By the Light of the Moon

by Blake, Laila

  “I don’t know what to do with you, you know?” His voice was even more quiet now, penetrating on that level where she did love her father and where disappointing him caused a certain stab in her side.

  “Your mother and I … we are trying. Things can’t continue this way, you know that, don’t you?”

  Still Moira didn’t answer. This time she didn’t know what to say or how to focus her mind on finding something. Again she wondered whether he knew that she wasn’t normal or what he would do if he found out. She was his only daughter, but she was already a disappointment. How many more before he would simply cast her out and adopt a more worthy next Lord Rochmond to inherit his estate and run it in his example.

  And then she would be free. The thought was terrifying and beautiful and Moira’s eyes filled with tears when she realized it.

  Before any of it, however, she would have to protect Owain. It was entirely possible that unable to deal with Moira about his frustration, her father might let it out on Owain in his sentence.

  “Father?” she forced her mouth to ask. It was muffled by the mattress and when she got no answer she didn’t know whether he had left already or whether he just hadn’t heard her. Then, the fog moved in closer again with its dizzying lethargy and it picked her up and moved her through the room, into her bed, underneath a warm and beautiful body where everything was safe and good and she wasn’t afraid of anything.

  When she came to again, it was from another little knock on the door. Without knowing quite how, she was sure it wasn’t her father or even Lady Cecile. She didn’t move, even though for a moment, she tried to lift her head and then thought better of it and left it where it was, breathing out against the fog. Then it knocked again, gently almost.

  “Moira, child?” a voice asked and for a moment it was so unexpected that she didn’t know how to place it. She frowned and then did sit up a little, looking at the door and how strange it looked coming in and out of focus.

  “Moira?” It was Brock. She recognized it better when he grew more insisting, just like he sounded when she didn’t pay attention in his lessons. She tried to clear her throat but even that was too much effort and she wanted to give up. There was a strong urge inside of her to crawl to the door and open. Brock didn’t come to her chambers usually, she didn’t think he had ever come to meet her there and she wasn’t used to disobeying him.

  But even if she had wanted, in that moment, she wasn’t sure if getting there wasn’t beyond her. She moved forward onto her hands and knees and everything whirled and turned around in her head like spinning too fast around a pillar in the garden like she used to do as a child.

  In the next moment, she heard the door clicking open. She didn’t know how much time had passed but when she opened her eyes again, it felt like little more than a second when Brock lifted her up and placed her on her bed. She did think that he was astoundingly strong for a man of his age. The room was gloomy in the low firelight, but he went around to light her oil lamp and a few candles before he returned to her with a cup of steaming liquid.

  “I thought … ” she started, her tongue heavy. “Door, locked.”

  He just smiled benevolently and shrugged. “You must have forgotten child. I just pressed it down. How are you?”

  She shrugged and swallowed past her dry and swollen throat. Why was Brock in her room, had he really carried her? She blinked again, but he still sat there on a chair next to her bed in his long brown robe and his white beard.

  “You … why?”

  “You aren’t well, child. I brought you a tea that will give you strength. Let me help you sit up.” And with those words, he moved to the head of the bed and easily pulled her up against the headboard and stuffed a pillow behind her back. “Better?”

  Moira nodded, confused, still eyeing him.

  “Did he … leave?” she asked weakly.

  “The young Sir Fairester?” Brock asked with an expression on his face that she couldn’t quite place. “He certainly said he would. He told your father that he has been wasting his time, that he wouldn’t spend another night in this castle. I don’t know, child, he will be gone soon. Don’t worry.”

  Maybe she was dreaming after all. It made the most sense for the moment. But then during the last days, nothing had felt entirely like reality. And thinking back neither had anything she had done with Owain; surely, such an exciting story was one for books and other people.

  “Thank you,” she whispered and tried to smile at her aging tutor. “I … I didn’t know you … you made tea.”

  This made him chuckle and he lifted the drink back into his hand, gently bringing it to her lips.

  “I am very old, Moira, I haven’t always lived in a castle where maids and cooks take on these tasks. And I like it, I like knowing what I put into my teas. Different herbs do different things to you, you know? Some make you sleepy, some make feel awake, some give you strength, some make you happy.”

  Moira looked at him for a long time, and then at the tea. She blinked again and gave him a sad half-smile. She didn’t think a tea was capable of that last feat but she was willing to give it a try. If just for him. Opening her mouth, she let him tilt the cup gently and feed the warm liquid. It was more than tea, tasted strongly like plants and maybe fruits and honey and something else. But he encouraged her with a nod and tilted the cup stronger.

  “Good girl,” he cooed and Moira swallowed and swallowed. The more she drank, the less she wanted to. It didn’t taste good, not at all. Her stomach started to revolt, tried to reject it and throw it back up. She wanted to tell him to stop, wanted to shout, wanted to beg; but Brock pulled back her head by her hair and held her nose closed. She could feel liquid running down the sides of her mouth but she couldn’t help but swallow, more and more until she couldn’t remember anything else.

  Until the fog moved in darkly, sweeping her along into its depth, to the ocean, into the ground, into the center of a mountain with the world on her body, holding her down, holding her down, holding her still, holding her still.

