A Creature of Moonlight

by Rebecca Hahn

  The queen, especially, seems well and determined to befriend me. She finds me at least once every day and takes me into town to buy more material for dresses, or walks with me about the palace grounds. When I am lucky, we sit by a window in her rooms and practice our needlework. She, at least, is a pleasant enough companion. She tells me of the countries beyond the woods, especially the country she comes from. She tells me things I’ve never heard before, not even in Annel’s stories.

  “Are you sure?” I’m asking her one day, almost a week after I’ve arrived. “It’s just—I can scarce imagine such a place.”

  “I’m sure, my dear.” We’re knitting woolen hats for the children of the castle. We’re in her sitting room, the same room where I found her and the king that first night. Even the same dog is here, sleeping in his spot before the fire. “Magic isn’t viewed there as it is here. In my country, old superstitions have been replaced by carefully controlled powers, and a person who uses magic for ill is held to account by the highest judge in the land.”

  “You do have woods, though.”

  “Yes, some, the hard sorts of trees that can grow in our rocky dirt.”

  “And they leave you alone? The voices, the creatures—they don’t lure away your girls?”

  She puts down her needles and yarn and sighs. “Oh, Marni, in my country there is no fear of—of little people or twinkling lights. We’ve moved beyond the old myths of forests filled with sorcery. The power in our lands lies with the people, as it should, as it always will if we’ve the courage and the intelligence enough to grasp it.”

  I lower my own half-finished hat as well. “You don’t fear magic, then.”

  “Not at all, not when it is used correctly. It can be a greatly useful tool. There is nothing inherently wicked or tempting about it. No more than any power.”

  “Your sorcerers use it without any urgings to run to the woods.”

  “Marni,” she says seriously, leaning forward with her little hands tucked fast in her lap, “you needn’t believe anything they’ve said about your birth. The woods are only woods. Your mother was only a frightened girl who did something she oughtn’t have. You are only the king’s long-lost niece, restored at last to your rightful place by his side. All else is nothing, a fairy tale, a country’s collective imagination run amok. Hmmm?” She nods at me, and somehow I nod back, though I imagine I look somewhat odd with my mouth hanging open. She picks up her work with a quick little motion, shifts it into place between her fingers. “Let’s keep on with these; we have ten more to finish by tomorrow.”

  I obey, swallowing my sigh. The dog is snuffling in his sleep, maybe dreaming of something tasty. The sun is high in the sky, so there’s no danger of being called to dinner for hours yet. There’s nothing quite as tedious as knitting children’s hats, but at least it’s good practice. I’m using my own needles, the needles I made; the queen doesn’t know the difference, and they slide themselves into whatever shape I need, swiftly, quietly, so that she never notices.

  While we’re knitting, I listen to them, to the murmurs they send up through my skin. All this past week I’ve been remembering, slow but sure, how the lady taught me thus, to let the needles guide me, to feel that they are extensions of my fingers, doing my bidding as my true hands do. I murmur a song to them as we work, and it is an eerie, lilting tune, just as the lady used to sing. The queen shivers as she listens to it, but she doesn’t tell me to stop. I even catch her murmuring along with me, adding a harmony, weaving a descant into my melody.

  I’m not telling the needles to add in curses, not yet. I’m telling them to wait, wait. And to practice. The designs we make in our children’s hats aren’t as elegant or well stitched as the queen’s bright patterns, but they’re the sorts of designs that could easily contain a spell. Looking at them sends my head spinning off into places I half remember, and when I close my eyes against their twists and turns, I hear the far-off echo of a cry, the sort of cry that makes my bones shudder and my shoulder blades twitch, as if hoping for wings.

  It’s not just with the queen and her pretty yarn that the needles and I practice.

