by Jessica Daw
Cross the Silver Moon
Jessica Daw
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Epilogue
Chapter One
Lena
“Why on earth does a war in Nyput mean I have to get married?” I knew that my marriage for political advantage was inevitable. Despite what the Council thought, I wasn’t stupid. But I was only fifteen, and had no idea why a war in a country I’d never seen would mean I had to get married.
“Betrothed,” Father corrected patiently. He’d taken me out riding, as he did almost every day when he visited me at the country estate, which was infrequent at best. He was hardly ever in Vansland, let alone at my private prison of an estate.
He rode his bay stallion Bard. I’d always been of the opinion that Father looked most natural sitting on Bard, both of them handsome and rugged with tousled hair, though Bard’s mane was black and Father’s hair was dark blond. The wrinkles, which sometimes seemed so pronounced in Father’s face when he was fulfilling the courtly duties of being King Aleksander Nordskov II of Vansland, especially when talking to the Council, faded until he seemed closer to the adventuring wanderer he was at heart.
“Betrothed,” I repeated with a scowl, urging Rune to go faster. Rune was a gift from Father, my beautiful black stallion, at least two hands taller than Bard, which I took no end of pleasure in. He and I had been together for five years, since I was nine years old and he was a foal. Other than my cousin August, he was my only friend—unless Father counted as a friend. Or Dagmar, my maid, but she was paid to be with me so I didn’t figure she counted.
“You can’t be surprised by this, Lena.”
“Yes I can!” I disagreed vehemently. “I do not wish to be married!”
“Betrothed,” he corrected yet again. “The law is very clear that an unmarried woman cannot reign. If you wish to prevent the Council from naming August as my heir, then you must become betrothed. I have already selected a good man, and the Council approves.”
“Of course you’ve already selected a good man, and the Council knows. Likely even Mother knows, and she always knows everything last!” I exclaimed. I urged Rune to gallop even faster, the dappled summer sunlight flashing spasmodically over his inky mane, blinding even through the thick canopy of the forest that swallowed my prison-estate.
“Lena, be reasonable,” Father said, Bard effortlessly keeping pace with Rune. Father, though not one for emotional displays (unlike me), was not the most patient man. He’d told me on more than one occasion that I tried his patience more than the Council itself. I knew that had to be an exaggeration, because nothing in the world was more trying than the Council. “You haven’t even met the man.”
“That’s the point! You wish to Bind me for life to a man I have never even laid eyes on!”
“At least let me tell you his name!” His patience was failing. Welcome to how I feel, Father.
“Be my guest.”
“Espen Kjeldsen, the second son of the Duke of Sterkhjem.”
Sterkhjem, the capital of Tryllejor, the country bordering Vansland to the north—where I had never been, despite its proximity. For the past eight years, I’d scarcely left our country estate. It was not much of an exaggeration to call it my prison. “Espen Kjeldsen.” He wasn’t even from Nyput, the country whose war precipitated this marriage. I despised politics. Old men signing away my life like I was nothing more than a rock to be passed from one place to another.
My repetition of the unknown man’s name seemed to encourage Father. “He is a great friend of the royal family, intelligent, very talented war mage—and he’s handsome,” Father added with a tinge of discomfort.
I snorted. “August is handsome and a talented war mage and intelligent and a friend of our royal family and I have no interest in marrying him.”
“August is your cousin and he is nearly as wild as you, Lena. Espen is a gentleman.”
“Gentlemen are dull,” I countered. I so preferred riding with August, especially at that moment. My cousin was my same age, and had been raised more or less as my brother, since his father, my father’s brother, had started a rebellion against Father while Father was away putting down an uprising in distant Sikuvok. August’s rebellious parents had been executed by order of the Council when he was seven. I didn’t like thinking about that.
“Your husband will be a gentleman,” Father reminded me sternly.
“August is a gentleman, and he is not dull.”
“You’re contradicting yourself, Lena. Please be reasonable, for once.”
For once. I knew Father didn’t intend the words to be a reminder. It had happened eight years ago, but it haunted me every day. How could it not? I wore the punishment, iron bonds encasing my wrists, stealing away my magic before it could reach my hands and be worked. Dagmar, my tireless maid, siphoned away the energy build-up once a week, donating it to worthy causes.
This wasn’t related anyway. I wasn’t acting out with magic. I hadn’t hurt anyone, not this time.
“Espen has agreed to come, and will stay for a short time. He wishes to become acquainted with you, and familiarize himself with the kingdom and the Council.”
“Excellent. I can marry a Council toady,” I said scathingly. Whether or not Father meant it, the reminder had hurt, and I couldn’t quite move past it. I could not work magic, a punishment usually reserved only for the worst of criminals. I was trapped almost constantly on our country estate, visiting our palace in the city rarely. Mother spent the summers at the country estate, to avoid the heat, and August came often, but other than that? Father was gone, he was always gone. And I was alone.
“Lena! You will meet Espen and you will marry him and that is final!”
