Enchanted Moon (Moon Magick Book II)

by Scott, Amber

  A clear head would keep Ailyn alive. Were her brother here, Colm would bark orders and demand her to focus. “Mind yer training,” he would command. She repeated those words now, over and again, vowing she would find Maera in the darkness and drag her back home.

  What if the princess had crossed over?

  No.

  The notion of Maera vanishing into the forbidden sphere of men, of pure barbaric evil, physically sickened her. There must be another answer. She must yet be here in the Fae realm. Somewhere. Perchance she’d surfaced and made escape while Ailyn had been under the water.

  Ailyn elbowed her way onto a bank. Her hands touched hard, frosty ground. Too hard. Too cold. She dismissed the white lacey pattern on the ground and squinted in the shadows. Where were her bow and quivers? Taken?

  What could be so dire to warrant Maera abandoning her people? Even Maera’s questions spoke the truth. No faerie could survive passage, and only a mad one would want to. The act not only violated Fae laws, but pure Fae blood alone could penetrate the separation.

  Hundreds of years of lore passed down to each generation warning against the magick of the veil couldna be based on lies. The veil itself did not scare Ailyn, though. Neither did the actuality of passing through it. What sent her mind reeling was Maera taking her own life—as well as her people’s—under such little consideration.

  Either her princess was a betrayer, or graver matters were at hand in her country than she ever could have guessed.

  Maera wouldn’t cross over. Would she?

  Despite the fear punching her stomach, Ailyn forced herself to stay on her feet, bare and numb or not. She had to get back to the keep, to tell Colm, to find help. Colm would know what to do.

  She struggled to her feet, thankful for the protection of her leather leggings and cursing herself for taking off her boots. Where were her boots? Gone as well. Fatigue in her limbs combined with the cold numbed her movements. A sodden dress would have weighed her down. Thank Morrigan for small boons like a guard’s garb on a madness-filled night. She would laugh at the ludicrous string of events, but a low internal voice warned to keep her wits about her.

  Not a hint of the veil’s shimmer remained. Whether through the now-closed portal or through the wood, Maera was clearly gone. Every passing moment brought a new wave of dread. As much as she hoped for the latter, Ailyn knew, deep in her belly, she’d lost her either way.

  With a ragged sigh, she wrung out the edges of her tunic, scanning the glade. The faint light in the distance might be fire. A wood tribe celebrating the light of the moon? Her teeth chattered and her fingers were stiff as she unsheathed her dagger, amazed she’d not lost the blade in her panic.

  Mayhap it was the guard? Surely enough time had passed to allow Colm to realize that Ailyn had not returned. He would gather the guard and remember she’d suggested the glade. Or he’d believe she’d been taken, too. By whom? Who had he thought took Maera? Oh, no! Why had she not recognized that he might believe Maera had not left of her own free will? Thoughts careened through her head. The ramifications of her missed chance welled like the waters, threatening her very breath.

  Regardless, the fire called to Ailyn’s freezing, trembling body.

  She strode toward the glow with purpose, ignoring the fact that her chin trembled. Tears were not allowed. She replayed the moments again. Maera’s strange words. Colm’s even stranger words. Ailyn finding her here. Maera reaching out. The bottom of the pool dropping off as Ailyn went under. What if Maera had drowned?

  Nay, she’d not consider it.

  She listened for hoofbeats, for an echo of voices of the guard, keenly aware of what a pitiful example she’d made of their ranks. Naught but her own ragged breaths and…a low beating? A moon rite, then. The fire didn’t belong to the guard. Would she be welcomed? New anxiety bloomed. She continued forward, resting a hand on the rough, spotted bark of the nearest tree.

  Standing around, about to freeze, would help no one. She must find Colm. What she’d tell him, she knew not. Not yet. She headed toward the low, beating sound. Drums and a faint hum. Ailyn forced one leaden leg in front of the other, ever aware that not all Fae supported the queen. She might find aid and warmth. As easily, she might find fists.

  The princess that Ailyn knew did not act rashly. Even as a child, Maera hastened from whimsy and fear.

  “My liege, are you there?” she asked the night air, though she knew no answer would come.

