The Moon Child's Wish

by Candy Nicks

  "Too much blood.” Her eyes rolled back as she slid down the wall. “And not enough courage."

  "Not true.” He hoisted her up, into his arms. “The greatest of warriors pale beside the courage you command. Rest for a moment and then we must be away.” The street was still relatively deserted, but would become busy once the traders arrived to open up their stores and stalls. The rising heat-haze signalled another hot day. It was a moment of respite for him too, from the uncertainty of their foolhardy escape. Too many pieces of the puzzle missing for him to know yet if they were doing the right thing.

  He loved holding her when she was exhausted and spent and utterly at his mercy. It didn't happen very often; she was always too aware of the next move to indulge herself in female weakness.

  Would that he could hold her for all eternity. Through the pleasures and the traumas of the years ahead, he wanted to be there, standing at her back, sharing it all with her.

  When she'd rested, he tied up the trader and dragged him behind a stack of refuse containers. Then Carine covered her head with a scarf and they moved anonymously through the City, skirting the hated slave-market with all its bad memories, towards a smaller, side gate. Waiting in the queue to pass through took all of Ancel's reserves of new-found patience. The gate-keeper checked their wrists, and scanned them down with a small-hand held device for implants.

  "Who we got here, then?” he asked cheerfully, hand held out for Ancel's papers.

  "Arnik of Pitloss. General trader. Taking this slave to work the mine-brothels.” Carine stood behind him, head bowed.

  "You've lost a lot of weight.” The gate-keeper glanced at the details on the ID. “What's your secret?” He laughed and patted his pot-belly. “The wife is always nagging me to lose my gut."

  "Get on with it, will you? I don't have all day.” A woman with a caged hen shoved past Carine, knocking her into Ancel. “Some of us have work to do, you know."

  "Okay, okay. Keep your hair on, woman. “Ownership token?"

  Ancel held it out. The guard barely glanced at it. The rest of the queue pushed forward, taking up the woman's chant, impatient to go about their business.

  "Get it moving, will you?” The guard on the other side of the gate called through. “What are you doing in there? Telling ‘im your life story?"

  "Okay, okay. Class A blast-gun, is it?” The gate-keeper peered at the weapon slung over Ancel's shoulder. “Permit?"

  Ancel patted his pockets, searching them one by one to the renewed annoyance of the queue. “I seem to have left it behind,” he said in measured tones. “But I do have this.” He held out a fistful of credits.

  The guard grinned. “That'll do nicely, sir. Have a good day. And look me up when you come back.” He winked at Carine. “Wouldn't mind having a go myself. Only don't tell the wife."

  They walked together through the archway containing a much smaller scanner than the main gate where all new slaves were logged. Outwardly casual, inwardly alert, waiting for the siren to announce them as escapees. The light buzzed, picking them out one at a time. Ancel pressed his elbow against his ribs, opening his wound to make the blood flow. Carine stood, white-faced beside him.

  "Hey wait!"

  Ancel turned slowly to the guard, his hand moving towards the blast gun.

  "You forgot this.” The guard flipped him his ID.

  Ancel managed a tight smile and caught it deftly. Taking Carine by the arm, he steered her through the gate and within seconds they were on the other side, striding away from the City of Gold.

  Ancel didn't look back, and at that moment he couldn't look forward either. The past was a place he would never revisit. The future, cloudy and distant. All he had was now. This moment, walking along this dusty road, with this woman at his side. He watched his feet instead, beating the path, one after the other, taking him to only the Gods-knew-where.

  Neither of them seemed to know what to say. The immediate drama had been played out, but the unresolved issues remained. They trudged across the plain separating the City from the forests in silence, too overwhelmed to speak. In the distance, on the main highway, a convoy of vehicles and transports inched their way slowly to and from the City. Ancel held the blast-gun, armed and ready, but few travellers passed them as they made their way to the relative safety of the tree-line.

  At some point, Carine's hand crept into his. Her light, gentle touch spoke of solidarity for experiences shared, friendship, freedom. Gone was the desperate possessiveness of the Bonding.