  • • •

  The night was cold, the smell of snow was in the air and Iris was almost sure she could feel the first flakes on her face and on her bare hands. Whenever she looked at the torches carried by Deagan Fairester’s guards, there was nothing to see in the warm circle of light they threw around the flame. She was walking at the very end of the procession, falling back more and more with each step of the marching young men. They followed Fairester on his horse, who seemed in no mood to slow down more than he had to. He hadn’t graced her with a single glance but she had quickly packed her things when everybody else did.

  She knew well enough that she couldn’t expect anything more from the Fairester household; likely not even the ship fare back. But the castle itself was even more dangerous for her and so she had marched out with the group as though she still belonged to them. She had, of course, heard what had happened, and silently thanked the stars for their mercy — but it left her without a place to turn. She shivered in her scarf, like the others, she had underestimated the cold so close to the mountains and her old bones rebelled at moving so fast in those temperatures. Rubbing her arms through the woolen dress, she realized that the torches were so far ahead now, she could hardly see the ground under her feet.

  It was a fair punishment. Maybe she would freeze in the darkness. She had heard once that it didn’t hurt; that once your body was cold, a person just became calm and almost euphoric before they were swept away into the lands beyond. It didn’t sound so bad, not after what she had done. Moira’s Blaidyn guard, the only one possibly strong enough to protect her at all, was imprisoned, Deagan gone; the castle was Brock’s once more.

  But now he knew who Moira was and how valuable she could be for so many deeds and plots. She had caused this, Iris knew, she alone. She blamed her mother as well; it was only becaus
e of her that she was there at all, and then her silly sister had started to come into her glow at the worst possible time. Iris still didn’t know why. She didn’t doubt, however, that it wouldn’t take Brock long.

  By now, the torches were mere round little golden globes in the distance and Iris hugged herself. It was a long walk into the village. Was Maeve still there? Was she dead? The latter seemed most likely, despite what she’d said. Fae valued their immortal glow, and they didn’t kill easily. But if someone had dragged her back to Fae, she might as well be dead for what good she’d do for Iris.

  She rubbed her face, it felt raw and freezing and then she pushed her hands into her coat. Her nose had started to run and she sniffed every few steps. She was walking in complete darkness now, carefully stepping one foot before the other in the direction of the distant torches. It wouldn’t be enough for long.

  She had a fire-making kit with her. Maybe it would be better to take a break, try to get some light, try to make her own torch. Just as she thought this, she felt the distinct feeling of snow on her face. She held out her hand, and then brought it to her mouth. The filigree structure of snow crystal melted on her tongue. The flakes seemed enormous and fluffy, the kind that would be stunning in the morning. Maybe by then, she would be a statue, frozen and laid to rest under a blanket of first snow.

  Iris tried to keep going. She could almost see the path now, the pure and brilliant white of the crystals reflected the light of the crescent moon at least a little. At the same time, the longer it snowed, the more there was. Soon there was snow all around her and Iris lost her bearings completely. She wanted to cry, wanted to curse her fate despite the nasty little voice that kept insisting she didn’t deserve any better. She had denied her little sister any kindness, any feeling of love at all and now she was lost in the snow with no place to turn to. How far away was she from the castle now? Could she go back? She’d seen the lamps and the torches on the battlements for a long time, but there was only snow now, darkness and snow.

  Iris didn’t dare stop. She couldn’t. If she stopped she would die, and so she walked, one step in front of the other. One more. One more.

  • • •

  When Moira came to, her head felt foggy. It was different from her usual detachment from reality. It hurt, sluggish and dark. She sniffed. Her eyes felt caked shut with sleep. The little crystals poked and prodded at her eyelids. Instinctively she tried to lift her hands to rub them away, but she couldn’t move them. Carefully, she coughed against the blockage in her throat. Why couldn’t she open her eyes and why was everything so dark? Where was she? Why couldn’t she move?

  She could feel the slimy taste of phlegm on her tongue and swallowed it again, breathing against a constricted chest. She’d had nightmares like this once or twice, but it had never felt so real. She held her breath for a long moment, trying to listen for any sounds. There was a fire in the room, crackling merrily, much more strongly than her own had burned. Apart from that, she could only hear the rushing wind outside the way it sometimes howled past the towers and down the steep walls.

  Moira shuddered and then shook her head a few times. Something was shifting on her face; a blindfold. It could only be that. Slowly, the fog was lifting more. Her hands were aching, especially her wrists and she couldn’t pull them from behind her back. She was beginning to panic, trying to move, to swivel or crawl. All she accomplished was to fall on her side and realize that her feet were bound, too.

  Suddenly, a strong set of hands lifted her up again and propped her back against the wall. She felt a little like a doll, manhandled with no more effort than a toy.

  “Ow … ” she mumbled, rolling her shoulders and moving her head again as though that would help her to see.

  “You brought that on yourself, child,” Brock’s voice answered from all too close and Moira jumped a little, trying again to lean away from the sound. Before she could tip over one more time, his hand landed on her shoulder and kept her right there.

