By the Light of the Moon

by Blake, Laila

  Instead, she followed her stepmother down the corridor, eyes on the back of Lady Cecile’s head where the curls and braids and intricate designs always looked a little more at home, a little more in place. And then all she had to do was continue to do it; to keep walking to all those places she didn’t actually want to go.

  She was being led to the library again, where her father seemed deep in conversation with Deagan Fairester. He was a little taller than her father and had a fineness of features that her father never could have possessed, even in his youth. They both turned around when the ladies entered and bowed before Moira and Cecile curtsied in turn.

  “Darling,” Lord Rochmond enthused, but she did not recognize the smile on his face easily. “You have met Master Deagan, son of Lord Hindrick Fairester?”

  “Of course,” Moira replied, stepping forward, wary and careful. “It is a pleasure to receive you at Rochmond Castle again, sir.”

  Words. Words she had learned.

  “My lady, I’m quite enchanted to see you again.” He had a fair face, small featured but handsome and intelligent. Moira didn’t think that he had changed much in the weeks since he had been to Castle Rochmond, except maybe that his smile was broader, just around the lips.

  “My father tells me that you are well but I had to see it for my own eyes. You are growing ever more beautiful, milady.”

  “Thank you, Sir Fairester.”

  “I should thank you; and your lord father, of course, for your hospitality. It is always a pleasure to visit. I simply had to come back before everybody will be here for the Festival of Prevailing Peace and see it for themselves.”

  Moira took a deep breath. She could feel the muscles in her face quivering slightly where they were trying to hold her smile in place. Her shoulders twitched a little on their own accord but she managed to smile.

  “I am glad. We can’t quite … compete with the splendor of Lauryl, I’m sure but … I’m glad you are enjoying it.”

  “Well, it’s a splendid place and may I just say … a beautiful woman makes it well worth a journey.” A look passed between the young master and her Lord Rochmond and Moira looked down, exhaling an almost silent, steadying breath again.

  “Your father and I were just talking about the apple harvest and his famous apple wine. It is a delicacy even at court as you must know.”

  “I do. My father is very proud of it.” Her eyes caught her father’s and the plea for help was easily hidden from him when all he wanted to see was his future son-in-law and his daughter dressed up to what she was supposed to be.

  “Maybe you could show him the grounds and the castle,” he suggested with a benevolent smile at both of them. Moira wondered whether he thought he was doing her a kindness by allowing them some time to themselves, but then his eyes fell on her guard and she knew it wouldn’t turn out that way. For once, she was relieved rather than angry.

  “But of course, I would love the see the orchard. We’ve been travelling by ship for almost two weeks, milady, a good, solid orchard might be just what I need.”

  He was so friendly, so open, Moira thought it overwhelming and she had to take another deep breath and a step backward until she managed a nod.

  “As you wish … ”

  “May I escort you, milady?”

  Another wordless nod and she daintily placed her hand on the proffered arm. She didn’t look at anyone as he started to lead her out of the library but she could feel the Blaidyn and his almost soundless steps behind them.

  • • •

  The rock upon which Rochmond stood offered only space enough for a small private assembly of apple trees toward the southern edge of the property, a small field between the sunny side of the Keep and the little moat that had once truly offered an obstacle to pressing armies but nowadays mostly served to dispose of human waste and to keep the gardens irrigated.

  “Most … most of the apples come from … from other orchards in the area,” Moira explained haltingly. At the earliest chance, she had withdrawn her hand from the suitor’s arm and was now walking at the widest distance she still considered proper. Letting her hands rest on the gnarly bark of the old trees helped but it wasn’t a fix. It was rough, as though she only had to press hard enough and it would tear her skin, would leave deep gouges there and she would be able to watch the blood trickling out, watch them slowly heal. She would feel the sickening and heady sensation she always felt at the sight of blood.

  “I’m sorry?” she asked, blinking when she became aware that he had been talking and she hadn’t taken in a word. That had to be one of those social blunders her mother and governesses kept trying to iron out of her but she had genuinely lost track of the moment then. She could feel her guard move in closer behind her, but how she knew this she wasn’t quite sure.

  “I apologize, milady, sometimes I just talk and talk. I was just admiring the area … and yourself.” He smiled again, that small knowing smile that was different from humor or pleasure. She didn’t like it, just like she hadn’t liked it on his first visit. “Because you, my lady, are quite worthy of praise. So lovely in this light; it suits you.”

  He took a step closer and instinctively, Moira took one backward but found she was trapped against that same bark she had marveled at earlier. She could have pushed herself off and evaded him in any other direction around the garden but she hesitated for a moment too long and suddenly he stood right in front of her, smiling and plucking an apple from the tree in an oddly provocative manner.

  “Not a day passed that I didn’t think of you, Moira … ” his voice was low and sweet, his smile almost compelling this close.