  An Eagle Warrior and a Moon-Child. A union so alien it could only be achieved by magic. Ancel shook his head. The Bards had lied. No magic required. Unless you counted the magic they made with their eyes, their mouths, their hearts.

  Carine glanced at him, pensively. “Will you grow out you hair?"

  "A little, perhaps. But never as long as before. I enjoy the freedom. And I like to think I'm beyond such vanities now. Will you?"

  "It is required. Temple maidens do not cut their hair."

  "So, you intend to swap one cage for another? I will never tell you how to wear you hair. Or how to dress. Or what to think."

  "Let it lie, Ancel. I must be near the Source. I need to go back to the Temple."

  He kept his voice soft, kind. Carine didn't do anything lightly. This demon she carried was very real to her. If she needed time to work through it, he'd give it to her. “But you will be sorry to say goodbye? At least tell me that."

  "Yes, Ancel. I will be very sorry to say goodbye. More than you will ever know."

  "It will not be goodbye.” He pulled her nearer, counting her faltering footsteps. “We will rest at the tree-line. Find you a lake to swim in. Make love under the stars. Eat. Make love as the moons set and the sun rises. You will never forget this night, Carine of the Temple."

  Carine lifted their joined hands and kissed their locked fingers. “I will never forget you, Ancel of Faylar."

  "I intend to make sure of that. I too have somewhere to be; a task to perform that I have put off for far too long. You will wait for me?"

  "Ancel...” She turned her face to his, eyes dark and unfathomable. He might know her a lifetime and still she'd be surprising him.

  "No.” He covered her mouth. “You asked me to save you and save you I will. I intend to spend the rest of my life saving you. Go to your Temple, but watch for me and listen for me. I will be in every sunrise and in every sunset. I will be the wind in the trees and the soft rain falling in your hair. I claim you as my own. For all of this life, until death parts us. Will you do the same for me?"

  Again, he stopped her reply. “These are the marriage vows of the Tribes of the Eagle. All that is required is that you repeat them back to me, when you're ready, in truth and sincerity and in love. I will let two seasons pass, Carine. When the snows melt, I will return and await your answer. And until then I will pray with everything I have that it will be yes."

  Epilogue

  They no longer see him, or sing his songs. Ancel of Faylar, of the long yellow hair, hero of the joust and conqueror of women, is no more. In his place is a man cut back to the bone and re-fleshed, muscle by muscle, sinew by sinew. He likes the person he has become. Leaner, calmer, his clothes plainer. Yellow hair cropped short, his voice rusty with disuse. He sits astride his horse and takes one last look at Eyrie, his homeland, before turning the animal west, towards the Settlements.

  Two seasons have passed and now, after the cold silence of winter the snow line is receding, revealing the green meadow slopes. The melt-water streams are alive with fish. Birds are calling for their mates. He bids goodbye to the secluded wooden hut which has been both his home and his sanctuary. He has somewhere to be. A wrong to right, and a promise to keep.

  He rides swiftly, relishing the freedom of travelling just man and horse, a sword at his back, food in his pack and no-one to answer to but himself. He has given up his fine possessions, his status—all those things he thought defined him, but really hid his real self. He hopes she wil
l like what he has become. He hopes the other will forgive him.

  His arrival causes a stir. Despite his new skin, he's still a warrior, proud and upright. He watches their heated debate with faint amusement, scanning the walls for a familiar face. He has no idea who she favours, him or her mother. He hardly remembers what her mother looked like. They watch him, some with alarm, others with interest. The men with weapons held at the ready. Bounty hunters are more feared than the slavers. Slavers need you alive. Bounty hunters are just as happy to deliver a carcass. Eventually, he hears his name, and the large wooden gate swings open.

  There's a mocking deference now, from the few dispossessed Eagle tribesmen who knew him from his former life. They stand aside, but do not lower their heads, meeting his gaze like equals instead of the bondsmen they used to be. Children of the Moon, Kaoni, City folk—the place is a hotchpotch of races living side by side in harmony, old prejudices forgotten. They stand huddled together, suspicious, nervous. He hands down his weapons watched by a group of curious children and turns his horse to face the Elder.

