The Moon Rogue

by L M R Clarke

  Charo shrugged, smiling.

  “Different, this is,” she said. “I have choice, for time first in my life. And,” she added, her face coloring, “I like it here. And I don’t know anywhere else.”

  Memories of Krodge’s “lessons” flashed in Emmy’s mind.

  “You don’t know what you’re getting into,” she said. “Krodge isn’t pleasant.”

  “Stabbed you, ever?”

  That question made Emmy stop. She flicked through her mind. Had Krodge ever tried to kill her outright? No, she hadn’t. But what she had done had left scars. Where Charo’s marks were easily seen, Emmy had an invisible web.

  “No,” Emmy replied, “but she’s done other things. She’s hurt me.”

  “Servants, all mistresses hurt them.” Emmy bristled at the word, but said nothing. “Is expected. If she not try to kill me, is improvement on my last mistress.”

  In truth, Emmy wasn’t so sure.

  Over the next few days, Charo proved to be pleasant company. At first, it was strange for Emmy to share her living space with someone other than Krodge. But she got used to it, like breaking in a new pair of boots: unnoticeable at first, followed by an easy comfort that she could wear for days.

  The young female’s speech improved effortlessly. Charo was adept at many things, from trimming and mixing to measuring and crushing. She was charming with the customers, even Mr. Bose.

  At the end of another long day, Charo set to sweeping the floor without being asked. Emmy attended the glass cabinets, making sure the labels were straight and forward-facing. So absorbed in her task, she jumped when Charo called her name.

  “Emmy?”

  There was a gentle tilt to Charo’s lips that made Emmy flush. She turned and tried to smile back. “Sorry. What did you say?”

  Leaning on the broom handle, Charo tipped her head to one side. “I asked what Middlemerish is. It’s not something they have in the north, but I’ve heard lots of folk talk about. It’s happening soon, but I don’t know what it is.”

  Her mouth opening in an “o” of realization, Emmy folded her arms on the counter.

  “The Middlemerish Festival is when worshippers of Nunako celebrate the goddess, the Lady of Light,” she said. “It’s all about being thankful and celebrating the goodness of Nunako. People come together to drink and feast and pray.”

  Charo nodded. “It sounds like the Haetharran Festival of Fee, the Northern god of light and growth. They have lots of gods up there.”

  Emmy smiled. “There’s only one goddess here,” she said. “Nunako, the Light and the Giver.”

  She quoted from the Gospel of Nunako, a book she’d only been able to read in secret, as Krodge forbade her access to it, as well as to the temple. Not that she would have been welcome in the temple of Light, as tainted as she was.

  “In the midsun, Nunako would ‘with steadfastness and determination bring into existence the workings of life.’ We celebrate the Goddess’ power and how she brought everything to life. Midsun is what we call Middlemerish—some places call it Midsummer’s Eve. At Middlemerish, you write down your prayer for the rest of the cycle and tie it to one of the bows of the Great Tree in the Central Circle of the town,” Emmy continued. “It’s the tallest in the whole of Metakala, so lots of people come to Bellim to celebrate Middlemerish. The higher the bow you tie your prayer to, the more likely it is to be answered by the goddess. The festival’s good for the apothecary. Many folks think their Middlemerish wish will be granted if they coat their offering in special concoctions—concoctions that can be bought in Krodge’s Apothecary, for the right price.” Emmy snorted. “Why go to the bother of making one when you can get one already mixed? I wouldn’t be surprised if Krodge herself made up the practice. She’ll do anything for a bickle.”

  Charo’s eyes grew round. When she spoke, her voice was small.

  “Do you believe prayers can be answered?” she asked.

  “I don’t believe in anything,” Emmy said vehemently. The words that came out next surprised even herself. “Sticking a piece of dead leaf or parchment to a bit of an old tree isn’t going to do anything. There’s no point in wishing for anything. All there is in life is hard work. That’s it. And no magical spells or enchantments, or divine intervention, is going to change that.”

  Nodding, Charo straightened. She began to sweep again, though the movement was lackluster. “And what’s the Lunar Awakening?” she asked. “I’ve heard a lot of folk talk about that, too. About how special it is, and how it only happens once in a thousand cycles.”

