Daughter of the Dark Moon: Book 3 of the Twin Moons Saga

by Holly Bargo

  Uberon looked over the stunned and quietly watching crowd of guests. “If there be any fae here who would bind his soul to this child and take her to mate when she comes of age, then I will settle upon him a title, land, and riches.” His eyes narrowed with threat. “And I will watch over you to ensure Ari’dongharad’s well being.”

  A black-haired djinn stood and bowed. “I am of noble blood, but a younger son with six brothers who would inherit before me. I would be titled in my own right and remain here in Quoliálfur. I revere my dam and sisters; they have been my joy. This girl would suffer no harm from me.”

  “Will you bind your soul to hers?”

  The djinn nodded. “I will set my fire to her blood, breathe my wind into her lungs, and plant my sand within her heart.”

  “He is djinni,” someone protested in a guttural hiss. “Djinni cannot be trusted.”

  Uberon cast his icy gaze upon the dwarf who objected to the alliance. “And would you give this child your stone and gold and gems in exchange for her life and loyalty?”

  “She’s a child!”

  “And she’ll soon outgrow you!” another guest jested, lip curling in a sneer.

  The djinn directed an earnest gaze toward the king of Quoliálfur. “I shall not exercise my conjugal rights until the girl is mature.”

  “Not until she’s at least eighteen and not without her consent,” Corinne snapped.

  “Agreed.”

  “And you will swear fealty to me and serve as my loyal subject,” Uberon added.

  “Agreed.”

  “To the chapel,” the king ordered.

  “We have a chapel?” Corinne echoed faintly, not having come across such a facility in her months in the Quoliálfur castle.

  “It’s more of a prayer room,” Sin’clannad murmured, leaning close to the queen.

  “I wonder why I did not know about it?”

  “Perhaps because his Majesty answers all your prayers?” the young woman shot back with a naughty smile.

  Corinne blushed. She shook off the distraction as Uberon gestured for her, Gus, and the djinni suitor to follow him. Flanking Sin’clannad, Ari’valia, and the youngest sister, Han’al, Golsat and three more gargoyles accompanied the family party to a small chapel tucked away in the depths of the mountain castle. Candles flared upon their entrance, their dead wicks glowing brightly at Uberon’s command. Three pillars clustered near a shrine depicting a pearl-crowned, golden, nude madonna holding a sheaf of wheat in one hand and a small sickle in the other and kneeling before a trident and iridescent fish scaled in mother of pearl. The queen goggled at the mixed symbolism and said nothing.

  Then she noticed the wide, shallow bowls resting upon each of the pillars. One bowl appeared to be made of tortoiseshell and contained sand. Fire burned in a second bowl made of red glass. A sky blue bowl of some thin, fragile material she could not identify held a shifting pile of tiny white crystals that reminded her of nothing so much as snowflakes. But that could not be, because snow could not endure the tropical heat.

  The Erlking laid the girl down at the base of the three pillars. He took a step backward, bowed, and departed without another word, surrounded by the eerily silent hellhounds.

  Corinne knelt beside the child. Someone—she did not see who—pressed a damp cloth into her hand. With the tenderness of a mother, she wiped the girl’s ashen face, her tears crystallizing and bouncing off the girl’s skin and the damp washcloth.

  The djinn approached and glanced down at the pretty girl to whom he would bind his future and share his life force in exchange for status and wealth. He glanced at Uberon who captured his gaze with his own.

  “I know the djinni ritual. Do not think to deceive me.”

  The djinni suitor nodded his understanding and replied in his own sibilant language, “This is sacred to my people. I would not debase it with falsehood.”

  Uberon nodded and, with a gesture of his hand, said, “Proceed.”

  The djinni nodded once and bowed his head. He murmured in his native language, calling upon the elements of the desert: sand, wind, fire. They answered him. He took the red bowl and broke it apart with his bare hands. The sharp edges sliced through his skin, yet he did not interrupt his chanting. The fire leaped from the shards to sizzle within his blood. He placed his bloody hands upon the girl’s bare arms and smeared his blood over her. The fire leaped from his skin to hers. The child cried out and bucked against the searing pain, but the djinni’s strong grasp held her in place.