  “You might still feel a little dizzy. Careful now, you wouldn’t want to hurt yourself.”

  Moira’s heart beat rapidly and so hard, it almost hurt each time it slammed against her ribcage, and pulsed in her temples.

  “Wha … Ah … ” she closed her mouth again, shocked. She could hardly move her tongue - but all Brock had to say was a little chuckle as he squeezed her shoulder. It was a little too hard and Moira exhaled a sound of discomfort again. She didn’t like to be touched and this was worse — she couldn’t even see, couldn’t even really protest. Her head was burning; her skin felt yet again as though something dark was alive under her skin.

  “Don’t worry, it’s part of the potion. You’ll be fine in a little bit.” Brock tried to soothe her, but there was little comfort in the sound of his voice or his grip.

  “Where … ?” she got out, more sound than word.

  “Not far away at all … ” he said, and this time he did smile. Then he leaned forward and pushed down her blindfold until it slipped over her nose and around her neck. She closed her eyes against the bright light of oil lamps and the roaring fire, then blinked and finally looked around. It was a small room, much smaller than her own, sparsely decorated but the walls were filled with shelves; books upon books and vials and glasses full of uncountable ingredients and trinkets. It was the octagonal structure of the room that made her realize that she was in one of the towers. Brock’s chamber.

  Reeling around to face him, he was smiling at her — but it wasn’t a good smile. It was a smile that made her shudder to her core.

  “Why … ” she asked, and just as he had said, she could sense the feeling returning to her tongue slowly. It was prickling uncomfortably.

  “Oh, child. That’s what we have to find out, don’t we … you and me. Why you are here.”

  Frowning at his cryptic answer, she tried to swallow again. Everything felt swollen and dry, prickled half-numbed still. Finally, she looked down at herself. She saw her legs bound together, lying on stone floor. Brock himself was squatting next to her and by the fire.

  “You … are quite more interesting than I ever could have guessed, aren’t you, child?” he asked her, but Moira had a feeling it wasn’t a question at all. He was simply making sounds, filling the air. He felt different; and she wondered why she had never noticed this before. It wasn’t something she could put a finger on, but he felt off. Smiling his thin and dangerous smile, he poked at the fire, producing a small fountain of glowing sparks.

  “Here I was for years, blinded by thinking you might just be one of the more interesting humans I had ever met,” he went on, poking harder until he pulled out the iron rod, glowing dangerously at the tip. He raised his brows and with swift motion wielded the poker, stopping the glowing point an inch before her face. “But that’s not what you are, is it, Moira?”

  Moira’s entire body twitched into a frozen state of terror. She went slightly cross-eyed focusing on the glowing metal all too close to the bridge of her nose. For a long moment, she couldn’t breathe until a tiny croaking plea escaped her throat.

  “Peace?” Brock mocked as though he hadn’t understood her muffled, lazy tongue. Almost lovingly, he moved the glowing poker in a perfect, tiny circle around the tip of her nose and Moira pressed her eyes shut, expecting the worst.

  “Please, please don’t hurt me,” she managed, working hard on making her heavy tongue enunciate the words properly. Her fingers could feel the warmth of the fire on the stone ground even where she sat, and Moira wanted to turn her face away from it and from the glowing poker but she didn’t dare move. Everything felt thrown into the sharp relief of impossibility. Brock, her old Brock, tutor, mentor and confidant who knew maybe more about her inner workings, her fears and problems than anyone else. How could Brock be threatening her?

  “Why?” she asked when he didn’t answer, she sniffed and tried to fight the
last remnants of fog that made it hard to concentrate and think; that made it hard to feel anything very sharply and to connect ideas. “How?”

  “You were alone, and nobody expects you all night, or even tomorrow. You made it quite easy, you know?” He gave her a strange smile and then extended his free hand to brush his fingers over her cheek and chin. The poker wasn’t bright hot anymore, its glow darker, but it didn’t look less dangerous, nor was she less disturbed by the sudden touch. “I fed you a rather potent draught, my girl. It made you sleep like a baby when I brought you up here. Even now, it is working on you, making your mind a little more pliable. I can’t have you slip into one of your fits, now can I? That wouldn’t be any use to me.”

  Moira stared, trying to understand the sudden workings of her mind, testing, probing. She was scared, deathly scared, but she could keep herself from slipping away into the dark place, where she’d shiver and shake and throw up the contents of her stomach or fall to the ground without true consciousness.

  “But … ” she started and then found herself so confused she didn’t know what to say next. She stared at him again. He was the same man, her Brock — the man who had shown her the constellations of stars in the sky, had told her about the history of their country, had taken her on walks through the valley and pointed out the different plants and their properties. He had been a friend, someone she trusted.

  “But why?” she finally got out, hurt and afraid and still utterly confused.

  “I told you, child. You are not who you pretend to be,” he said calmly and pulled the poker from her face. Almost distracted, he eyed the glow, and then blew on it. For a moment, it glowed brighter again but then went darker. Shrugging, he stuck it back into the fire and a tear ran down Moira’s cheek. When he saw it, an almost paternal smile slid over his face and he reached over to brush his thumb under the fleshy part of her lid.