Lost Moon

by Dana Davis

Place them on the Pewter Throne, came the repeat answer.

  Think, Larisa, think. Another question.

  But her talisman suddenly fell free from the Eye’s grip and she staggered back from the rock. The motion caught her off guard and she fell from the platform, landing on her backside. She scrabbled to her feet, gripped her talisman again, and started toward the platform. Before she could reach it, the ground shook violently and threw her down once more. The Eye cracked and crumbled into tiny silver pieces, taking the stone sword and pedestal with it, so that only a pile of rubble was left on the platform

  I destroyed it. I destroyed the Eye. But how? Larisa stumbled to her feet and stood dumbfounded for several moments, trying to figure out what she had done wrong.

  “Great, Larisa,” Patrice said. “You broke it.”

  She whirled on her sister, who stood several feet behind her with Kepriah and Jakon on either side. “How did you get past the guardians?”

  “Your guardians are just a pile of stone now.” Patrice seemed satisfied with that for some reason.

  Jakon stepped closer. “Did you get an answer?”

  “Somewhat.” Larisa frowned. “It said we need to find a girl and boy. We have to place them on something called the Pewter Throne. And we have to do that before we can locate the lost moon. That’s all I could learn before this happened.” She motioned to the rubble. “Any idea what it means?”

  “The Pewter Throne,” Kepriah mused. “I have heard that before.”

  Jakon nodded. “Yes, First Noble. Abandoned City was once called the Cities of Pewter and Stone, before the two ruling houses merged.”

  “Yes, I heard some old soldiers mention it. The place was abandoned around my birth.”

  Larisa studied her eldest sister. “Our births. That must have some significance.” She felt her elder sister’s assurance through the link. “What happened to the royals who lived there?”

  Jakon shook his head. “Survivors abandoned the palace once they realized the place was no longer habitable.”

  Just like a royal to abandon their people when things get tough. At least, from what Larisa had heard about them. “The Eye told me to look for the boy and girl in the ‘ruins of war’. That must mean Abandoned City.”

  Jakon started to lead them out of the clearing. “Those ruins cover just about the entire area from Cities of Sleep to Abandoned City.”

  Kepriah huffed. “That war has been going on for over twenty-five years, much longer if you count the tiffs near the borders. Two royal families vying for power or land or something. No one even remembers. Damon’s father nearly got caught up in it but there was nothing left to rule so he decided against it.”

  “Damon’s family did not escape it, First,” Jakon said as he led them past the crumbled statues. “His money woes are a direct result of the eastern war. It was not successful for anyone.”

  Kepriah huffed. “Yes, it was doomed from the beginning. At least, from the stories I have heard.” She eyed Jakon who nodded.

  “What’s the difference? I mean, how can any war be successful?” Larisa said. Healers tried to avoid death whenever possible. Warriors seemed to thrive on it.

  “A successful war means the winner will get spoils. The more spoils, the more money warriors receive. Only a stupid warrior goes to battle just for the hell of it, knowing they may never receive payment.”

  “Mercenaries,” Patrice uttered.

  “Some call us that.” Kepriah led the way now.

  As she followed, Larisa felt her eldest sister’s frustration and there was little she could do but add her own. Find an unknown boy and girl somewhere near miles and miles of war ruins, get them to Abandoned City. Marry them and put them on a Pewter Throne that might not even be standing anymore. Oh now, that will not be an impossible task. Her frustration earned glances from both sisters but she ignored them.

  Patrice gave a look back to the collapsed guardians once they passed. “Why would anyone live in a ruined area?”

  “Easterners are a stubborn lot, Third. Many stay with their homes even if it means their lives.”

  “That’s stupid, Jakon.”

  “I agree. But they are also a very proud people. Their land has been passed down for many generations and each one makes an oath to the previous to keep and protect that land for future generations. That is a very difficult tradition to break. Most would rather die than abandon the homes of their ancestors.”

  Patrice’s eyes widened as they reached the jabbers. “But we can’t just venture into a war zone.” Fear caressed Larisa’s senses and she stepped closer to her younger sister.