  Corinne surged forward to stop the torture, but Uberon held her back.

  “No, he must do this,” he whispered into her ear.

  “He’s hurting her!” she hissed.

  “’Tis a djinni ritual not meant for humans.”

  “I swear—”

  “If Ari’dongharad survives this, then she will live a long life until her mate dies.”

  “I hate this,” Corinne muttered.

  “I know.”

  The djinni took the tortoiseshell bowl in his hands and drizzled sand into his palm. Still chanting in that sibilant tongue, he rubbed the fine sand over his heart, the sharp grains turning the skin raw as he ground them in. He ripped open the bodice of the girl’s soiled and tattered dress and did the same to her with a handful of fresh sand from the bowl. The sand then flared and both djinni and human screamed with pain as the grains liquified and formed into a stylized sun over their hearts.

  Corinne blinked in mingled amazement and horror. The lines and curves looked like spun glass, but they flexed with the living resilience of skin.

  “Fascinating,” Uberon murmured under his breath.

  Breathing heavily, the djinn resumed chanting, his voice hoarse. He brought down the third bowl. Holding it up to his face, he inhaled deeply. The chanted ritual hissed from his mouth as he set down the bowl and tilted the girl’s head back. He bent down as though giving her mouth-to-mouth resuscitation and forcefully exhaled the tiny crystals into her lungs. The girl’s eyes flew open and her back arched. She pressed her tiny hands against the djinn’s chest to shove him away, but he would not permit her to escape until he had shared the whole of his breath with her.

  Fully deflating his lungs, he released her and toppled over as the enchantment settled into place, sealed by blood, breath, and flesh. The child rolled aside and coughed and wept, trying to escape the male who had given her the means to survive the Quoli taint.

  Corinne caught her in her arms, rocking back and forth as she hugged the girl to her body. She wept, tears crystallizing and pattering when they hit the stone floor. Uberon whispered a curt order to the gargoyles. One of them hoisted the djinni male over his shoulder and carried him off to recover in comfort; the other three escorted the Merogis sisters to their room.

  “Here, give her to me. She’s too heavy for you to carry,” he said, touching Corinne’s shoulder.

  She nodded, her face tear-stained, and allowed Uberon to take the girl into his arms.

  “I’m glad to have you back,” he breathed over the child as he cradled her against his chest. “Rest now. You will recover.”

  Ari’dongharad blinked, gave a small nod, and leaned her head against him in utter trust. With a rattling breath, she lapsed into a natural, restorative slumber.

  Three girls claimed, he thought to himself, and neither of them the two marriageable prospects for whom he had endured this entire circus of socializing and dances. He vowed to get the remaining two young ladies settled as quickly as possible.

  Not unless they agree, came his mate’s acid response even as she directed servants to tend to her ward’s djinni mate to ensure his full recovery now that he shared the girl’s burden of the jungle’s toxicity.

  They have the choice, he agreed with a mental sigh and hoped they would agree soon. He was heartily tired of these ambitious guests who courted his wards for no other reason than the anticipation of what financial benefits and political advantages such a connection to the king of Quoliálfur would confer up
on them.

  The next several days passed in a flurry of interviews and tête-à-têtes as nervous suitors vied for the hands of the remaining two wards while Ari’dongharad and the djinn slowly recovered. Mindful of the gargoyles’ stony glares and the fate of the Fyrgian nobleman who dared abscond with one of the girls, half of the men decided that no estate, castle, or hoard of gold was worth living under the gimlet eye of the Quoliálfur king and certain horrible doom if something untoward should befall the lucky man’s bride. Ships flying the Quoliálfur flag departed, carrying passengers relieved to have escaped a dire fate as the king’s titular sons-in-law.

  Ari’valia made her choice from among the gentlemen who remained.

  “I don’t like him,” Corinne whispered after listening to the interview between the swain and Uberon. “He’s smarmy.”

  “He will not be faithful to her,” Uberon said with the certainty of one who beheld the man’s deepest thoughts.

  “She doesn’t deserve a philanderer.”

