Cross the Silver Moon

by Jessica Daw

  “I hate it when you make that face,” he grumbled.

  “Please?” He made a disgruntled noise. On impulse, I knelt in front of him and wrapped my arms around his neck, burying my face in his fur. “It would make me very happy.” I could feel his heartbeat, strong and steady and rapid.

  “Lena,” he began, his voice reverberating through me.

  I pulled away so I could look up into his face, my hands still in his fur. “Yes?”

  He chuffed and shook his head, backing away from me. “I’ll help you. Stand up—you’ll get chilled.”

  I stood up, smiling my victorious smile again, not even pointing out that it was hardly cold at all. “Let’s start, then! How do we move this dirt?” I knelt again, starting to dig my fingers into it.

  “Stop! We can’t just rush in headlong without a plan. Let’s at least try to think this through.”

  The isbjørn wanted to plan forever. After three days, I got bored. “This is good enough,” I declared. “Let’s get started.”

  “Start what?” the isbjørn asked exasperatedly.

  “Bringing in dirt!” Before he could protest, I headed for the door. He grumbled and growled the whole way outside, but he helped me lay the ropes I’d twined charmed grass around and that he’d embedded with inscribed bits of rock that he called stones and I called pebbles. He speaking Nyputian and me speaking Vansen, as I could never quite decide which language I preferred for magic-working and often opted to use Nyputian until my vocabulary failed me, we told the dirt in the rope to get up and move with us.

  It didn’t work for a moment, but when I started shouting the ground shuddered and a wide square of dirt, a foot deep, lifted from the ground. I did everything I could to help, but I knew the isbjørn ended up doing most of the work.

  I didn’t care—we got it in!

  It took the better part of a week to finish moving dirt into all the rooms in the castle. There were a lot of rooms. The isbjørn complained incessantly in the mornings, but by afternoon both of us were so tired that he couldn’t complain and I couldn’t flick fire at him. He did, however, find the energy to complain about having dried fish for dinner seven nights in a row. To which I responded that if he wanted something else, he could make it. He ate dried fish.

  After we moved the dirt in, the isbjørn brought home a book on gardening magic, which had advice on how to weave warmth into the dirt, like strings attached to a large, literal furnace the isbjørn got ahold of. Then he brought grass seeds, which we planted and I encouraged to grow and then we had beautiful grass floors.

  “Now we need flowers,” I announced.

  The isbjørn, whom I almost felt sorry for, groaned.

  Flowers turned into climbing vines and bushes and ferns and even trees. We worked on that while still studying the dozens of new books the isbjørn brought (which I said were gifts to me and he said were his and he only kept them in my room because that’s where the bookshelf was) and practicing magic and becoming rather outstanding chefs and talking for hours and spending almost every minute together.

  Summer blossomed on us in all its splendor, which led to hours and hours spent roaming the glorious green countryside, me riding Rune and my isbjørn keeping pace beside us, sunlight lasting far into the night and never really going away. I even convinced the isbjørn to accompany me on a midnight picnic by the lake on the solstice, and the light was like twilight, soft and gray and lovely, with a pale silver moon hanging low and immense in the sky.

  Then summer transitioned to fall and the forest exploded into the colors of flame, and the isbjørn helped me make a new coat and hat from sealskin that I enchanted myself to keep cold out, and absolutely everything was perfect.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Isbjørn

  Another Report

  I received a smoke letter from Flemming, of the Vansen Council. That was a first—I always wrote my report, promptly on the first of the month, after the first few reports, which had been more frequent. There was little to report, and what little there was, I was more and more reluctant to share. I was becoming selfish, not wanting to let anyone into the secret time I shared with Lena. It made me remember why I was here in the first place, and how much things had changed since that night, late in November, when I’d run away with Lena.

  I should have had only two more reports to make –one more routine report, and then the final report. It was over halfway through October, and my year was up November 25th. I could make it, I would make it, but . . . I was counting the days.

  The day was already over, Lena already gone to bed. I was never in my room unless she was ensconced in hers. Weak.

  Demanifesting wasn’t such a relief anymore. Still a relief, a release, but I was so accustomed to holding my isbjørn shape all day that I almost felt more at home in that body than my own. I set my shifting mask on my bedside table and took a moment to gather myself. I had many reasons now for wanting to impress the Nordskovs, the least of which being the fact of their king- and queen-ship.

  Resigning myself, I sat at my desk and opened the smoke letter.

  “I wrote to inform you that Helena’s cousin, Lord August, is getting married. You may inform her that she’s invited and will attend.”

  I stopped reading. The purpose of this letter became abruptly clear, but I tried not to see it. They couldn’t do that.

  I read on.

  “We have already discussed the matter with all concerned parties, and they are amenable to the terms the Council recommended. Helena Nordskov will return home on November 8th and remain for three weeks, upon which she’ll return to you. The concerned parties have agreed to exchange the three weeks away for only one week of time at the castle, so after a week, the contract will be over and you will both be released. The wedding cannot be delayed, as the King of Nyput has traveled a great distance and cannot afford to stay away from his country any longer than that, as several national festivals are to take place soon. Please write to assure us that Helena will behave herself.” That was all.