  “We will not have to.” Kepriah stroked her jabber when it bobbed its ugly head and sputtered in annoyance at being tied up. “I have been watching the wars. All of them. The scepter seems to be focused in that direction. The eastern war is over, since those who started it are long dead and those left could not even remember why they were killing each other. A few raiders are still in the area but we should be able to avoid them.”

  Patrice’s fear receded a bit and she focused blue eyes on Larisa. “What do children have to do with the hoisting?”

  “Wish I knew.” Larisa did not even know how old these children were but she guessed bordering adulthood if they were to take a throne.

  Kepriah sniffed and looked out toward the ocean. “Time we found out.” With that, she held her scepter up toward the east.

  Larisa watched but, like always, she never saw visions from the scepter. She noticed Patrice staring into the ring, so she concentrated on her talisman to see if she could get one of her own. War had to do with destruction and her talisman seemed bent on that at times. Healer and destroyer.

  The three stood that way for several moments until Larisa finally got a glimpse of a dirty, skinny boy. He bartered his meager carpentry services for food. She could only see him from behind, and he wore a hat so she could not tell the color of his hair. The building he stood next to had war scars with rubble strewn on the ground. People, mostly women, children, and a few old men, wandering the littered streets. Once the image faded, Larisa brought her head up to three sets of eyes, two blue and one golden, studying her.

  “You saw something?” Patrice said.

  “A boy, but I did not get a good look at him. I do not know where he is but it looked like a war-ravaged village. Mostly women and children there. How about you?”

  “Nothing. This ring is stubborn.” Patrice shook her hand as though that might solve her problem.

  Larisa hid a grin at her younger sister’s envy and turned to Kepriah. “You?”

  “I saw a girl on what appears to be on a farm. I did not see anyone else with her, but what I could make out looked like the place had been hit by war. The house is still standing though.”

  “Even if we find these kids, we have no idea how to perform the hoisting.” Patrice was looking at Kepriah. She deferred to their older sister more, most days anyway.

  “We follow the Eye’s instructions. Each thing we do reveals more about the hoisting.”

  Patrice shook her head. “You guys really need phones here.”

  “Phones?”

  “Means of communication. Over great distances.”

  “Ah.” Kepriah started away from the ocean. “We have messengers.”

  Patrice snorted. “Yeah, right. What, on jabbers?” Kepriah cocked her head to one side and her dark braid fell over her shoulder. “You’ve got to be kidding me. Jabber Express?” Patrice shook her head and mumbled to herself.

  “Nobles, we need to keep moving.” Jakon’s golden eyes narrowed with concern onto Kepriah. “Are you strong enough, First?”

  “I can get us to the east.”

  It was Larisa’s turn to be worried. “What about Nyanan?”

  Jakon studied her. “I doubt she has had time to locate you. But you must report anything unusual to each other and to me. Even if it seems trivial.”

  “Provided we remember it?”

  “Yes, Second. T
here is that.”

  Chapter 22

  Even before Kepriah entered Lost Jabber Tavern, the sour smell of home-brewed wine and dirty bodies caught in her nose. Patrons congregated in all areas, some laughing, others playing games with painted stones and carved wooden pieces. She saw no men in this establishment. Not one. Strange.

  Her party entered behind her and secured the only vacant table. This one sat near the window and gave them a sweeping view of the tavern and the kitchen door, as well as the entrance. Stairs near the back wall led up to the second floor. Rooms for let? The thought of a bath and a nice, warm bed made Kepriah suddenly very tired. Dust and sweat stuck to every exposed part of her body and she shifted her weight on the creaky, wooden chair, relieved to be off weary feet. They had searched every farmhouse from the beginning of the wreckage on the western border to what was left of this village with no bloody luck finding the girl or boy from their visions.

  A plump woman entered from the kitchen and stepped to their table. She smelled like fresh bread, lard, and sweat. “What you be wantin’ here?” She stared at Jakon, who appeared as a local farmer, thanks to Patrice’s camouflage spell. “I dunna want no trouble. This here’s a peaceful establishment. Women and young’uns.” Hands went to her thick hips. “And I intend to keep it thataway.” One hand crept into her apron pocket to show off a large butcher’s knife. The motion was quick but her message clear.