  If she were to marry him, maybe he would always be this nice to her, maybe she would get used to it? Maybe she would like it? She tried to return his smile. But then he lifted his hand and cupped her cheek and Moira tried to back away so hard she hit the back of her head against the tree. She coughed out an apology. Then she slipped out from between him and the obstacle behind her. She didn’t feel so good. Her chest was suddenly cold and hard again, and every breath she forced into her lungs hurt. She didn’t even look back.

  Then, something closed around her wrist and pulled her back. She yanked at her arm but she couldn’t break away. And suddenly, Owain stood between her and her suitor. A moment later, she was free. She cupped her wrist in her hand and gasped for a few shallow breaths. She could maintain now, where a few years ago she would have run off crying that very moment. Now, she could steel her shoulders and look back at Deagan Fairester who was shooting a look at her guard before his eyes returned to her. His face took on an apologetic expression.

  “Milady, are you quite all right?” he asked, advancing again. But when his hand reached out for her one more time, Owain stepped between them again. He was fast and just then, in her shifting alliances, he seemed safer than the human.

  “I believe my Lady Moira isn’t feeling well, sir. I will escort her back inside,” Owain told him in a dangerously quiet voice.

  “That’s quite a bark on you, dog,” the nobleman snorted. But when he tried to sidestep the Blaidyn, Owain blocked his path again with a dangerous growl. Sir Fairester jumped back. His face first registered fear, but then quickly turned to anger. Even Moira flinched at the sound and then stared at the usually so silent and unobtrusive man.

  “You should keep that animal on a leash,” Sir Fairester spat and then stalked off in the opposite direction.

  Owain stood there, actively suppressing the rage that fueled the wolf inside. He, like all young Blaidyn had learned to channel his rage into fight and he did it well, but when there was no one to fight, the rage had no other place to go than into the painful and prickling need to shift and the let the wolf run. Especially when he was this close to the full moon.

  Moira had walked all the way back to the archway leading into the keep when he s
tarted after her. She looked shaky and pale and whatever the rage was doing to him … he was worried for her.

  “He … he shouldn’t have said that,” she said very quietly when he came up on her side and he eyed her with a momentary sense of surprise. “You didn’t have to … do that but … that wasn’t, it wasn’t right, I’m sorry.”

  “Milady didn’t do anything wrong,” he assured her. There was a hoarse quality to his voice, the hint of a growl still prevalent but he watched her closely, narrowed his brows. She didn’t look at him, but she seemed content to let him walk her back to her chambers. The walk felt too short.

  “Thank you,” she offered and her eyes brushed past his for the fraction of a second and then a moment longer. “You look pale,” she said and he almost wanted to laugh despite his lingering unease. It was an interesting comment coming from that ghostly young woman.

  “I am fine, milady. I am honored by your concern, but I am perfectly well.”

  She eyed him for another long moment and then nodded with a shy shrug before she vanished behind her heavy door. Her scent lingered in his nose as he slowly trotted back to his chambers.

  Chapter Six

  It was much later in the day and Moira was sitting at the largest desk in the library. It was covered with an intricate and stunning map of the realm pinned neatly onto the wood — Lynne from the ocean in the west to the mountains in the east.

  Old Brock was hobbling around it, moving figurines that stood for opposing armies around the borders and the different fiefs, never stopping in his narrative. He had been teaching her for years but it was exactly lessons like these that always failed to completely grasp her attention; they were so long and always the same. It was difficult to try and care about why some nobleman far away and once upon a time had felt slighted in his pride and declared war upon his neighbor. Or why two brothers who had broken apart their father’s land had ended up killing each other in a duel, following a decade of vicious wars.

  “And that was when the king proclaimed that land and title should henceforth never be divided between brothers,” Brock continued in his crackly voice. Moira rested her face on her hands and quite without meaning to, pushed out her bottom lip.

  “Land and title would always fall to the first-born son, unless he was cast out. In that case, the second born son would step up in the line of succession. Where a lord or monarch did not sire natural-born sons, his younger brother has the best claim, but he may also adopt or chose a daughter’s husband for the task. This is where the law grows unclear again and even the war of 930 of the New Reckoning … ”

  He was moving the pieces again and Moira couldn’t suppress the yawn that fought its way into her lungs. It earned her a stern glance and she looked up at her old tutor with that sweet apology she reserved for few. Brock had always been around her, all her life. He’d always been old and wise and kind to her and she usually preferred his lessons by far over the ones the governess imparted on her. But that day, she was distracted and tired and the legal justification for her predicament made her grouchy and disinterested.

  “But women can’t inherit … ” she said with the quiet and subdued sound of indignation. She knew why of course, her father had reiterated it too many times to count, but it didn’t seem right. Not really.

  “No, my lady,” Brock said quite gently. He was normally the only person outside of her family who called her by her given name; however, there were times when he chose the formal title. It felt strange to her.

  “Women have their place in government and any wise ruler will seek his wife’s or mother’s advice in matters of family and education. But women have no head for war … ” he smiled, a knowing smile that rearranged the myriads of wrinkles on his face in a quite pleasant way as he looked at the army figurines. Moira made a face.