  What had happened this night to rend everything so wrong? The princess lost her mother. Colm suspected more, though. As his sister, Ailyn should have demanded answers. This was his fault. If he’d but listened to her, he’d at least know to look in the glade.

  Nay, it was her fault. She’d not chased into the pool soon enough. Moreover, year by year, she’d let a childhood friendship fade as her friend’s duties grew. Year by year, Ailyn learned deference for her place in respect to Maera’s. That deference made her hesitate this night. Or perhaps, that old friendship had caused the inner pause she now so sorely lamented.

  Emotion thickened in her throat. The fire’s light became a beacon. Even a fight she’d welcome over this keening remorse. Ailyn wound through the trees, blade ready.

  What would she tell Colm? The truth. She’d lost Maera. In fact, Maera might have passed into the human realm. How would they ever locate her? The veil did not simply appear. Only under the power of the moon and goddess did rarely blossom. What would Colm do? Say? Blame her. Kill her. Never speak to her again. She never should have joined the guard. What had the queen been thinking?

  Oh, aye, Ailyn knew what Tullah had thought. That Ailyn’s mage skills were so pitiful, the queen had to place her somewhere, underfoot as she’d become four years past.

  This night proved that she was adequate at best.

  The hum—a chant—beckoned her closer, but in her belly a warning weighed. Something wasna right. She knew little of the woodlanders’ moon rites, so she could not specify what felt…off. She listened for further signs of magick, something to confirm if danger lurked near. Nothing within the woods gave her answers, though. Naught but drumming and chanting met her senses.

  These woods should have been denser, it seemed. She looked for the familiar, though certainly years of growth meant the area would not match her memory. The knoll to the north should be here. But rather than craggy outcroppings, the land leveled out. This did not look, nor did it feel, like home. Dread rooted deeper into her belly.

  She’d not crossed too...had she?

  Nay. Wasna possible. The shock of the water, of Maera’s actions, must have disoriented her.

  The idea edged in further, though. What if Ailyn had crossed the veil? Not Maera at all, but her? What if she now stumbled through the land of man, ripe for barbarian hunting? She had no nobility in her blood to speak of, though. Not even plain wings. To have passed the veil defied law and logic.

  Skin skirts and bones for jewelry. Hunted down and killed for magick she only sported traces of. Useful for naught but court tricks.

  She gripped her dagger tighter, pressing her cold lips together. No protection enchantments warmed the jeweled handle here. And no weaponry to cast a new one over it. No Maera. No Colm. No comfort. No disappointment. Horrors instead.

  “Maera,” she hissed in the dark.

  Nothing. She shivered on the inside rather than the out.

  She should run. To where? The portal had closed. The fire was her best hope for aid, and its light willed her to come closer. To warm her bones. To survive. Was there any other way to survive? Her muscles ached under the cold breeze. Her body needed that warmth and her legs moved forth of their own accord. She paused at a small copse of trees for her concealment. The sight before her drove her two steps back.

  Aye, crossed she had.

  No doubt could remain after seeing the ten—nay, more like twenty—painted, bare-chested bodies dancing around the wide bonfire. Broad shoulders, heavy bellies, swollen painted breasts. Stacked wood in the
shape of a man, branches for arms and antlers upon its head, stood in the center. Flames climbed up its limbs. Light danced in its hollow mouth and eyes. Shrill chanting rang in the air. Barbarians!

  Even from half a furlong away, the heat of the bonfire tickled her face. Her body cried out to be closer. Even her mind hatched hopes, conjuring reasonable ways to get to the warmth. Perhaps this was a tribe, a moon rite. Perhaps she was safe. Nay. She wasn’t. She couldn’t.

  She had to go back. She must cross back somehow. Colm could not lose her. All they had left was each other.

  The bare chests and bellies writhed in beat with the music, and if not for the warning in her gut, Ailyn might be seduced into dancing herself. The low beat whispered into her body and her heart skipped to match it. What had she trod onto?

  She had to go back. Colm would know what to do. Mayhap she would find Maera at the water’s edge, calling her name, frantic and eager to return, too.

  “Have ye the sacrifice?” a deep bellow called out.