  “Don’t they know anything in the north?” Emmy asked, trying to deflect from her own outburst with levity. At Charo’s scowl, she tamed her smile. “The Lunar Awakening is something that’s been mentioned in holy books and folklore for a long time. It’s said that the goddess Nunako’s power comes from the moons as they cross the Arc of the Sky. They’re known as her three faces: Dato, Rafa, and Akata. When they’re stacked on top of each other, the faces talk, so their power is threefold. It’s said to allow Nunako to walk among us again.” Emmy shrugged. Recklessness loosened her tongue again, and she went on. “In truth,” she said with a final pause, “I don’t think any of it’s real.”

  Charo looked up. She blinked. “I feel the same way.” Her words were slow and quiet with subdued anguish. “I’ve been to lots of places, seen lots of temples to lots of gods, but...I’ve never believed in any of it.”

  For a moment Emmy and Charo looked at one another. Emmy felt a smile pull at her face. There was something about Charo that spoke to Emmy’s core. The simmering pain beneath the surface was how Emmy felt herself. They may have been different in many ways, but some similarities bypassed colors. Charo wasn’t just someone Emmy worked with anymore. Now, she was a friend.

  Their moment of companionable quiet was shattered as Zecha burst through the door.

  “Hello, Emmy,” he said, dancing across the floor and ending with an elaborate bow. “And hello, Charo.”

  Charo smiled back, fiddling with the brush.

  “Hello, Zecha,” she said.

  The two held one another’s gaze for a few moments. Emmy shook her head. There was something about the way they looked at one another that she couldn’t understand. She never understood how folk could get close to one another, even marry and have younglings. The spark of whatever made that happen simply wasn’t there for Emmy. It never had been and, she suspected, it never would be. And she was perfectly content with that.

  Not wanting to dwell on the issue any longer, Emmy planted her hands on her hips. “Soup, Zecha?”

  Charo and Zecha laughed about something as they followed her to the kitchen, staying close to one another. Emmy prepared a tray for Krodge and set three bowls on the table. There was a large pot of soup bubbling over the fire. Charo attended it, still chattering with Zecha.

  Emmy caught a glance of Charo’s limbs in the glow of the fire, and she winced. The scars on Charo’s arms, legs, and face were thrown into stark relief as the light of the flames illuminated her. Emmy shook her head. It had taken a lot of abuse to become as good at household chores as Charo. Shaking off her musing, Emmy shifted her attention to Zecha.

  “How’s business?” he asked, perching on one of the long wooden benches.

  “Busy. Middlemerish is soon, after all.”

  “True,” Zecha replied. He turned to Charo. “How are you finding working for such an illustrious apothecary?”

  Emmy rolled her eyes. Charo chuckled.

  “I’m enjoying it,” she said, the skin of her face reddened by the fire. “I’m very grateful.”

  “You’ll learn a lot from Emmy,” Zecha said. “She’s talented.”

  Emmy rolled her eyes again and shook her head. “Zecha, hush.”

  Nonplussed, Zecha shrugged. “I’m only telling the truth,” he said.

  Charo flushed and turned away. She lifted the pot from the fire. As her muscles stretched and flexed, Zecha was at her side to take the weight. />
  Emmy watched as Charo stepped back, her brows drawn together. She managed to chuckle.

  “I’m so used to being the one who does all the fetching and carrying and making,” Charo said as Zecha brought the pot to the table. “It doesn’t feel right to have someone else do it for me, especially—”

  Charo snapped her mouth shut to trap the words, but Zecha knew.

  “Especially by a male?” he asked. He shook his head, his expression still amiable. “Don’t worry, I understand. I’m used to it. And you’ll learn to accept help, I think,” Zecha said. “I can’t imagine that it’s easy to adjust to a free life. You are free here, aren’t you?” he asked with one eyeridge raised, his gaze flicking to Emmy.

