Moon

by Aaron Ehasz

  The soldier paused, but Viren remained silent, scrutinizing him. The sheer terror in this young man’s eyes presented a sort of puzzle, but his story was still missing a piece.

  “They were Moonshadow elves,” the soldier whispered.

  “Moonshadow elves?” Viren asked. He gave the soldier a withering glance. “You think you escaped from Moonshadow elves? You know what’s less likely than you eluding a Moonshadow elf? The idea that one of those bloodthirsty creatures found it in her heart to ‘spare’ you. Of all the nonsense I’ve ever heard …”

  “I—I know the story must sound far-fetched, sir,” the soldier stammered. “But in that moment there was some strange connection between me and the elf. She had me cornered, and then … it was as if she felt bad for me. She stopped chasing, and I had the chance to run.”

  “All right, all right. I don’t need to hear about some touchy-feely moment you had in the forest,” Viren said. “Why don’t you report back to your supervisor. It’s clear you’ve had a good scare, but trust me, it couldn’t have been Moonshadow elves.”

  With that, Viren slammed the door in the soldier’s face. Moonshadow elves sparing the life of a human! He shook his head in disbelief.

  And yet, the elves were an ever-present threat. They couldn’t stand humans, especially not the ones who used dark magic. And they would never get over the death of the king of the dragons, that much Viren knew. For a moment, he wondered if killing the Dragon King had been wise after all. But then again …

  “I had no choice about it!” he shouted to the walls.

  What if this soldier was right and elven assassins were nearby? It would make a certain amount of sense. If the queen of the dragons planned to avenge her husband by killing King Harrow, she wouldn’t send a huge army, would she? She would send a band of the deadliest assassins in Xadia.

  Viren walked over to his desk and flipped open a book of ancient charts and maps. He thumbed through the chapters until he reached the stages of the moon. What he saw was disconcerting. Perhaps it was a coincidence?

  But the sinking feeling in his stomach told him it was not—if Moonshadow assassins were going to attack, they would do so on the night of a full moon. In just a few hours, they would be at the height of their powers.

  Dread crept through Viren’s limbs. Everyone knew the legends. Under a full moon, Moonshadow elves would be virtually unstoppable.

  He grabbed a velvet cloth and flung it over the magic mirror—its secrets would have to wait for another day.

  Moments later, he was striding through the dimly lit halls of the castle. As high mage, it was his job to conjure up creative solutions. There must be a way for him to stop these assassins … or at least a trick to send them off course. He considered possible strategies as he climbed the spiral staircase to King Harrow’s tower. Near the top though, he braced himself for his immediate obligation: telling his closest friend that his life was in danger.

  A guard outside the king’s chamber informed Viren that the king was still sleeping, but Viren brushed past. He yanked Harrow’s curtains open, then stood over his bed.

  “And a good morning to you, Viren,” Harrow said, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “Didn’t I tell you that if you ever woke me this early again, I’d have you executed?”

  The king arched an eyebrow in the direction of the high mage, but the look on Viren’s face put an end to all joking.

  Rayla trudged toward camp, dragging her feet slower than she thought possible. Runaan would have expected her back by now. How would she tell him she wasn’t only late, she’d also failed at her task?

  Runaan had mentored her since she was just a wee elf. He’d trained her, drilled her, and encouraged her as she developed into a young assassin. He’d told her a thousand times that she was special—that he’d never put so much energy into someone who didn’t have the spark she did. Now she would have to tell him he’d been wrong. He had wasted years grooming a protégé who empathized with the humans.

  Rayla choked back sobs as she pictured the scene. Runaan’s large, sincere eyes would fill with disappointment. He didn’t deserve this, to be dishonored this way.

  And the others—they would laugh at Runaan for having had faith in her. They’d told him she was too young for this assignment.

  Rayla took a deep breath. Maybe her failure wouldn’t matter once they’d finished the mission. After all, they hadn’t come for that young soldier. As long as they assassinated the king and the prince, no one would care that one silly human didn’t die.