  “No, and I shall not approve the match.”

  Corinne chewed her bottom lip in worry. “Do you think she’ll sneak out to see him?”

  Uberon slanted a knowing glance at her and said, “I’ll make sure of it.”

  “What do you have planned?”

  “Disillusionment.”

  That evening, Ari’valia chattered with excitement about her supposed husband-to-be, extolling his virtues.

  “I’m not convinced he’s worthy of you,” Corinne said. “In fact, I think you can make a much better choice.”

  Ari’valia’s expression turned mulish. “He is very handsome and well-spoken. He is my choice.”

  “I don’t like him.”

  “You are already wed,” the girl argued in a peevish tone. “Why would you deny me my future.”

  “I do not want you to see him,” Corinne said, not allowing the girl to dissuade her. “I forbid it.”

  Ari’valia pressed her lips together in a thin, angry line and focused on her plate while her sisters picked up the conversation, turning it to less volatile topics. Unaware of being manipulated, the girl retired to her room early after persuading a servant to carry a message to the disapproved gentleman. Uberson surreptitiously intercepted the message and ordered the servant to say nothing or suffer dire consequences. The threat worked, and the servant found other occupation far from Ari’valia’s suitor.

  Corinne nearly gaped in awe at the subtlety of Uberon’s power as he directed the girl’s inclination toward disobedience. Her awe morphed into nasty suspicion.

  “Did you ever manipulate me like that?” she whispered as they lay in wait for Ari’valia to sneak out of the girls’ bedchamber.

  “No, beloved, never,” he replied, sincerity ringing from every syllable. “I told you before that I prize free will. I may act to persuade you, but I will never rob you of your will.”

  She nodded, her own instincts corroborating the truth of his words. “Look, there she is.”

  Uberon wrapped them in a cloak of darkness to hide them as they followed the foolish young woman to the gentleman’s room. They waited while she eased the door open and peered inside. He was not there. Determined to have that particular man, she set off to find him, unaware of the dangerous shadow following her.

  She found him in a tavern with a wench on his lap and one palm squeezing a large, pendulous breast while the other held a half-empty mug of ale to his mouth which spouted such genteel sentiments as how he would enjoy swiving the Merogis girl until she grew fat with his heir.

  “Then I shall return to you, my lovely beast,” he crowed and pressed a slobbering kiss to the flesh exposed by the wench’s low bodice. “And I shall make you forget all those other men.”

  Raucous laughter and crude jeers followed that pronouncement, which incited the inebriated man to yank open his trousers and expose his generous endowment for all to admire. The wench cooed and wrapped her rough, work worn hands around the dangling organ.

  “Put it in your mouth,” he demanded while the crowd egged them on with cries of “Suck! Suck!”

  Cowering in an unobtrusive corner and shielded by her guardian’s power, Ari’valia did not protest when Corinne took her hand and said, “You’ve seen enough. Let’s go.”

  “I thought he loved me,” Ari’valia whimpered in shame.

  “He enjoys your beauty and your obedience, but he does not love you,” Uberon said as he sped them back to the castle.

  “Why did you not tell me?” she wailed as embarrassment caught up with her.

  “Because we hoped you would see his true nature yourself.”

  “I do not wish to marry,” the girl grumbled.

  “Of course, you do. But you need not choose a husband now,” Uberon reassured her as they walked through the corridor leading to the girls’ bedchamber.

  “They are all promised, except for me.”

  “Oh?” Corinne prompted.

  “Yes, Sin’halissar has her sailor. Sin’clannad has decided upon the soldier from Nymmur. Han’al is going to marry Golsat; she told me so. Ari’dongharad is now bound to that djinn.”

  “The warrior from Nymmur is honorable,” Uberon murmured. “I shall approve that match.”

  Corinne put her hands on Ari’valia’s shoulders and held her facing her. “You need not marry if you do not find a worthy man who values you. If you but say the word, I will authorize your education and have you trained for a career.”

  “You would have me work as a servant?” The girl drew back in horrified offense.

  “I would have you make something useful of your life.”

  The girl’s expression turned mulish again.

