offense, my dear. It’s good to see you’ve taken such good care of it. Pity, though. Had you truly mastered it, you might have healed the Tree after all.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “What do you mean? I have mastered it. I know how to work the Wild Magic through it.”

  “Foolish child. This violin is the Wild Magic. It was made from Eildon Tree herself. Why do you think it holds the magic that it does? You’ve got the entire power of the CrossRoads at your fingertips and you’ve barely tapped its potential.” He cocked a brow at her. “Our Master would be happy to show you how it works? No?”

  “No.” She withdrew a pace, cradling the instrument against her side.

  He frowned at the sapling. “Well, then, the hard way it is. To be quite honest, it will take more than the two of us . . . ideally a representative from each of the Paths would be here.”

  “Well, you just wait here and I’ll go searching for someone, shall I?” I muttered. “If you haven’t noticed, nearly everyone here is passed out, so unless you plan to strap a harmonica to someone’s snoring face, I’d say you’re shit out of luck.”

  “Abby,” Melanie hissed from behind me, finally moving forward to take her place in front of the Tree. Thrusting out her chin at the man, she scraped the bow down the strings. “No tricks and I’ll play with you. At least get it started.”

  A twinkle appeared in his dark eyes as he tucked the violin beneath his chin. “Agreed. Caprice Twenty-four?”

  Her brow rose. “A minor.”

  “Of course. Together.” He counted off a beat and the two of them started, the twin instruments singing to each other in near perfection. I knew the piece well enough; it was intended to be for a solo violin, maybe backed up with an orchestra, but these two played with such syncopated perfection I could barely tell there were two separate instruments at all. A hint of a genuine smile kicked up the corner of the man’s mouth, growing broader as Melanie inclined her head toward him.

  There was far more history here than I would ever know. She’d told me the gist of her story before, but I’d never thought I’d actually meet the man who’d beaten her . . . and condemned her and Nobu to an odd sort of half life. A moment later and I realized she was actually enjoying this . . . the musical give and take with someone who was her equal and then some.

  I squatted down by the tree, trying to glean some semblance of its reaction. Its own song had died down as it listened, but there was an underlying current of interest and excitement.
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  I laid one hand upon the soil, the fingers of the other wending into the tender branches. Touching the old Tree I had seen the breadth of infinite possibilities all spiraling into an unending helix that I would never be able to decipher. I had no idea if this Tree would be the same, or if it had to learn as it went. Had the first sprung up and known what it was, or did it change over time?

  The song wrapped up and the pair looked at me expectantly. “It’s waiting. For something else. Keep playing, I guess. But . . . I don’t know. Try to put more feeling into it.”

  The man looked rather offended at this, but Mel nodded.

  “Less exercise . . . more life experience,” I said.

  Melanie gave me a wry smile and launched straight into “The Devil Went Down to Georgia,” singing as she went.

  “Apropos,” the man murmured, joining in a moment later, but this time his music was less about showing off. More honest.

  The sapling approved.

  My gaze found the old Tree. A long time ago, I’d put a wish on it. An empty one. I’d tied a piece of cloth around one of its branches, the way so many other supplicants had . . . but I hadn’t actually wished for anything.

  Just in case, I’d said. And now it was too late to use it. But maybe not too late to make a new one.

  I reached down to find the hem of my T-shirt, shredding off a scrap with a shaking hand. Talivar raised a brow and blinked, understanding flickering over his face. Abruptly, he pulled at his leather vest, tearing a strip of his tunic from beneath it.

  I went first, knotting it on the lowest branch carefully, not even knowing what I was wishing for. I tried to focus less on what I wanted . . . and more on what I wanted for the newborn Tree.

  Grow. Be strong. Store our dreams, our hopes, our fears . . .

  A brush of skin against my hand and I saw Talivar bending, tying his own strip to a branch. He glanced at me sideways, the piercing blue of his eye filled with the memories of so much pain and loss.

  “Give them to her,” I murmured. “Let her guard them for you, nourish her with them.”