  "You know who I am?"

  "Ancel son of Faylar."

  "Then you know why I am here.” He doesn't miss the accusation in her eyes.

  "You are twelve years too late."

  "I have come to make amends. Take me to her."

  The old woman crosses her arms and stands her ground. In another life she would have cowered before him. Now, even though he sits astride the fiercest of war-horses, she challenges him with no trace of fear. “It's never too late, he says. “Will you offer me hospitality? A place to stable my horse? I would like to see her."

  After a long moment, she nods. “You are welcome, Ancel of Faylar. Come. You will share our table. We will eat and talk and then we shall see."

  He dismounts and watches the lad who takes his horse. The beast steps sideways, tossing its head, unaccustomed to the strange scent. The lad pulls out an apple and deftly holds it just out of reach of the tossing head. Ancel smiles for the first time in two seasons.

  "He will be in good hands,” the old lady says. “Jon has a way with beasts. You will want to bathe and shave?"

  He strokes the thick stubble on his chin and cheek. A hot bath sounds like heaven after the self-imposed purgatory of bathing in icy streams.

  "I would like that,” he says, guessing that they needed time to talk to his daughter. To tell her that her father had come for her, at last. If the truth is told, he's nervous too. He'd always assumed that she'd run to him sobbing with gratitude that he'd deigned to bestow attention on her, and waste no time in leaving with him. But now, as he scans the crowd for a twelve year old girl with long yellow hair, he wonders if perhaps he's doing the right thing. The Settlements are a place of freedom. Somewhere a person can determine their own destiny. She has a life here that has never included him.

  And why should she want to go with him now of all times, when he's given up everything he was and comes to her with nothing? He can't even offer her a proud name. It's a question he asks over and over as he bathes, shaves and eats. When the last of the bread has been broken, the Elder turns to him.

  "Ancel of Faylar. We heard of your capture. You are much changed."

  "As are you, Tragiria.” He recognises her now. A loyal servant of Faylar. The pieces of the puzzle start to fall into place. “You were sent to watch over her?"

  "Your father wanted her destroyed. You have your mother to thank that your daughter is still alive. And where were you all these years?"

  "I've paid for my neglect. Call it a judgement of the Gods. Now I want to put things right and provide for her."

  He hasn't reckoned on having to fight for what he's always seen as his. His daughter belongs more to this woman, the only mother she'd known, than to him.

  "You are her father,” the woman says, her voice heavy with irony. “She is bound to do as you say. You have plans for her?"

  "Yes, I have a plan. But she will not be forced to anything. The choice will be hers."

  Tragiria sags with relief. His daughter has not missed out on love—that he can see. “Tell me what you intend,” she says, observing the old protocols. After life at the O and then months alone, he's having difficulty keeping up with the forced formality of the speech. It sounds too pompous in this place of freedom.

  "I intend to start a new Settlement, further to the west. A new beginning for anyone who cares to join us."

  "And who will walk by your side. Be mother to Naima?"

  For a moment he's speechless. His daughter has a name—she who is loved. He swallows down the lump in his throat. “You named her well."

  "She is worthy of that name. You did not answer my question."

  "There is one. I have spoken the vows. I await her answer."

  "I pray that it will be yes. Come, Naima is in the solar."

  He's rooted to the spot. Suddenly wants his finery back, to hide behind. Will this man in simple home-spun be enough for her? “What did you tell her?"

  "That her father is here."

  "No. What did you tell her?"

  "She knows that you were a great knight, brave of spirit and true of heart. Has any of that changed?"

  "No."

  "Then she will not be disappointed. Come. You will have much to say to each other."

  * * * *

  They have nothing to say to each other. Two strangers stand face to face, the few feet between them a gap of a million miles. She's tall, grey-eyed. Golden braids fall to her knees. A beauty in waiting, if he's any judge. She favours her mother with her straight nose and dusting of freckles. He in the way her chin proudly lifts as he walks into the room, taking his measure.