Father, as always, was right. I was powerless to change his words, powerless to make them untrue. That didn’t prevent me from riding off with August the morning of Espen’s arrival.
August’s horse Skygge was my Rune’s brother, wilder and blacker than my stallion, though both loved racing. Like Father and his stallion Bard, August matched his horse. In other aspects, though, August little resembled Father, despite being Father’s nephew. August’s hair was dark, his eyes pale blue, intense under his dark brows. I’d always thought he looked like a hunter-king, belonging to a wild land like Sikuvok or Nyput. He was very good at war spells, as any nobleman worth his salt should be. Meaning I was not worth my salt, but I didn’t dwell on that. Too much.
Personality-wise, August’s looks suited him wonderfully. His eyebrows drew together exactly as I’d known they would when I informed him of Espen’s arrival. His fists clenched around his reigns, his iron signet ring with the Nordskov family seal gleaming dull
y in the sunlight.
“Father said he’s coming to familiarize himself with the kingdom and the Council,” I said, throwing the words over my shoulder as we raced towards the ocean. The sky overhead was flawless summer blue. August preferred winter.
“Burn the Council, and Espen with it,” August said gruffly. “How could you let King Aleksander do that to you? You should have stopped him.”
“What could I do? I’m a helpless princess, I can’t even do magic, and he’s the king, besides being my father.”
August’s stallion Skygge pounded faster with his master’s agitation. “Lena, you cannot turn into one of those mealy-mouthed proper girls, or you and I will both hate you. You know that is what Espen will want you to be. We are never enough for them. Nothing we ever do is enough for those who think they’re so rich and powerful.” That was a familiar theme for August, and I ignored the words after you and I will both hate you.
Rune kept up with his brother, hooves flinging up the soft summer grass as he raced. My skirt, embroidered with traditional symbols of protection, flapped in the wind. August was wearing clothes without symbols, which no noble ever did. He wore wards of his own design, a leather cord around his neck ending in a large diamond packed with protective spells. The diamond had been his father’s. I couldn’t tell if August wore any wards besides the diamond, which I thought was foolish, but I said nothing. I hated it when Dagmar or Mother nagged me about not wearing enough wards—they usually wanted me to wear lightweight armor engraved with protective symbols on top of the rest of my wards.
“What should I do?”
“Fight. Make Espen hate you so he leaves.” August’s brows were still drawn together, his expression fierce, though he stared straight ahead. We’d reached the ocean, and he seemed inclined to ride on, but I was feeling contrary and reined Rune in, swinging down and landing on the rocky beach.
August followed suit.
“He isn’t here for me. He’s here for the kingdom,” I said, kicking a rock into the water, which looked deep and cold despite the bright sky.
“You’re just going to give up?”
I abruptly vocalized thoughts I hadn’t known I’d entertained. “Well, maybe I’ll . . . like him.” I started boldly, then faded into a whisper as August’s scowl deepened.
“I’ve met Espen Kjeldsen, you know,” August informed me with bitter sarcasm, a tone I heard fairly often from him. “He’s a friend of Kristian Bjørnes—the wild prince of Tryllejor.”
“What’s he like?”
“Kristian? He’s wild,” August repeated, as if I were slow.
I answered him as if he were slow. “No, Espen.”
August shrugged, moodily throwing a rock into the ocean, blasting it with a jet of air just as it hit the surface, making it stream forward and kick back a fountain of spray that misted us. Skygge was restless, snorting and stamping. “I don’t know why you care. He’s coming to steal your kingdom from you, turn you into a powerless nothing. He’ll turn you into your mother and I really will hate you.”
“I’ll never be my mother!” I said, beginning to get angry. I’d come with August to escape, and I was getting attacked again. It shouldn’t have surprised me—Father thought I was contrary, but I had nothing on August. Besides, I knew I couldn’t blame August. My parents had allowed the Council to execute his, I had to remember that. How could he forget? How could he not resent them? It was remarkable that he didn’t already hate me.
Still. It was a low blow, to say I’d turn into my mother. Not that Mother was a bad person. But I never wanted to be like her, a hypochondriac who almost never left her rooms and hated being involved in any important decisions or discussions. She loved fine clothing and gossip more than anything, and she had not protested when the Council had decreed I would not work magic. She hadn’t even protested the decree that the Council’s decision would not be reviewed until I was eighteen years old.
Though I couldn’t exactly blame her for that.
I wanted to blame someone.
“Standing down and doing nothing is an awful lot like your mother!” August shot back.
My magic burned in my veins, and my iron cuffs turned icy, absorbing my energy before it could become an outlet for my feelings. “Couldn’t you be a little sympathetic, for once in your life?”
That took him aback. His fists were clenched, but he couldn’t meet my eyes. “Do you want to marry Espen?” he asked, his voice very low.
“I don’t know! I haven’t met him!”
“Then go meet him!” August roared, flinging his head up, eyes burning into me. “Go!”
“Fine!” I yelled back, swinging onto Rune and galloping away.
