Dark Moon Daughter

by J. Edward Neill

With Saul distracted, she pushed her hair from her face and planted herself before Garrett. He looked as handsome as ever in his life, and as dangerous. She glimpsed his black hauberk beneath his shirt, and she heard mail rings clinking under his sleeves.

  “Garrett.” She glared at him, hating and loving him.

  “You still look angry.”

  “I am. Though not as much as I should be. Not as much as you deserve.”

  “Last night, I dreamed you wanted to kill me,” he said. “I suppose I have earned it.”

  “I would never.”

  “If you did, I would not try to stop you.”

  Against all her desire, she softened. She reached up and fastened the highest button on Garrett’s collar, patting his chest twice as though she were his wife sending him off to war.

  “You know I hate goodbyes,” she said.

  “As do I.”

  “Anyone else, I would use my magic and turn to ashes for leaving me.” She touched her fingertip to his chin. “But you...not you. You will come back. I know you swore otherwise, but you will. I know it. I will wait for you as a friend, maybe more.”

  “We shall see,” he doubted.

  “Yes. We shall. And if you do stay away, I will not hate you. When you are out there, hunting Grimwain, remember I still care for you. All I ask is that you remember me as I was, not as I am now.”

  “I will remember you as I like. I will all the Andelusias, many though they be.”

  He wants to say more, she knew. He wants to be here with us…with me. Stay, you fool. Forget Grimwain. Take me as far from Thillria as we can go. Stay, damn you. You are cruel to leave me.

  She thought many things, but said none of them. He touched his fist to his chin, pausing as though to say something profound. In the end, he dropped a kiss upon her cheek and squeezed her hand. Everywhere he touched her, she thawed.

  “Grim went west.” He turned away from her, and another part of her died. “This, I know. He left Thillria for the wild lands beyond Triaxe. I expect this to last many seasons, many years. I cannot say for sure how it will end.”

  “Send me a letter.” She blinked back a tear. “Or a vial of soil so I can see for myself what lands you have walked.”

  “I will if I can.”

  She backed away from him. He went to Saul and embraced him like a brother. When he climbed into his saddle, she screamed inside, and yet showed nothing.

  “A year or two, we will see you,” quipped Saul. “When you return a hero.”

  He smiled for Saul, but looked upon her. She felt her sadness hollowing out her bones. No last hug? No true kiss? Nothing but a touch and a few empty words? Damn you, Garrett Croft. Do not do this.

  He wheeled Graewyn toward Aeth’s outermost gate. His gaze never left her. He wore neither smile nor frown as he looked thoughtfully down upon her. After many breaths he drove his spurs into his charger’s flank and galloped across the courtyard. The birds hopping in the nearby gardens streaked into the air, their falling feathers and angered chirps chasing him down the path. An instant before vanishing he spun in his saddle and gave her a last wink.

  And then he was gone.

  Everything stilled in the wake of his leaving. Aeth’s occupants were nowhere to be seen, none of the sentinels at their posts. The whole of the castle lay as quiet as a cemetery, shadowed by dark clouds. It became thus at Andelusia’s accidental whim, for this was my doing. As my emotions ebb, so is the Nightness roused. The clouds might cover all of Thillria should my sorrow run deep enough. And it may yet.

  “Gone,” said Saul. “Hard to believe.”

  She gazed skyward. “No. Only hard to believe I let him go.”

  “Did you mean it? When you told him you knew he would return?”

  “No.”

  She returned to Aeth. The cloud bottoms lightened and a few of Father Sun’s rays speared though, but with her next thoughts the sky darkened again. Coal-colored nimbi buried the sun. The wind picked up, raking at the castle walls. She could not know it, but every soul in Denawir stopped what they were doing and stared into the heavens. They saw the day go dark, and their hearts fluttered with fear. She did not mean to frighten them so. She thought only of Garrett as she climbed her tower and locked the door behind her.

  And the longer she dwelled in shadow, the more powerful the Nightness became.

  The Letter

  The early days after Garrett’s leaving made a melancholic thing of Andelusia. Compelled by her morbid state of mind, springtime withdrew. The oceans roiled, the frigid waves crashing into the harbor without end. The skies, once painted with soft cirrus atop deep azure, fumed with grey clouds. A second winter it seemed, a cold curtain across every Thillrian’s heart.

  In the shadowed corner of her tower, she sat on the stone floor and dwelled in darkness. This is no winter. A sickly season of my making, lasting as long I desire. And what of it? Why should I care if the flowers wither and the grass turns to dust? What are a few clouds compared to what Grimwain will do when he returns?

  Weary of the world and everything in it, she spent seven nights secluded in her room, shunning Saul and all others who tried to extract her. She failed to convince herself to return to any semblance of normal life, and while hiding in her chambers she resisted none of her darkest thoughts. Her father’s journal became her only companion, her sole source of diversion. Whenever she laid the ragged diary down, the Pages Black wooed her, begging for her touch. It whispered like a lover at the edge of a dream. It required all her resolve to defy.

  On the eighth eve, she emerged to walk the beaches below Aeth, and she perceived the Pages calling after her. Its breaths carried in with every ocean surge, drifting to her ears like the voices of a hundred dead sailors drowned in the shallows. Too many times she caught herself listening, thirsting for the very thing she had forbidden herself. The Pages’ haunting serenades reawakened the phantom pain of her Midnon shackles, and her hands fell to her wrists, rubbing and rubbing to little avail.

  On the ninth dawn, she decided enough was enough.

  At first light she bolted upright in her bed. She felt bleary, waking as though from a century-long hibernation. The springtime sun, daring a few silver gleams through her shutters, was more than she had seen since the morning of her return to Denawir. Now or never, she thought. I must break this despair, lest I undo my promise to Rellen.