  My mind raced. November 8th was three weeks from now, and then she’d be gone another three weeks, and return for one last week with me . . . and then we were free. I would be free. This stupid test would be over and I could do as I pleased. Three weeks from November 8th was December 1st—I felt a little pang, realizing the farce should have been done by then, but I’d only have to endure seven more days, and then . . . habitually, I shut down the thought process there. It was the reverse of helpful to think beyond that.

  How to reply to the question of her behavior? I feared Lena had grown even more strong-willed at the castle, despite my original intentions to be strict and teach her submission. She spoke so boldly it shocked me at times, and I dared anyone to say they knew her better than I did.

  But . . . her confidence was winning, as I well knew. She shone with regality when she chose to, which made her lovely features very hard to look away from. And her skills with magic were remarkable, especially her capacity for spells, which seemed to grow by the day. She certainly wasn’t at the level she should have been, but she would reach it and surpass it if given time.

  I decided to write the truth. “I’m not certain of Lena’s behavior. In fact, I’m certain that she won’t behave precisely as you wish her to. She’s got a head on her that refuses to be turned from what she wants. But she will be every inch the future queen. That I can guarantee.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Lena

  Isbjørn had made me a fabulous breakfast. I was immediately suspicious, and eyed him warily as I sat to the plates of steaming hot cakes, fresh milk, chilled jam, and cold lamb. My isbjørn knew me too well. The food, which I ate at my stomach’s insistence, distracted me. He attacked when I bit into the last buttery hotcake.

  “Your cousin August’s getting married.”

  I choked, coughing violently for an extended moment, drinking long swigs of milk to try to calm my burning throat. My mind kept repeating my isbjørn’s words, over an
d over. August. Married. August. Married. I told myself I was stupid for being upset. My August, my childhood friend, was gone. He’d been gone since the first day of my betrothal with Espen.

  After a pause that was longer than my de-choking process took, I managed to say with a reasonable degree of disintrest, “Fascinating. Who has he convinced to do the honor?”

  “One of the Nyputian princesses.” Isbjørn watched me, and I knew he was seeing straight through my attempt at a cool demeanor.

  Still, I couldn’t quite be honest with what I was feeling, not yet. “Impressive,” was all I said. It really was—Nyput didn’t love Vansland all that much, because of the war. We’d sided with Tryllejor against Nyput, and the war hadn’t been over when I’d left with the isbjørn. Besides which, the king of Nyput was known to be inflexible when it came to choosing grooms for his daughters.

  Though as August was currently the heir apparent of Vansland, likely the king thought it a smart move. He doubted, like everyone else, that I could pull it together and reclaim my birthright. “Ah. He’s acting quick. Doesn’t want to risk losing his advantage if I come back and have learned my lesson.” The words were flat. That August could be so politic, so unfeeling, was a blow despite our long-growing distance, and not just in a physical sense.

  “When,” the isbjørn corrected automatically. At some point, the isbjørn had turned into my biggest advocate, insisting I would make a fantastic queen. I often kicked him or flicked fire at him when he brought it up, saying he just wanted to bring it up so he could call me a royal pain. Besides which, it hurt to hope.

  I flicked fire at him. His wards, a trick that drove me crazy, spat the bit of fire back at me. My wards turned the little ball back, and it swung between us a few more times before fizzling into nothing. Completely ruined the fun, but got the point across that I was annoyed with him. “When should I send my congratulations to dear cousin August?”

  “You’ll deliver them yourself.”

  “Strange. Went to all the trouble to get engaged before I returned, but he isn’t bothering to seal the deal until I’m already back?” I picked up a piece of cold lamb and tore off a piece, stuffing it in my mouth, thinking the isbjørn had gone to an awful lot of trouble over a veritable nothing. Maybe he thought I’d be upset that my cousin was getting married—I’d told the isbjørn about August asking to marry me. I’d told him just about every story from my life that I could remember, since he couldn’t share his except in a roundabout way, however curious I was. I was upset about August, but . . . not as upset as I would have thought. Not in the safe world of our castle.

  He shook his head. “You’re leaving in three weeks to attend.”

  My fingers went limp around my piece of lamb. It would have fallen if my hand hadn’t been resting on the table. “I’m leaving early?”

  “You’ll come back, after three weeks.”

  “For how long?”

  “One week.”

  “And then . . .”

  “Then it’s over. You’ll go home.”

  My hands, with minds of their own, deposited the lamb on my plate and wiped my fingers off on a handkerchief I’d imprinted with a flower, every detail clear on the white fabric. Well, more clear when lamb-grease wasn’t smeared on it. My hands had to use their own minds, because my regular mind, in my head, was as frozen as if it had been dropped in the middle of the ocean in January.

  I’d always know this time with my isbjørn had an end. August had spelled that out very clearly the first day he’d told me of the Council’s plan. Remembering how upset I’d been was strange. If only my present self could have told the me who’d gone through all that pain that it would lead so much happiness, maybe it wouldn’t have hurt that much.