  Soon after I’ve arrived, the queen moves me to a tower room, a suite really, filled with inch-thick rugs and rare oaken desks and chairs. She says it’s a room meant for princesses, and though she doesn’t say it straight out, I think she means my mother lived here once. My bed could fit eight village lasses, and my fireplace seems as if it could warm the whole castle. From my window I can see all across the land: past fields and villages, all the way to the mountains, which are orange now, and red and gold and every shade of brown.

  At night, when the lords and ladies start yawning and crawling up the stairs, I go to this room, and after Sylvie’s changed me into my nightgown, I sit up before the fire and stare into it until I can see how it weaves together, the separate flaming strands.

  I think as little as possible, and I reach out a hand to grasp these strands, pull them out straight and thin. I wrap them around my needles. I listen to them murmur, and they listen to me sing.

  We knit a thing with wings and a beating heart and six sharp talons. It roars and leaps away from us, across my room, out through the window. It flies off, always north, and always I watch until I cannot see it shrinking against the mountains. It’s not a vengeance yet, just a creature of flame, and I reckon it flaps itself into nothingness before it reaches the woods.

  I am not sure who I am on these nights. Part of me is that creature, the one I’ve knit from fire and song. It’s flying free, as I long to fly free. It’s sweeping through the air, as bright as a dream, and it knows nothing of mothers or Gramps or any king.

  It’s my father in me, I guess, though father is such a people word, and that thing—that fire, that longing—is everything people aren’t.

  And the other side of me, the side that puts her hands on the windowsill and feels the indents of other hands, from years ago, and hears another sigh from another girl who watched these same mountains—that side wants only to stay forever, to feel close to that other girl, to know her in a way I never will.

  That part turns from the window when the thing has gone, searching through the trunk against the wall, reading the spines of the books above the fireplace, and lying in bed wondering about that girl. I never find anything in the trunk but my own clothes, and the books on the shelf are only the ones the lords and ladies hand to me as gifts, and all my wondering solves no mysteries.

  Then, just before I fall asleep, the two parts come together in a fiery rage at the man who took that girl from me, and I’m certain again of who I am and what I’m doing here and how delicious it will be when the many-taloned thing looks up at me and sees the purpose in my eyes, and screams, and goes at last to take our lovely prize.

  But the king is gone more often than not since I’ve moved in, and I would have little chance to send my magic his way even if I had figured out how to knit my vengeance. He rides around the kingdom, chopping down the advancing trees. He takes some lords with him, the ones who’ve learned to do more than gossip and scheme. Always he takes the Lord of Ontrei.

  As one week turns to two, and two to three, I never once trade words with that lord. He comes with the king whenever he rides in, and he talks to the other nobles, sure enough. It’s not as though I’m seeking him out, but I do wonder at the way his face never turns my way. I know now what it means that the Lord of Ontrei has offered me his hand. There are three great noble families: Cavarell, from which the disdainful Lord Beau has bought his way to the top; Handon, led by a tottering old man twice the age of my Gramps who scarce can hear a word these days but nonetheless kicks his many grandchildren from here to the woods and back; and Ontrei, the oldest, most powerful house, the house the king keeps at his right hand always, the house he trusts above all else.

  I know the lord’s name now, his own name: Edgar. And I know how the other lords and ladies speak of him: in hushed tones, not from fear, but from respect. Three years ago, a rare
company of bandits found their way through the mountains, down the solitary road to our fields and villages, and laid waste upon the farmers and the townspeople. Edgar of Ontrei, whose holdings are in the north, led a host of soldiers against them, and him only nineteen. He slaughtered them to a man.

  In a country like ours, where there’s little risk of war with other nations, such an act carries everlasting honor.

  I needn’t explain, no doubt, how the single ladies dream of him, nor how the gossip turns his way more than his fair share.

  When the king is in, the lord trains with his own men in the empty fields across the river, and the courtiers on the castle banks sit on blankets and wear their gloves and hats, braving the chilling wind to catch sight of him fencing or wrestling or riding in formation with his soldiers.