  Kepriah eyed the woman as she kept a hand on her scepter, concealed by Patrice’s magic to look like a plain staff. “We are not here for trouble, Mistress.”

  The matron studied Jakon with a skeptical gaze and Kepriah decided to take no chances. She uttered a magical word that disappeared from her memory as soon as it left her lips. The matron’s will was very easy to control compared to Larisa and Patrice’s and she fought a groan at those memories. “We are simple travelers with simple needs.” Kepriah smiled. “We are hungry and tired.”

  “Very well.” One hand motioned a girl to pour wine into vacant mugs. The large woman dusted one hand on her apron and scurried to the kitchen.

  Kepriah took up a mug of sour ale. She had drunk worse. Her eyes took in those around her. This place had the most people they had seen since they entered the ravaged areas. Women, with a few children scattered among them, just as the tavern matron had said. No boys even, except very young ones who still hung on their mother’s teats or skirts. War was not kind to anyone. Many of these women were so drunk she doubted they would know where to aim a knife if trouble came. A few took notice of Jakon. One waved to him and raised her mug, but he kept eyes on his ale. Patrice, Larisa, and Kepriah had dressed as farmers and Patrice kept Jakon’s true appearance hidden with magic.

  Patrice looked nervous and fidgeted with her mug, so Kepriah gave her a sharp hand gesture and a warning glance. This woman, Third Noble, was no longer that sniveling heap of a girl. They had learned a lot about the Faytools since that first day when Sorinieve threw them together in the cave. Kepriah had little patience in the beginning with her weeping Third sister. Now and then, Patrice scolded Kepriah for her starkness almost as much as Kepriah admonished Larisa for her congeniality. Despite her jumpiness now, the Earth woman had grown stronger after her ordeal at Damon’s, something Kepriah admired.

  When Patrice stopped fidgeting, Kepriah gave a satisfied nod and leaned back in her chair to give the illusion of inattentiveness.

  “I was out and about yesterday,” a woman in her middle years slurred from the next table. A babe latched onto her exposed and sagging breast. “Dinna see Hensy’s girl nowhere.”

  There are men somewhere. That infant cannot be more than a few months old.

  The woman glanced at Jakon. When he kept his head down, eyes on his mug as though he did not care about anything around him, she went back to her conversation. “We need young’uns to re-build. This one,” she indicated the sucking infant, “I found squallin’ in a deserted wagon. I fed many babes in my day so I figured what’s one more. Right?” Two other women at her table grunted and nodded, looking as though they might fall over in a drunken stupor any minute.

  “Took a while for him to get the milk going but he did it. My brave little’un.” She smiled at the infant, revealing several missing teeth. “Anyhows, I heard Hensy’s girl was seen ‘round her father’s farm. Or what’s left of it. Ain’t no place for a girl alone.” A look of disgust crossed her features. “But I dinna find her. Dinna see her body no place, neither. I s’pose she took off when her kin got killed. Poor child. Or raiders could have stole her. A girl, all alone like that.”

  Kepriah wondered about this girl. The Moirai had strange ways of revealing what They wanted a person to know, and she had learned to pay attention to even the most benign surroundings. The look she got from her sisters and Jakon confirmed that they thought the same thing. This girl had to be the one. Hensy’s girl. They could find out from the tavern mistress just where this farm was located. But in the morning. It was too dark now and they needed rest. If the girl had survived this long, she could make it one more night.

  ****

  The weathered door to Hensy’s farmhouse stood open amid the scattered and ravaged belongings on the porch, one hinge completely torn off. Two male heads displayed on stakes framed either side of the porch. From the looks of them, this happened a few days ago.

  “Blood-sucking bastards,” Kepriah uttered. The war had ended long ago. These were rogue fighters having fun in the name of war, those that gave a bad reputation to legitimate mercenaries like Kepriah. Like I used to be.