  Except now I was realizing that I would have to go through a whole different brand of pain, leaving this life behind without any hope of returning to it. If what I felt at that moment was any sort of preview, it was going to be a hundred thousand times worse to part with my beautiful castle and its flowering vines and grassy floors and turrets that were perfect for stargazing and my isbjørn.

  The handkerchief was bundled in my hands, nestled in my lap. “I don’t want to go.”

  “I agree, weddings are dreadfully boring, but the Council is quite insistent.”

  That was a strange thing to remember—firstly, that the Council was still going about its daily business somewhere far away, and secondly, that my isbjørn was communicating with it. “Why can’t August wait and get married when I get home?”

  “You said it yourself. He doesn’t want to wait until you’re home and risk losing his title-bought Nyputian bride when he’s inevitably demoted. Besides which, Flemming spouted some nonsense about the journey being very long for the king of Nyput and how he wanted to accompany his daughter but can’t stay forever, has to get back for some big Nyputian festivals.” He shrugged, dismissing all the political scheming with that single gesture.

  Unlike me, who began picking up the threads of intrigue. “I suppose . . . this could be good. A chance to prove myself before the final test.”

  “No fear, Lena. You can’t forget that. No fear.”

  I nodded. “I’ll leave in three weeks, stay three weeks, and then come back.” I couldn’t say come back for one week, because that had to be followed by and then go home. I blew out a breath and slouched in my chair. I hadn’t worn my armor for almost a year and groaned at the thought of putting it on. Armor certainly did not allow anyone to slouch like this. Maybe I could get away with not wearing any. Some eccentric rulers insisted it restricted their movement and interfered with their ability to do magic. Armor certainly restricted my movement. I didn’t really know if it interfered with my magic, but I could surely insist it did. Who would know better?

  All of which was beside the point, merely distracting me. “You have to help me.”

  “I help you every day, Lena. Be specific.”

  I stuck my tongue out at him. “Prepare, nincompoop!”

  “How can I resist helping such a charming young lady?” he asked dryly.

  “I’m eighteen, you know!” I reminded him.

  “Your birthday still makes my ankles hurt, I could not possibly forget you achieved that landmark.”

  “Oh, please. You wanted to go flying again too, I know you did.”

  “You know no such thing, and it was only luck that that fall didn’t kill me.”

  “The way you carry on about it, you’d think it did! You were ten feet in the air, if one is being generous.”

  “It was your own fault for crashing into me,” he reminded me.

  I waved my hand impatiently. “Details. You should have moved faster.”

  “What kind of preparation do you want to do?” he asked, unsubtly changing the subject. I counted that as forfeiture and decided I had won the argument. “I think you should save the extent of your magic skills for when you make your big showing, your real return—impress them into taking you back. For this, I think your best bet is to show what a good diplomat you would be as a ruler, how good you would be at making treaties and finding allies and concluding wars.”

  “I haven’t learned much more about that sort of thing,” I said, which wasn’t precisely true. The isbjørn and his books had taught me many, many things I’d never even thought about, but I’d been good at politics before and no one had cared.

  My isbjørn’s eyebrows rose. “Is that so?”

  “Fine, I have learned more, but who will care?”

  “Anyone with half a brain.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Obviously you’ve never lived in Edeleste.”

  “No one in the whole capital of Vansland has half a brain?”

  “Most have much less. A few may have two fifths of one, but that’s only the most intelligent of the lot.”

  “What impresses them? What will make them think, Ah, there’s our future ruler?”

  I stuck out my lip, considering that question. “Good clothes. Being the best dancer.
Having the best new little spells, the ones designed to show off how fashionable you are.”

  “You’re the princess—you must have the best clothes.”

  “They’re probably all out-of-date by now.”

  “I doubt your mother will let you make your grand return in anything but the latest fashion.”

  I thought I’d grown a bit with the isbjørn, but it wasn’t enough for me to be sure, let alone ruin the measurements of my clothing. I nodded, acquiescing the point.

  “And you can dance. I’ve seen you, for those spells you insisted needed dancing to work.”

  I nodded again. “But the best new party spells?”

  He grinned, my favorite grin that showed off every single one of his sharp white teeth, all gleaming against his thin black lips. “You have three weeks and me. Don’t worry.”

  * * *

  I was surprised by how little time it took me to pack for my three-week trip home. It probably shouldn’t have surprised me, as I refused to take more than the bare essentials, purposely leaving behind as much as I could so I would have to come back. I was dreadfully worried that Flemming or someone would decide that I’d learned my lesson well enough and not allow me to come back for my last week and I couldn’t bear it if that happened.

  But it would never be enough. The last three weeks had flown by as if wearing one of the now four sets of wings sunk to the bottom of the lake, fabric and wood and made for speed. If three weeks had gone that quickly, a single, lone week would be a blink.

  I doubted, somehow, that my three weeks home would be nearly as quick as the three weeks with my isbjørn.