  The gatherers hollered in answer. Ailyn retreated another step, yet her eyes riveted to the scene. Two men carried over a trough laden with something dark and lumpy, their masks ominous in the dancing shadows. One, broad-nosed, wide horns on either side. The other, an oversized horse head. The light caught the contents of the trough.

  Severed animal parts. Blood.

  Ailyn choked back a gag and clutched at her stomach. Run! Every part of her cried for escape. Yet her legs fixed to the ground as surely as if vines had reached up and tangled around her calves. Run. She couldn’t. Her gaze clung to the silhouette upon the trough. The bumps and curves. So small, broken-looking. Every whispered childhood tale came crashing forth. They will steal you just to boil your bones. They’ll feed on your flesh and cackle with glee over having killed a faerie.

  They’ve no magick left. They want ours.

  The chanting rose.

  What would Maera do, were she here after all? She would be soaked through, wearing her layered gown, possibly hurt. She’d head straight to the fire. Maera would seek help. Maera clearly could not assuage the danger that fire might represent. If she could, she’d never have gambled with the veil. Ailyn had to find her.

  Ailyn scanned the gathering and the trees for signs of her princess. The men lifted the trough high. The flames rose to the sky where the full moon hung low. Ailyn stumbled backward, coming up against a tree. A gnarly branch snuck around her waist. Another around her face, choking off her full-lung scream. The branch squeezed, cutting off her air supply. The tree dragged her back.

  “Shh,” a voice said against her neck. “They’ll hear you.”

  Nay! Not a tree. Worse. A man.

  Her scream died. Flashes of an all too similar scene sprang forth. The memory receded. Here and now took hold instead. The man’s hand mashed her lips to her teeth, blocked her nostrils. She fought to breathe, shaking her head. Her arms were braced, too, immovable. She couldn’t even stab her dagger backwards enough to damage him.

  “Sshhhh,” he demanded again near her ear. “I’ll not hurt ye. Be still.”

  His voice vibrated through her. Her chest quickly recalled the panic from the water. She needed air. Ailyn shook her head, opened her mouth, and tried to bite him. He loosened his grip. She inhaled deeply.

  “Better?”

  So grateful for the air, she nodded, relaxing the tiniest bit. Enough to placate him. He was holding her, but had not tried to kill her. Nor rape her. Yet.

  “I’ll release you if you’ll promise to be silent.”

  Release her? What was his game? I like it when you resist. The memory snuck back through. Run, Ailyn! She shook off the echoing words and weighed her options. At the first opportunity she would duck, twist, and flip him onto his back. Within seconds, her blade would slit his throat. Then run she would. As far as her legs would take her.

  To him, she nodded. The moment his arm relaxed, she executed the spin and twist Colm had drilled into her for months. The man landed on his back with a grunt. Ailyn pounced, landing on his broad chest and aiming for his throat. He blocked her blade and rolled atop her instead, pinning her arms above her head. His breaths came in hard, steaming puffs on her face. The moonlight and distant fire illuminated his face. Two glittering amber eyes searched hers.

  Ailyn’s voice caught. Her involuntary scream came out a squeak.

  He didn’t look like the others. No mask, no paint, no ugliness to speak of. He looked as brown-blooded Fae as herself. The realization gave her pause enough that her fight weakened. His face drew close to hers.

  His odd-colored eyes narrowed. “If you value yer pretty neck, lass, you’ll shut up and stop resisting me.”

  ~

  Quinlan meant every word he spoke. Her every squeak put their lives in mortal danger.

  Yet the fool lass wriggled, bucked, and tried to stab Quinlan with her small blade again. He dodged it, then stood with her in tow. He forced her back a few steps, deeper into the shadows. He didna have the patience left for any more surprises this night. First, the dark rite, discovered nearly by happenstance. Then seeing exactly what end the king’s lifted cattle had been meeting and why. Now this fool woman about to walk into the middle of it all.

  Unless she was part of them.

  Nay. Her reaction to the scene told him otherwise.

  A low din arose from the gathering. Chanting, dancing. The low beat of a bodhran. Whatever other explanation for a lass wandering the wood in the wee hours of dawn she might have, he’d be hearing it later.

  “Shh,” he hissed at her ear, knocking her blade to the ground. “You’re either one of them and I’ll be forced to bind and gag ye, or you’re about to walk into death itself.” She struggled less. “The choice is yours, but know you’ll not be taking me with you.”