  “A woman can rule in an emergency, such as the death of her husband — but only if she has passed her thirty-fifth birthday and is believed mature enough for such a task. It is also almost always temporary until a son is old enough or the line of succession can be established.”

  Looking at the map again, Moira stood up. Her long dress swished against the stone floor as she regarded the figurines closely.

  “Peliam,” she said pointing at a northern fief. “Ruled by a Lady Elena Peliam for fifteen years.”

  “Until her son came of age.” Brock agreed. “Lord Justo Peliam, a good ruler by all accounts. As was his mother.”

  Moira’s hand continued to trail over the old leather. It was soft and beautiful, a perfect piece of craftsmanship. As she moved to the right, her fingers traced the blue line of the river Vime until it reached the lake and a ghostly smile appeared on her lips at the familiar names.

  “Tell me about the Fae wars again … ” she asked.

  Brock looked up in mild surprise and his lip curled in a crooked smile.

  “I told you, women have no mind for wars. I never have to repeat mathematics or the knowledge of plants and the body.”

  Moira glared but then she exhaled a defeated sigh through her nose and gave him the sweet smile of a dedicated student. It was true; she did find war stories tedious and if that made her part of the reason why nobody would let her inherit her father’s estate despite the fact that Rochmond hadn’t been at war with anyone for over one hundred years, then maybe she had to accept that. No matter how little sense it made to her. But now she did want to know about the Blaidyn and their place in the human world and how they came there. She knew she had been told some of it before, but the details escaped her.

  “Why don’t we start by you telling me what you do remember?” He started again and with a slight note of mischief that made his old face suddenly look like that of a boy’s, he added; “Considering how my voice seems to put you sleep when I start to talk about history … ”

  “Just war history … ” Moira tried to defend herself but then yielded his point with a rare smile and nodded. Pausing for a moment as she studied the map again to gather her thoughts, she finally made an all-encompassing gesture over the length and width of the table.

  “I remember that the Fae wars started much earlier and then were spread all across the realm,” she began. Moira knew she was not stupid, she just lacked in two general aspects; she was stubborn about things she did not have an interest in studying, and she showed little desire to prove her lessons or her intelligence, which made it difficult to assess what she actually knew.

  “They laid claim to the same land we did … ” she said with an obvious sigh. Brock knew this was one of the reasons she didn’t like war stories. “And for some reason we couldn’t all live together and find a compromise … and so there was war in a lot of places. And I remember they were the ones who … made the Blaidyn but I’m not sure what that means.”

  Brock raised his brows, studying her intently. “By magic,” he answered, shrugged and raised a brow. He knew that especially the younger ones who had never seen magic at work had started to understand it as metaphor but he knew better. “They took the strength and character of the wolf and imbued him with strategic intelligence and an agile body that could hold a sword as well as it could bare its teeth and tear a man to pieces. They created a fighting machine.”

  Moira eyed him with suspicion.

  “Fae are … were, Fae were immortal. They needed mortal fighters to send into the fray. Being killed in battle was quite ignominious to the likes of them, you understand.”

  Moira nodded. “But they changed sides.”

  “Yes, they did. It was hundreds of years later and they had changed. They had their own settlements and their own … ideas. They thought that they had better chances with the humans and threw their lot in with them, with us. It changed the war and the Fae were pushed back further and further.”

  “Until the fighting was contained here in Rochmond.”

  “Yes, t
he very same. I did expect you to remember that much.”

  “And then we won?”

  “Yes. In so many words. The Fae were pushed against the shores of the Lake Coru, they were cut off from any escape route into the mountains and they were utterly outnumbered.”

  “What happened to them?” Moira asked, frowning. She had heard terrible stories about Fae deeds but the idea that an entire population was wiped from the face of the earth didn’t quite feel right, even if they were monsters.

  “They died, Moira. At least most of them. We never heard from them again so it is quite likely that they all perished. Every last one of them.”

  Moira nodded, again staring at the painted lake; dark blue on the worn leather, buttery in its fine sheen. Its eastern shore seemed to have just the right shape to close in on an enemy army, she assumed. The real lake looked so innocent now, sad and deep and usually covered in a grey sheen of mist.

  “Where did they come from?” Moira asked then, lifting her eyes to the old man.

  “Nobody knows,” Brock said quietly. He turned away and looked over toward the small window. The library was almost exclusively lit by oil lamps, which while dangerous to the gilded paper in the wrong hands, was better than open daylight, which was dangerous always, eating at the fibers every minute, every hour of every day. But it made the library a stiff closed-up place that lacked the freedom to look out into the distance, save for those few thin slabs toward the ceiling which allowed some fresh air to flow when opened. Now, it just showed a sliver of sky, a grayish blue swirl of clouds.

  “Some say they have always been here or came here one day, same as us.” Brock continued when he realized that an expression of general ignorance had failed to satisfy his charge’s curiosity. “Others say they were a hostile force intent on conquering the realm.”

  “That’s how Father tells it,” Moira said quietly. “The Fae were intent on enslaving humanity, just as they enslaved the Blaidyn in order to attain that power. But humanity fought back and prevailed … ”