  And maybe Runaan wouldn’t even ask if she had completed the kill—it would be assumed. But would her eyes give away her cowardice? She would have to keep her head down.

  Rayla came to a stop just outside camp. The other assassins were quietly pitching tents and readying their weapons. Runaan sat cross-legged on a rock, meditating.

  Get it over with, Rayla told herself, but her feet seemed stuck. She ran her fingers over a nearby bush, letting the leaves calm her thoughts.

  One leaf, two leaves, three leaves. Runaan had taught her that a good assassin uses all their senses, including their sense of touch. One berry. Another berry.

  Rayla gasped.

  She knew she couldn’t lie to Runaan. But it wouldn’t really be lying if he came to his own conclusions, would it? If Runaan assumed she made the kill, she wouldn’t have to dishonor him with a lie, right?

  She plucked a single berry from the bush and squeezed it between her thumb and forefinger. Bloodred juice oozed out. Yes, this would work.

  Rayla grabbed handfuls of berries and smashed them onto her blades. Scarlet liquid trickled off the weapons.

  When both blades were dripping, she threw her shoulders back, looked straight ahead, and strode into camp.

  Rayla didn’t say a word as she passed Runaan; she didn’t even make eye contact. But she tilted her blades in his direction. Her heart pounded in her chest.

  “Well done, Rayla,” Runaan said.

  She glanced his way and gave a brief nod. It wasn’t a lie; it was Runaan’s mistake.

  When the others noticed Rayla return, they nodded respectfully but stayed out of her way. They knew it was Rayla’s first assassination, and they believed she’d succeeded. They also knew what it was to take a life. They knew it wasn’t easy.

  Rayla sat down and wiped her blades, the guilt of her deception heavy in her stomach.

  Menacing, Callum thought. The royal trees cast the most menacing shadows. Callum loved drawing in the castle courtyard—the light was always perfect—but today, the shadows were catching his attention.

  He pulled his sketchbook and pencil from his shoulder bag and started a quick sketch. He drew rapidly, glancing between the shadows and the page. The shadows of the branches on the courtyard stones seemed as stiff as skeletons. Where was the life?

  He turned to a new page in his sketchbook, but a long shadow of a figure crept onto the paper, obscuring the leaves. Callum recognized the broad shoulders and thick neck, the full battle armor. The high mage’s son, Soren, loomed over him.

  “Hey, that’s pretty good work, Step-Prince Callum,” Soren said. “But it’s time to stop messing around. You have to work on your swordsmanship, and I have to teach you the skills.” Soren clapped Callum on the back, sending his sketchbook and pencil flying. “Hopeless though that may be.”

  “Right. Of course, Soren,” Callum said. He scrambled to pick up his belongings. His world had changed ever since his mother had married a king half a lifetime ago and turned him into a prince. No more mornings spent languishing in the sunshine, inventing characters and drawing out their details.

  Now Callum had obligations. Responsibilities. Being a prince meant horseback riding, training with swords, strategic thinking, and learning the history of Katolis. Callum had struggled with all these subjects, but he kept trying because he loved his stepdad, King Harrow. He worked hard memorizing the names of old battles, long and odd names like the Battle at Berylgarten and Fortnight’s
Stand at Hinterpeak. Why couldn’t battles have simpler names? If Callum ever got to name a battle, he would give it a simpler, more straightforward name—like Jenny. Jenny would be a fine name for a battle.

  SNAP. SNAP. Soren snapped his fingers in front of Callum’s eyes.

  Right. Sword lessons. Callum turned to Soren, who launched into teacher mode.

  “Today, we are going to focus on the art of—”

  “Art!” Callum said. “Finally, something I’m good at.”

  “Right,” Soren said. “If you had let me finish, you would know that we’re going to focus on the art of defense.”

  “Well, if you want, you can draw your sword, and I can draw my sword.” Callum held up his pencil when he said draw the second time and smiled at his own joke.

  Soren blinked twice, and then continued without acknowledging Callum’s joke. Callum was used to this.

  “The art of defense is critical in sword fighting,” Soren said. He leaned on the wooden training sword as he spoke, then hoisted it into the air.