  Now that the moment is here, he has no idea what to do. Eventually, he finds a rueful smile and reaches into his pocket. “You know who I am?"

  "They say you're my father."

  "I am."

  She purses her lips. “To be a father you have to be here."

  "Not necessarily,” he says. “I've bought you a gift."

  "They told me you were a great lord.” She glances at his clothes, then, suspiciously, at the box. “You don't look like a lord."

  "And you don't look like the daughter of a lord. So that makes us even. Do you want it?"

  Her fingers twitch and he watches, with fond amusement, the struggle not to give in. A child on the cusp of womanhood. A pang of grief for all the lost years grips his chest. “Take it,” he says dropping it into her palm. “It belonged to your grandmother, a great lady. She wanted you to have it."

  "Really?” Fingers trembling, she opens the box and gasps with delight at the small jewelled brooch. A true daughter of Faylar would have had many of them of all shapes and sizes. “It's beautiful,” she says. “Can I wear it?"

  "Of course.” He moves to pin it to her; a spontaneous gesture that's met with a brisk backward step and a wary eye. Too soon, he thinks, backing away. She's not handing her trust over easily, or being bought with trinkets. She looks as if she wants to hand back the brooch, but the child in her wins that particular battle and she pins it excitedly to her blouse. “I'd like to show it to my friends, may I?"

  "In a while. Sit down, I want to talk to you."

  She frosts over again, feeling for the chair and lowering herself without taking her eyes from him. He curses himself for sounding like a tutor about to remand a wayward pupil. “Naima,” he says, sitting opposite her, elbows on knees. “I wanted to see you, but now I'm here I really have no idea what to say. I wasn't expecting such a ... grown up young lady."

  He manages to keep a straight face when she stiffens her spine and folds her hands in her lap. “You really think me grown up?"

  "All these years I've thought of you as a baby.” He laughs. “Yes, you are very grown up."

  "You didn't want me?"

  It's a little soon for the truth. “I wasn't given the choice.” He leaves it at that, glad that she doesn't push. “I've come to offer you a place in my house."

  "In
Eyrie?” Her eyes light up, then the hope fades as she reads his face. How much of this will she understand?

  "It's a long story. I'm going west to the new Settlements. To start a new dynasty. I would like my daughter with me."

  "If I don't want to go...?"

  "No-one will force you. I can't take you straight away. There are things to do first. But in a year, perhaps two, I will have a place for you to live. You can visit us perhaps, make your decision then."

  It's more than she can take in. She fingers the brooch and bites her lip. He feels too young to be her father. They part without touching and retreat to sort out unfamiliar feelings. From the window, he watches her show off the brooch to her friends. Catches her furtive glance as she looks back. It's a start.

  At dusk the next day, rested and fed, he says his goodbyes, prepares his horse and retrieves his weapons. Time to move on to the next stage of his journey. How he stayed away, he has no idea, but two seasons he promised her, and two seasons she's had. The long wait has stretched his patience paper-thin. He asked a question and his whole life depends on her answer. Naima waits with Tragiria at the gate, a cup of ale in her hand to speed him on his journey. A task befitting her status as a daughter of Faylar.

  He bows his head in thanks and drinks it down, handing her back the cup. “Your hospitality has been most generous. I thank you."

  Tragiria bows in return, nudging Naima to do the same. Formalities complete, he turns his horse for the gate.

  "Take me with you.” Naima flies after him, hair streaming in the breeze.

  He reins in hard, swinging the horse sideways to stop her being trampled. “What did you say?"

  "Take me with you, father. I want to go with you. I want to go now.” She ducks behind a low fence and pulls out a bundle. “Look, I've packed my things. If you go, I'll never see you again."

  "It's a dangerous world out there. I need time build a home. Somewhere you will be safe. I'll come back for you, I promise."

  "You won't. You'll go and then forget me again, like you did before. Take me now. I'm a Faylar and I'm not afraid. I should be with you."