  She seemed to have come out of the shadows themselves, only to fight him like a wild thing.

  He pinned her chest to his, gripping her mouth anew. She went still. But her gaze lit with defiance. He knew the look. Fighting fear itself, she was.

  Quinlan held her dainty wrists tight, but not so tight as to cut the lass’ blood supply from her cold, wet hands. The distant bonfire’s roar and crackle competed with the low chanting. Nary a lull. Good. Had either of them been detected, an outcry would have risen, a charge of fury to follow.

  He’d seen men killed over far less than witnessing a secret rite with stolen cattle. Until she’d walked toward that fire, theft and attempts at the old ways appeared to be all that was afoot. Now, his gut swore more. More than stolen cattle. More than an ancient reenactment.

  “If I release you, will you be silent?”

  She jerked her head from side to side.

  “Good. Lest you be lying, know this. If you holler like a banshee, I’ll not be leaving your side.” He let his words sink in. “If they find you, they’ll be finding me, too. I’m only one man to take on so many.”

  She nodded.

  Warily, he released her. She spun on him.

  The look in her eyes told him she had it in her heart to slit his throat clean. Who was she? It mattered little, he supposed and the tense set to her mouth spoke volumes. Somewhere on the freezing autumn ground, her blade had landed.

  He drew closer, hoping she would see his eyes and appreciate his gravity. “Whoever you are, you’ll be killed if ye stay. Go back whence you came, lass, if you value your life or your virtue.”

  Anger narrowed her eyes. “Neither matter is your concern.”

  “True enough. And I’ve little patience for fools. You’ve clearly little sense to be wandering about in the dead of night.”

  “Let me pass, or else!” Her voice went shrill despite her near whisper. She attempted to stride past him.

  Quinlan blocked her way. “Or else? Have you any idea what you are walking into, lass?”

  “Ailyn is my name, not lass, and I’ll thank you to mind it. I care not what I nearly walked into, nor do I intend to. I’ve far more pressing matters to attend to.” A
gain, she strode. “Life and virtue matters.”

  Again, he blocked. “Well, Ailyn, forgive me if I dinna trust your sensibilities at the moment. You’re soaked through, beyond disheveled, and in a fuss.” Wet tendrils escaped her long, thick braid. Her pants might be protecting her, but her tunic clung to her like a second skin. “Have ye gone daft and been swimming?” He shook his head. “I’ll be damned if I leave your pretty neck vulnerable to the slaughter.”

  The only boon her determination awarded was that each step drew them further from the rite, deeper into the wood’s concealment. She sidestepped him again, but a hint of a humor teased one side of her mouth. Or was that more anger?

  She widened her stance and afore he could predict what she was about, she kicked at his face, her heel aimed at his throat. Quinlan barely dodged the kick, more surprised at it than anything. He stepped into a drop swing and braced his arms around her. His shoulder hit the ground. With a twist and a buck, she flung him off of her and scrambled to her feet.

  “This should serve me a fine lesson in chivalry.” Quinlan rubbed his jaw where her foot had whacked, and he couldn’t help but be a mite impressed. He towered her by a head at least. She made up for the lack in height with sheer bravado, though. “Nicely done, lass. I’ve no desire to imprison you, but I’ll not let you pass, either.”

  She threw her arms up in exasperation. The hum and beating grew louder in the distance. “I value my life plenty and can protect it better than you ever could. I warn you. You are interfering with official matters.”

  “I’ll happily cease. Simply turn back whence you came,” he said, getting to his feet.

  She looked naught but ready for battle now. “How long have you been here, in this spot? Did you see anyone else pass here?”

  The tremor in her voice revealed the fear her bravado masked. Scared yet courageous. Trembling, but fighting still. She’d lost someone, then. It would explain her daft behavior. “None but you, lass. Who is it that you seek?”

  For a moment he thought she’d bury her face in her hands to cry. Instead, she squared her shoulders and contemplated him a moment. Thankful he was for it, too. He couldn’t abide a crying female and with a mouth that lush, he’d end up kissing every tear away. Kiss? Quinlan shook that idiot idea off fast.