  “Parrying is about angle, motion, anticipation.” He whipped the sword back and forth and punctuated each word with a stab at an invisible enemy.

  “Misjudge your opponent, and it’s over.” Soren tapped Callum on the forehead with the dull side of the sword.

  Callum sighed. Although Soren hadn’t taken after the high mage in the ways of dark magic, Viren’s only son was quite the physical specimen. He was tall, strong, and athletic, with golden-blond hair that always fell perfectly into place. He wore polished armor and carried a sword everywhere—a real sword, not the wooden kind that Callum had to practice with. At this moment, Soren had removed his real sword from its scabbard and was admiring the silver blade in the sun.

  “It almost looks like it’s glistening,” Soren said. “Don’t you think so, Step-Prince? Isn’t this sword glistening?”

  “Yes, very nice,” Callum said. He put down his artist’s bag. Soren was everything a prince was supposed to be. Pity his mind wasn’t as sharp as his weapon.

  “All right, let’s get to it!” Soren tossed the practice sword to Callum, who promptly dropped it. Soren rolled his eyes.

  Callum retrieved the sword and lifted it in front of his face. Then he closed his eyes; it’s not like he ever did any better with them open.

  He swung the sword wildly, and it came into contact with Soren’s. Still swinging, Callum backed up, but this time his weapon touched only air, and Soren’s poked him in the chest.

  “You’re dead,” Soren said calmly. Callum opened one eye.

  “Yeah, but not if I was wearing armor, right?”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Soren said. “Even if you were wearing the rarest, most elite armor forged by Sunfire elves, you’d be super dead.”

  “I’m awful at this.” Callum rubbed the spot on his chest Soren had struck.

  “Yup!” Soren said cheerfully. “But you have to practice anyway, because that’s what’s expected of a prince … I mean step-prince.”

  Callum stared at Soren but didn’t say anything. The guy was always bringing up the fact that he wasn’t King Harrow’s “real” son. But the king was the only parent Callum had left; he could barely remember his biological father.

  And his mother, Queen Sarai … Well, it was getting to be a long time since she had died.

  Callum was about ready to give up sword practice when Claudia walked by, her head bent over a book.

  Claudia was Soren’s younger sister. Although she was less than a year older than Callum, he had always found her sophisticated, worldly, and enchanting. He figured the book she was reading had something to do with magic. She studied it with her father, and Callum knew she was very talented.

  In fact, her love of magic was one of the things that made her weirdly fascinating to Callum, or rather, weird and fascinating. When he was with her, Callum always felt a light, persistent fluttering in his stomach, like a moon-crazed moth was trapped in his intestines.

  Claudia had on her long black dress with the delicate golden edges sewn at the hem today. Her straight black hair hung far down her back, the dyed purple tips nearly touching her waist.

  Weird. And fascinating.

  “Tap, tap,” Soren said, bonking Callum on the head with his sword handle. “Anybody in there?”

  “Wha— Oh yeah,” Callum said. “Hi, Soren. You know what, can we try again with the swords? I think I’m ready now.” He tried to glance in Claudia’s direction super casually, as if he didn’t care at all that she was there now, but as soon as he saw her lovely face, he could feel his cheeks flush. Soren caught on.

  “Ohhh. I see what’s going on here.”

  For a second, Callum thought Soren was going to get angry, but instead he offered a conspiratorial smirk.

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll help. You come at me.” He backed away and held up his sword.

  Callum closed his eyes and bent down low. Then he ran at Soren, yelling like a maniac, and thrust his sword out. They clashed. Callum swung with all his might, and they clashed again. He swung once more, but this time hit air. When Callum opened his eyes, Soren was lying on the ground, clutching his side in mock agony.

  “Oh, I’ve been stabbed!” Soren cried out.

  Callum grinned. Sometimes Soren wasn’t so bad.

  “Stabbed so, so hard! By the stab-prince, Lord Stabbington.”

  Callum thought “stab-prince” had a nicer ring to it than “step-prince.” And it was weirdly nice of Soren to help with Claudia like this, though he might have been laying it on a little thick.