  I don’t join them. There’s some would say I’m a foolish girl not to fall for him now that I know his status. He offered me help before anyone else; he talked in the dead of the night of protecting me, of seeing me through all these changes; and some would say I’m downright dumb not to seek him out, not to tell him I’m of a mind to marry now.

  In truth, though, the thought of giving him his kingship, of spending my days fluttering like these ladies, of carrying my uncle’s wife’s glittering smile—it makes my throat close up, and I long to dash for the woods, and take the shining hand of the lady there, and run and run.

  Still, as the weeks go by and the bushes around the castle turn brown and then bare to the wind, I’m settling more and more into my uncle’s court. Every night I stitch away, trying to make a vengeance, but every night there’s something still missing from my creature, some breath, some purpose. I keep on with it, but I’m giving it up earlier every night. With my uncle scarce around to remind me of my intention, and all the comforts of his court to turn me soft and slow, I’ve not the same will for it that I did when I arrived.

  Well, and I’ve not the same misery, either, have I? My Gramps’s absence is a jagged hole inside, deep and unhealing, but the lords and ladies are pleasant enough—and in truth, I look forward to seeing the queen each day. For all that she’s my uncle’s wife, I’ve come to like the small, bright woman.

  I think sometimes that she was lonely before I arrived. She doesn’t speak at dinner, except when the king or a noble says something to her first. She flits around the court with the ladies, laughing and being witty, but she’s not best of friends with any.

  And one chilly day when we’re out walking in the meadows on the far side of the river, she says, out of nowhere, “You know, Marni, you shouldn’t expect that everything will become rose petals and rainbows when you are queen.”

  We’re bundled up against a cold breeze. The last dregs of warmth have slipped away overnight, and we’re left a bitter, hard day. I smile at the queen. “I don’t expect nothing, Aunt.”

  “Anything.”

  “I don’t expect anything. I don’t expect even to become a queen.”

  She laughs, her usual tinkle. “Oh, it’ll happen, Marni. It might seem centuries away, but one day you will wake up, and without you quite knowing how it happened, it will have slipped up on you. There it will be: all you’ve been dreaming of, everything you’ve worked for. Some of it will be marvelous. The dresses, for instance—not to sound coarse, my dear, but the dresses you will love.” She looks down fondly at her own cloth-of-gold afternoon gown. Half the queen’s wardrobe is cloth of gold. “Oh, and the pageantry, and the feasts, and the banter of the court.” She waves her hand about, smiling knowingly.

  “But you must prepare yourself to endure some disappointments. There will be long hours when you’ve almost nothing to do but sit and feel useless. There will be the gossip—there is always gossip; it doesn’t matter who you are, but it stings more when it is your sworn subjects who are doing the gossiping. And there will be times, you know, when you will be at odds with your king, with whomever your uncle decides you are to marry.” She’s perfectly serious now, holding on to my arm and looking close into my face. “You will marry someone kind, Marni, I can make sure of that, but that doesn’t always solve everything, does it? Your uncle is kind to me, but it doesn’t solve everything.”

  I can think of nothing to say to this. She believes every word, I can see it by the way she looks at me so steady. But my uncle, kind? He stood over the body of his sister, I think of saying, with her blood upon his sword.

  This is the woman who believes there is no dragon, no griffins, no magic of any sort in our woods. Even when her husband rides out to battle back the trees that creep overnight into the streets of a village, she laughs at them all and decides they have lost their minds and forgotten the shape of the world.

  If she believes that my uncle is kind, who am I to tell her it’s not so?

  “You’ll have a wonderful time,” she assures me. She lifts her nose to sniff the air. She’s like me in that way, wanting to get every last sensation out of the wind, the grasses, the dried-up wildflowers. “Only be warned that it won’t all be butterflies and diamonds.”

  Because she has been kind to me in truth, I smile at her and say, “If you are what a queen is, Aunt, I’ll count myself honored, and I won’t complain none.”

  “Complain at all.”

  “Yes, I won’t complain at all.”