  Her sisters let out sounds of disgust. Patrice paled and turned away from the severed heads. Kepriah watched them a moment but both kept their stomachs under control. For now, anyway.

  How many homes destroyed? How many families displaced? Men, women, children, innocent in this battle for power. Power that no longer existed because there was nothing left. Too much carnage. And how many years would it take to rebuild? She never thought too much about the aftermath when she worked as a warrior-for-hire. She followed orders, fought against enemy warriors, and landlords took care of rebuilding.

  “Not yet, Larisa,” she said when her sister aimed the talisman at one of the heads. “There might be someone here. Do not spook them.” Larisa nodded and shoved the talisman back into her tunic.

  Kepriah motioned to Jakon and looked at Patrice. When her youngest sister nodded that her magic still protected him, Kepriah held the scepter in front of her body like a shield and stepped onto the porch. The wood creaked from her weight and she paused. No sounds of movement. She led her new family inside, pausing a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dim light. A lantern stood on a table near the door and she inspected it, the wick only half-used and animal fat still within the reserve. One sniff told her the fat had not gone rancid.

  They crossed through the main room, with toppled furniture and torn curtains, and into the kitchen. Flour and lard sat on the table. A large pot hung over the hearth, filled with boiling water. Carrots, onions and potatoes sat in a wooden tub on the counter and a large knife lay on the floor.

  Someone is still living here? Kepriah motioned everyone still. After a few moments, she heard something. Movement? Shuffling.

  “Who is here?” She motioned for Jakon to cross to the other side, just in case whomever it was decided to attack while she held her scepter ready. “We are not helpless farmers.” Another rustle caught her ears. It came from beneath the counter, behind one of the tightly slatted doors. “Come out. I know you are there.”

  A whimper as a skinny, freckled arm pushed the cabinet door open. Kepriah yanked a girl to her feet and wide, fearful eyes stared back. “Please dunna kill me.” Congealed blood peaked from beneath dirt on the girl’s forehead.

  The girl from my vision. She cannot be more than seventeen years old, if that. The smell of fresh urine found Kepriah’s nose and she lowered her scepter. “We will not hurt you. You live here?” The girl nodded but kept her face down-turned. Kepriah wondered
if someone had raped this girl. “You Hensy’s girl?”

  Hollow green eyes came up. “They killed him. My brother, too. I ran. Come back this mornin’ to bury ‘em.” She spoke abruptly as Kepriah had heard many times after such trauma. At least this girl has wits enough to speak. She glanced at the hearth pot. And feed herself. Which was promising.

  Larisa stepped forward and the girl pressed her back to the counter. “It’s all right. I am a healer. Let me take a look at that wound.” When the girl failed to move, Larisa added, “Please?”

  The girl nodded and allowed Larisa to guide her to a chair, where she sat staring at the flour can on the table.

  “I will finish the coffin, young mistress,” Jakon said in a kind voice. “We can have a burial this afternoon.” Her hollow eyes found him and she nodded again. She seemed grateful that someone took charge, even a complete stranger.

  “I dunna know where the rest of ‘em—where the bodies be.”

  Patrice put her hand over her mouth and Kepriah motioned her to be still. They could not spook this girl. They needed her. And right now, she needed them. Kepriah then motioned Patrice to the pot over the hearth. Her sister got the message and stepped to the boiling water. That should keep her distracted.

  Worried eyes fell on Patrice. “I got no more food.”

  “We are not going to steal it,” Kepriah assured her. “My sister will help cook.”

  The girl watched as Patrice dropped carrots and onions into the pot and she relaxed.

  “What is your name?” Larisa used a soft voice, one mothers often used to comfort small children. She took up a rag, dipped it into a cup of water that sat near the sink, and began to wash the girl’s forehead, pushing her red hair back from a freckled face.

  “Gail.”

  Larisa smiled. “That’s a pretty name.”

  “Mama give it to me afore she died. It was her mama’s name.”

  “Mine is Larisa. This is Kepriah and Patrice. My sisters. And that’s Jakon.”