  Recognizing that the conversation had ended, Corinne bade her goodnight and watched her retreat into the innocent safety of her room.

  Sin’clannad wed her choice the next day. The rest of the suitors departed the day after that.

  CHAPTER 22

  Corinne stood by Uberon’s side, shielding her eyes against the glaring sun with her hand as they waited for the arrival of a trading ship. The black pennant flapped in the stiff breeze which felt wonderful as it cut through her skirts and molded the fabric to her legs. Uberon’s long, black hair streamed away from his head like a banner in echo of that pennant bearing two silver crescents upon a black field.

  She absently noted the creak of heavy wood, the shouts of sailors, and the other sounds of maritime industry as rolling waves slapped at the piers jutting from the wharf and the hulls of the ships moored there.

  “What is it?” she asked as her mate’s body stiffened. “What does the wind bring?”

  “A human. A man from your old world.”

  “How do you know? How do you think he got here?”

  “All in due time, beloved. For now, we wait.”

  The ship’s sails billowed and snapped as it tacked across the water. She could hear the captain shout orders and saw sailors scramble like ants as they manhandled the sails. A turntable released and the anchor dropped on its thick heavy iron chain. A fine shudder ran through Uberon as the concentration of caustic iron bit at his mind and body. Corinne gasped, not expecting the sizzle of pain.

  “What’s that?”

  “Iron,” he replied as cool relief oozed over her. “You’ve grown sensitive to it more quickly than I anticipated.”

  “Iron?” she parroted. Then realizing he had shielded her from the iron’s taint, she murmured, “Thanks.”

  He responded with a slight nod as he watched a longboat lower from the ship to the water. Manned by eight sailors at the oars, the boat cut through the water, heading straight for the pier. Corinne shifted from foot to foot, impatient with the wait. Eventually, though, the boat pulled up to the pier. One of the forward oarsmen threw a rope, which someone on the pier caught and deftly wrapped around a post. Someone else lowered a rope ladder with wooden rungs.

  “Who commands the ship?” Uberon asked, bending over to address the officer who snapped orders to the
oarsmen.

  “Captain Irganteen, my lord,” the officer replied, his white hair tossed by the wind and revealing pointed ears.

  “Your Majesty,” Uberon corrected.

  The officer’s fae eyes widened and he gulped, then remembered to bow, a tricky maneuver in the rocking longboat.

  “Come on dock and tell me what you have,” Uberon commanded.

  “Aye, Your Majesty.”

  The oarsmen rolled over a large, bulky shape wrapped in a canvas sail that Corinne had no doubt they would want replaced. With practiced teamwork, the sailors hoisted the cumbersome package to the dock. A groan emanated from it upon landing roughly upon the wooden planks. The fae officer scrambled up the ladder with nimble agility. He turned copper colored eyes toward the female who met his gaze without humility or modesty. He blinked at her bold regard. Her nostrils flared, catching his scent. He sniffed and caught her scent mingled with that of the male who watched the silent exchange with predatory attention.

  The officer blinked, dismissed the mated female, and said, “I remember the last rift between the worlds. It’s open again.”

  “Aye,” Uberon replied. “I suspected as much. Were there others?”

  The officer shook his head. “Six total, all dead but this one. Will you close it?”

  “What makes you think I have that power?”

  The fae officer grinned and replied, “Because you did the last time.”

  Uberon’s silver eyes narrowed to slits as his gaze honed-in on the thin copper collar encircling the fae’s bare throat. “And what do you know of it?”

  “My younger brother was there.”

  “What House are you?”

  “Not an important one, else I’d not be sailing the seas with these ruffians,” the fae replied as he squared his shoulders. He looked down at the human fully wrapped and constrained within a sheet of canvas and at the Unseelie queen who approached the bundle with curiosity and insufficient caution. He bowed. “By your leave, Your Majesty?”

  “Go. Finish your voyage. Inform your captain that I shall reward him and all the crew for bringing this refugee to Quoliálfur. Spread the word among my fleet that all such refugees are to be rescued and treated as honored guests and brought here. I shall recompense any loss of profit due to interrupted trade.”