  “Oh, yes!” Charo said. “I’m free. I could leave any time. I just...” She looked at Emmy. “I don’t want to go. It’s nice here. I get shelter and a bed, and a little money. Money!” Her face beamed with delight. “I’ve never had money in my life. Emmy even bought me these new clothes and sandals,” she said, turning to show off her garments. “They’re new. I’ve never had anything new before.”

  As the two prattled about their lives and Charo ladled soup into bowls, Emmy stood back and watched. Warmth permeated her abdomen, loosening the ever-present knot in her stomach.

  Then she looked down at the tray. Krodge’s tray. Her heart grew cold. Perhaps one day, I’ll be free, she thought. She glanced at Charo, her plucked head now covered in harsh spikes of newly growing fronds.

  Perhaps.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Phen

  She’d been in the tower for three days. On each of those days, Midsummer’s Eve and the moons drew ever closer. And on each of those days, her son’s threats came closer to fruition.

  Once more, Phen found herself sprawled on the floor. Bandim loomed over, face twisted in a leer.

  “Bandim, please!” Phen cried, her talons scrabbling on the stone. “Who’s put these thoughts in your head? I’m your mother! You shouldn’t have turned out like this.”

  “Perhaps I wouldn’t have if my mother had been with me!” Bandim roared, stalking towards her. “Perhaps I would have been filled with the joys and wonders of life if you’d been there to show me. But you weren’t!”

  “Bandim, please!”

  Phen cowered, memories returning of the fateful day so long ago when the priestess had saved Mantos’ life. Phen never even knew her name. There wasn’t time to ask, and then...she had given her life for her first-hatched.

  Backing her into a corner, she flinched as Bandim brought a hand up to strike her.

  “You made a deal that took you away from me!” He delivered the slap. “And this is what you’ve received in return. You tried to circumvent the natural way and you’ve been punished for it. Now the path of fate is unfurling at my feet once more. One empress has thrown herself from the topmost window of this tower.” He paused, his mouth twisting. “Why not another?”

  Phen screeched. Bandim raised his hand again. Before he could arc it down to his mother’s face, there was a cough. Phen stared at the doorway. A guard of indeterminate age, middling rank, and unusual height stood in the arch, bearing a long pike. The first of his horns was cracked. He bowed as he spoke.

  “Your Grace,” the guard said. “I’m sorry to intrude, but I have news.” His eyes flicked to the huddled figure on the ground, then back to Bandim. “News that’s best discussed in private.”

  Phen cried out when Bandim kicked the sole of her bare foot.

  “There are no secrets in my family. Not anymore.” He strode towards the guard. “What is it?”

  The guard paled under his burnished helmet. He tried to speak, but no words came forth. Growing impatient as the silence stretched on, Bandim snarled.“Your emperor has commanded you to speak!”

  The guard swallowed and nodded.

  “Your Grace,” he said. “It’s the priestess, Johrann Maa. She’s taken ill, and she’s asked for you. She said it was urgent, otherwise she wouldn’t have called for you.”

  Phen watched as her son’s face fell, for a moment showing a chink of fear. Whoever this priestess was, she was someone he cared for. At least that meant he was capable of some form of love.

  “What?”

  “Yes, Your Grace.”

  Bandim strode past the guard. “Make sure she doesn’t leave,” he said. “If she does, I’ll gut you myself.”

  The guard gulped and nodded. “Yes, Your Grace.”

  With that, Bandim slammed the door. The sound of the key turning in the lock made Phen’s heart sink. She was trapped. There was no escape.

  The weight of her son’s absence weighed so heavily on her that she couldn’t stand. Instead, she lay where Bandim had left her. She stared at the guard. He stared back.

  Then the male cast aside his long pike. Phen winced as it clattered to the floor.

  He hurried to her. “Your Grace,” he said, taking her hand.

  “What’s going on?” Phen asked as he pulled her upright. “Who are you?”

  “A friend,” the guard said, his tallow eyes sparkling with a mix of youth and age and intelligence that made him impossible to place. “That’s all you need to know.” He took the cloak from his shoulders and draped it around Phen’s bony form. “I need you to come with me.”

  “Why?” Phen asked, drawing back from the stranger’s touch.