  “You’re a good girl, Marni. Now,” she says, cheerful again, “shall we finish our walk and go back in for tea? Roddy will be coming home for the winter festivals in only a few weeks, and wouldn’t it be a nice surprise to have your first embroidered pillow ready to show as he walks in?”

  Yes, I am thinking as I follow her away, and won’t it be a nice surprise to have my first knit vengeance to present him with, too?

  But for whatever reason, the thought doesn’t give me the same sharp thrill that it usually does. There is a light snow beginning to fall, the first of the winter season, and far in the distance the mountains are gray and black, bare and stark, ready for the cold.

  Four

  IT’S ONLY A FEW days after that walk with the queen when the lords begin to remember themselves, remember that I’m not just some waif the king brought home to raise, and I’m not just a princess, neither.

  I’m a girl.

  I’m a girl the right age for marriage, and there are plenty of single men at court wanting something more from life. Wanting a kingship, maybe.

  Not that they say it like that. I’m taking my usual morning stroll along the river—there are several of us out today in the lukewarm sun—when the little Lord Bran makes the first attempt. He’s only a year younger than me, so not that little, but he struts more than walks, and his skin is smooth-soft, and he’s never seen the things I have seen in the woods or thought the things I have thought late at night, with the moon looking in on me and Gramps and all the future that was taken from us pulling the breath from my chest. So he’s little in his way, and he comes over to me as I’m going along and starts out with some general chitchat about the king, who’s off now to chop at the trees that have been creeping in from the east.

  Then, as we reach the bridge over the river, all of a sudden he stops and grabs my hand. He’s looking at me with eyes so round and pleading, and he puts my hand to his lips with fervor, near trembling. In my shock, I don’t think to pull away; no man’s ever kissed me before, except my Gramps. This lord’s lips are cool and dry. “How lovely you are today, my lady,” he says, low and intense.

  I pull my hand back; he resists for a moment but then lets it go. “You scarce know me, my lord,” I say.

  “I know what I need to know. Your every movement, your every word speaks of your beauty.” He makes a grab again for my hand, but I’ve stepped back and out of his reach. He moves toward me; I step back again. The other nobles out this morning have gathered in twos or threes, talking and watching us, every one of them.

  “Does the king know you are speaking like this?” I doubt my uncle wants a boy like Bran for his son-in-law.

  “Does he need to? I speak
for you alone. The king does not hold the key to my heart.” And then he is kneeling there on the cold, damp ground, even clasping his hands before his chest, his eyes cast up at me dramatically. “Tell me I may hope, my lady. Tell me I may dream of knowing you better.”

  I am sure there are rules for this sort of thing. I am sure if I’d been raised at court, I would know how to handle this, how to refuse him without offense, without making an enemy of his family or any such thing. They are all watching me still, waiting for me to—what? Jump into the arms of the first lord who offers for me? The first lord as far as they know, anyway. “It’s kind of you to say those things,” I say at last.

  “No kindness, lady, when I speak but the truth.”

  “Yes. Well. I appreciate it, still. But you haven’t the slightest hope, I’m afraid. You’ll always know me as much as you do now, and that’ll have to be enough for you. Good day.” I turn and start off toward the castle, hiking up my skirts as much as the queen would approve of and stepping as quickly as I can in my slippers and stockings.

  It isn’t fast enough, though, because Lord Bran is up and in front of me before I go ten paces. “This isn’t the end,” he proclaims. “I will prove to you, lady, the sincerity of my affections. You will see what I can offer you; you will come to my way of thinking by and by.” His eyes are flashing now, not with passion, but with anger. I suppose it’s not pleasant to be rejected in front of the king’s whole court.

  “Good day, Lord Bran,” I say again, firm. He stands there in my way for five seconds more, and then he bows out of my path. I lift my skirts, not caring now what the queen would say of how high, and I sweep up to the castle and spend the rest of the day until dinner in my rooms, away from them all.