  “All right, Soren, you can get up now,” Callum said.

  “I cannot!” Soren yelled. “I’m only seventeen, but now I lay dying. Look! Spurt! Spurt!” Soren pointed at invisible blood exploding from his nonexistent wound. At the other end of the courtyard, Claudia laughed.

  “Good job, Callum!” she said. “He deserves it.”

  While Soren continued to roll around on the ground, Callum went over to Claudia, who was still chuckling. He sat down next to her on a stone bench.

  “What are you reading?”

  “Oh, this?” Claudia rolled her eyes at the leather-bound book that must have been a thousand pages long. “It’s just a bunch of boring magic stuff that I have to study. So boring!” She let out an exaggerated yawn.

  “Boring? Are you kidding?” Callum said. “I’d love to learn magic. Magic is amazing!”

  “I know, right?!” Claudia said. “I just didn’t want to make you feel bad. Do you want to see something incredible?” Claudia looked both ways. “It’s super rare, and my dad got it by … Well, it’s a long story how he got it, but let me just show it to you.”

  Claudia slowly removed a spherical object from a covert pocket in her cloak. It was a clear glass ball filled with swirling dark blue air, miniature clouds, and tiny flickers of lightning. Callum had never seen anything like it.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “It’s called a primal stone,” Claudia said. “It uses magical energy from one of the six primal sources.” She handed it to Callum.

  “Wow. What’s inside?”

  “It’s a storm. A real storm. Captured from the top of Mount Kalik. I can channel its power to do spells with runes. Watch this.” Claudia nudged Callum to look at Soren, who was primping in the reflection of his shield. She held up the primal stone and traced a rune shape in the air. As her fingertips moved, arcs of light formed, creating the glowing curves of the ancient, powerful symbol. Inside the glass orb, the miniature storm seemed to churn and change, and it pulsed with stronger and brighter forks of lightning.

  “Aspiro!” Claudia said.

  All at once, the shiny rune disappeared, and Claudia blew a windy swirl from her mouth. She directed the air in Soren’s direction; it tousled his perfectly coiffed hair. Soren turned to his tormenters.

  “Were you just trying to mess up my hair?”

  Claudia shrugged.

  “Well, it didn’t work,”
Soren continued. “You just gave it even more volume.”

  Callum laughed. “That was amazing. What else can you do?”

  Claudia began drawing another rune, but Callum felt a tap on his shoulder. It was a serious-looking guard.

  “Prince Callum,” the guard said. “The king needs to speak with you urgently.”

  Meanwhile, in the depths of the castle, Ezran and Bait went about their morning routine.

  “What do you think Barius is baking this morning?” Ezran asked Bait. They were sitting in one of the castle’s many secret tunnels. Most people (and glow toads) didn’t even know about the tunnels, but together, Ezran and Bait had developed a keen talent for locating and opening false walls. This morning’s secret passage was near the kitchen; buttery aromas wafted above their heads.

  Bait blinked his amphibian eyes and licked his lips. He was pretty sure he smelled their most favorite treat.

  “Yeah, I think I smell jelly tarts too!” Ezran said.

  He peered out of the metal grate at the end of the passage. Sure enough, Barius was placing a tray of fresh tarts on the table.

  Not yet, not yet … Ezran thought. He knew from experience that he needed to time these things just right. Even though Barius baked hundreds of tarts a day—even though he could bake tarts in his sleep—he always made such a fuss when he caught Ezran swiping a tart. In fact, Ezran thought it was funny that Barius made the sweetest, sugariest treats in all the kingdom, because the baker himself was a royal sourpuss.

  After an eternity, Barius finally waddled off to work on something else.

  Ezran slowly slid the grate to the side. Then he scampered to the tray and snagged a piping-hot tart.

  The very first bite scorched his mouth, but he continued to sink his teeth into the buttery crust. Some things were worth a sore tongue.

  “Prince Ezran! I caught you!” Barius yelled from across the kitchen.

  Ezran froze, but then took another enormous bite. “Ohhh. I’m sorry, Barius. I thought these were the throwaways.”