  Even as she asked the question, a voice in her head responded: Does it matter? If you stay here, you’ll die. Another voice added, What if this is a trap? What if Bandim’s waiting outside, ready to pounce on you? Uncertainty coiled around Phen’s throat like black vines.

  The guard crossed to the door and dug in his tunic pocket.

  “Your Grace,” he said. “Bandim will bring destruction to this empire and the entire world. I intend to stop that from happening, and I need your help to do it.”

  He fished a set of keys from his pocket. As they rattled, Phen’s breath quickened. She didn’t understand what the guard was saying. Destruction to the empire and the world? What she did understand was that this was a chance to flee from her son—and the sharp possibility of this being a hideous trap.

  The guard gave a soft “Yes!” as he found the right key. He slipped it in. The lock clicked as the key turned. The door swung wide, revealing freedom.

  The guard ushered her out. The first thing Phen did was glance in all directions, looking for Bandim’s smug face. But she saw nothing but shadow.

  At the threshold of the stairs, she couldn’t help but stop. She stared at the window. The low moons were framed in it, nearly upon one another. This was the window an empress had thrown herself from, the same window Phen’s sole surviving son had threatened to throw her from to a gruesome death on the cobbles below. Perhaps she was about to be thrown, the guard acting on Bandim’s orders. Perhaps her son was in the courtyard below, waiting to watch her smash.

  The guard took her arm, pulling her forward. His face looked strange, like a wisdom or a secret loomed behind his eyes.

  “Your Grace, we must go to the temple,” he said.

  “The temple?” asked Phen. “Why?”

  The guard took her hand and guided her down the spiraling stairs. “There are things that have happened over the course of the last thousand cycles you cannot understand. Folk have meddled with powers they have no knowledge of.”

  Phen startled at that. Such as me.

  The guard went on, his words echoing off the curving stone walls.

  “There are others who...” His voice softened and, for a moment, he looked vulnerable. “There are others who haven’t done as they should. The world has rotted from the inside out. And if Bandim comes to the throne, it will be destroyed in fire. I need to get to the temple of Light so I can bring Mantos back.”

  “But he’s dead,” Phen said, her eyes filling. “He cannot come back.”

  The guard stopped and looked at her from a lower stair. There was something about his eyes that made her recoil. They were the eyes
of the strange priestess from many cycles before, on the day she brought Mantos back from the dead. It was a look that spoke through centuries and said more than words ever could.

  Phen swallowed. She had dealt in magic before, but it had made no difference. Mantos was dead. In the end, life turned full-circle.

  “Trust me,” the guard said, starting their downward journey again. “Please, trust me and come with me. We need to flee. The story of illness won’t buy us much time.”

  “The story?” Phen asked.

  The guard nodded. “A lie,” he said. “A convenience. Bandim will find out soon enough, and if he catches us, we’ll both be dead.”

  Phen’s heart thundered as they slipped through the courtyard, away from the Grieving Tower, miraculously unseen. She scurried along, swaddled in the cloak of the unknown guard. She hadn’t gathered the courage to ask who he was. Perhaps later. Perhaps when she was out of the long reach of her son’s stranglehold—so long as the guard didn’t kill her first.

  Regardless of her fears, Phen followed in the wake of the guard, driven by desperation.

  Shards of pain stabbed her as they turned a corner, away from the palace proper. They wound through the warren of servants’ quarters and guards’ barracks. Phen flinched at every shadow. How could Bandim do this to her? She loved him. She would have done the same for him, had it been he that tumbled from her arms. They’re my sons, equal to each other.

  That thought stopped her cold. The guard kept running, but Phen couldn’t will her withered legs to move. They were her sons, she corrected herself. Now she had lost them both.

  The guard turned and jerked to a stop. He sped back and took up Phen’s arm, gentle enough for a commoner, but not gentle enough for the dowager empress. In spite of the situation, Phen wrenched herself free. “Don’t touch me,” she snapped.

  The guard’s eyes widened and he grabbed her again, this time with no fringe of delicacy. He pulled her close. “We don’t have time to stand on ceremony.”

  In his sudden anger, his voice shifted. It sounded lighter, more like a female’s. He took a deep breath to calm his ire and briefly closed his eyes.