I left Rune in the hands of the stable boys, not wanting to agitate him by staying. I dug my fingers into the skin around my cuffs, knowing from eight years of experience that they would not give in the slightest. It was a habit I couldn’t break.
Storming into the estate, I walked blindly through elaborately decorated rooms I had memorized. Couldn’t August understand? I didn’t want to stay trapped here forever. Maybe Espen could help me escape.
Then I doubted myself. August knew better than me. Maybe I really would be better off behaving hideously and trying to scare my Trylle suitor away.
What choice did I have? And wouldn’t it be wiser to at least meet Espen first?
I reached my room, half-blinded by the oranges and reds of the décor, as I always was. August had helped me redesign it a year before, in colors I’d liked at the time. It was like the sunset—the paint on the wall showed a sunset that changed over the course of the day from low on the eastern horizon and rose to the middle of the sky we’d painted and then sunk to the western side. Pretty enough.
How could I be mad at August? He’d spent a whole summer helping me paint my room. Of course he had my best interests in mind.
And Father. Father was always gone.
I was set on frightening Espen away. I had to be.
“There you are, naughty chit!” Dagmar made her appearance. She had been my maid since birth, and, as far as I could remember, hadn’t changed a bit. Her smile split her wrinkled face, showing off her toothless gums, which perfectly complimented the rest of her, old as the sea and just as irrepressible. It was a good sign that she was smiling. There was still time to get me ready. “Always late,” she added, shaking her head fondly.
“I went riding with August,” I told her, sitting at my vanity. Dagmar immediately set to work. She preferred traditional hair-dressing to the different spells that fine ladies used, saying it was wicked to waste energy on something as foolish as hair when it was easy enough to do it natural.
“Mmm.”
“He doesn’t approve of my betrothal with Espen.”
“Mmm.”
“We’re not even betrothed yet.”
“Mmm.”
“And I haven’t even met him. What if I like him?”
“Mmm.” Dagmar was never terribly communicative while she styled my hair.
I stared at my reflection in the mirror. What would Espen think? Would he see some ill-bred, countrified misfit?
“I want to wear long sleeves today,” I told Dagmar, eyeing my iron cuffs.
“Lord Espen already knows you are forbidden from working magic,” she said, meaning she had already chosen a dress for me to wear.
August’s words of mealy-mouthed proper girls ran through my head. “I don’t care. I want to wear long sleeves.”
Dagmar pouted, her thin chapped lips looking like crinkled paper, working on my hair with renewed vigor. She’d nearly tamed the dark blond mess into something recognizable as styled, a braid circling my head like a crown, a few graceful curls that she’d heated with energy from her finger escaping artfully.
My maid shrugged, even as she smiled triumphantly at my reflection. “Suppose it doesn’t matter. You’ll steal his breath no matter what you’re wearing.”
I rolled my eyes, though secretly I was pleased. I
knew that part of the reason I was kept on the country estate was for my own safety. Being very beautiful in a society of powerful war mages wasn’t always an advantage. But it would be pleasant to impress my soon-to-be betrothed.
I was annoyed at myself for my inability to make a decision. Did I want to get betrothed or not?
Didn’t matter. Dagmar dressed me in deep green, with long sleeves. She said it made my hair look golden and my eyes look emerald. I thought my eyes still looked dark hazel, though I wouldn’t have put it past Dagmar to use a small enhancement charm. August hated beauty enhancement charms. He hated a lot of things.
Father came to fetch me precisely as Dagmar finished admiring her own handiwork. Father had clearly taken extra time with his toilette that morning, which wasn’t something he was wont to do. He wore scarlet and gold and black, his coat reaching the floor, his golden hair combed into a short queue that just passed his collar. Mother would have been beside herself, declaring how handsome and elegant he looked, how manly and strong.
I couldn’t find any words for him, caught between anger and fear and hope, all tangling together into a giant mess inside me.
“Lord Espen just arrived,” he informed me, offering his arm, something he usually only did on the most formal of occasions, when I visited Edeleste.
Trying to slow my breathing, I nodded, and we began walking down the hallway.
“Are you . . . still angry?” Father asked hesitantly.
I shrugged spasmodically.
“I hope you’ll give Espen a chance.”
Father’s hope was granted. He always got what he wanted, unlike me and August.
We entered the hall, which was the most luxurious room in the estate. Finely cut crystals glowed with soft light, hanging from the ceiling on gilded chains. A fire burned to give warmth, required by tradition, meant to serve as a reminder of the distant times before the gods gave mankind magic. They’d seen man’s struggle with the wild world, vulnerable without their ability to manipulate energy and material, and had taken pity on us mortals.
All of which fled my mind. Espen Kjeldsen stood by the fire, bathed in its glow.
I had never seen such a beautiful man in my life. He was tall, dressed in a fashionable black and silver floor-length coat, the borders covered in protective symbols I didn’t recognize, for the most part. It should have been too hot for the summer day, as Father’s coat should have been, but doubtless it was enchanted to keep its owner cool in the heat.