  Before the rest of Aeth awakened, she bundled in a heavy-hooded cloak and crept downstairs. Winding through dark hallways, she found the most isolated of Aeth’s baths, a room where no one would trouble her so early in the day. She heated the cistern, stripped naked, and sank beneath the steaming bath until her skin flushed from ivory to pink to scarlet. The water’s warmth permeated her. After soaping herself from chin to toe, she sank into the bath for near an hour, soaking until her body warmed down to her bones.

  Later, as she toweled herself and dressed in a white chemise and silken skirt, she caught her reflection in the room’s mirror. She hardly believed the creature she saw. Impossible, she thought. I am still me. One year of suffering was not twenty after all. For all my wisdom gained, I am still young, still…pretty.

  That she remained beautiful restored a sliver of her pride. Standing naked before the mirror, the steam swirling all around her, she felt more alive than in weeks. Her hair, black and bright, dangled to her waist. Her stormy eyes swam with colors no other woman possessed, the blues and greys a perfect tempest. With a smirk, she slithered back into her clothes. If Garrett will not have me, neither shall any other.

  Too quiet for any to catch, she slunk across the King’s hall. After pilfering a pair of apples from a servant’s basket, she breezed past Aeth’s sentinels and made her way to the main door. Now more than ever, her relationship with Saul felt strained, too near to breaking for me to ignore another day. Her heart fluttered in her chest, beating like glass against ribs of iron. Nervous, she exited Aeth with her head down and her hands folded before her.

  For once, the earl
y sky was free of shadows. The clouds had broken, and the sun shined upon her. Still warm from her bath, she arrived at Saul’s courtyard cottage and knocked once upon his door.

  “Saul? Are you there? I need to talk to you.”

  He opened the door. She winced, half-expecting him to slam it shut upon seeing her. “Ande?” He looked at her as though she were a ghost. “It’s so early. Are you well?”

  “Are we still friends?” She hung her head.

  “Of course. You doubted?”

  “I did.”

  He squared her shoulders in his calloused palms. “All I have is my loyalty. To be rid of me, you’ll have to try harder.”

  She shivered with relief. “Forgive me. I have been angry. Father’s punishment was not your fault. I know that now.”

  “No reason to be sorry. Give us a hug and be done with it.”

  That afternoon, long after the hard hug she planted upon Saul, she picnicked with him. In the far castle grounds, not twenty steps from the old abbey, she and he lunched on a blanket in the grass. Theirs was a happy reunion, and her fair mood did wonders for Thillria’s weather. The clouds cleared away, the wind slowed, and sunlight warmed her cheeks. After a repast of bread, apples, and sweetmeats, she strolled with him into the city, walking all the way from the castle down to the wharves. He let her speak her mind more than she had in months, and he countered even her darkest sentiments with sympathy. “Regret less. Live more,” he said. “I want you happy, as does Thillria. Another day of cold and clouds would drive them mad.”

  The next days became a blur.

  She supposed she should have always paid more mind to Saul and the things he loved. Rellen had his daydreams, Garrett his swords, but Saul will ever love his books. Anymore, Saul’s prevailing endeavor was his research of Thillrian history. She learned he spent all his time in the coquina-bricked Inkhouse, all his waking hours reading, reading, reading.

  After one day, he had her rapt with the stories he told.

  After three, she became his partner.

  From dawn until dusk, for five days straight, she worked by his side. Together she and he sifted through scores of books, organized reams of unbound parchment, and picked out the oldest and most arcane texts from stacks and chests full of scrolls.

  “Why?” she would ask.

  “Curiosity,” he would say.

  “Of what?”

  “The history of Shivershore. The Sallow Gluns. The Undergrave. Cornerstone. Everything. I mean to bring it back to Gryphon. Rellen’s death and Garrett’s absence will be sorely taken, but Graehelm’s sorrow will be less if their deeds are woven into the greater saga of what happened here. I mean to write a book of my own. I only need a name for it.”

  “Anything, so long as you mention me none.”

  “We shall see.”

  One week went by, and then another. She forgot Saul’s promise to leave, and she eased into a life not entirely unlike her existence in Gryphon. Aeth became busier than ever, filled with new faces from far beyond Denawir. Lord Tycus was to become king, it was said. All the nobles had sworn as much, and Orumna, long absent, was laid to rest when Tycus sent an empty ship to sea, burning from prow to aft. For all her indifference to his advances, Lord Tycus allowed her to remain in her tower, and she in turn made time to sup with him and grace the King’s hall amongst his peers. He will be king. And he is kind to me. It will not do for me to ignore him forever.

  And so came a night, nearly a month from Garrett’s departure. Springtime enjoyed a second bloom, and the evening sky over Denawir remained cloudless, dotted with winking white stars. As on most previous eves, she loitered at the Inkhouse. In an upper room she reclined atop a plush, many-pillowed couch, her grip loose upon a half-finished book. Her eyes were contentedly shut, and her mood made tranquil by the wine sitting warm in her belly.

  The Inkhouse scholars, having toiled at their studies for the better part of the day, stirred to leave. The younglings made much commotion as they departed. Rising from the far end of Andelusia’s couch, one in particular made certain she knew he was leaving. Serris, bold and bright-eyed as any. She smiled. Always flirting. Always flattering.

  Unsubtle as ever, Serris rose from his seat and jostled her foot from its perch upon the table. “Coming to dinner with us?” he prodded, the same as every eve.

  “Not tonight.” She gave him a lukewarm grin. “Too sleepy.”

  “Suit yourself. Maybe tomorrow?”

  “Maybe. For another bottle of Shiver Red, probably.”

  “Well and good, mistress. You’ll have your wine someday, and I’ll have my kiss,” he laughed and fell in with his friends.

  Never. But you may try.

  She grinned as Serris as he and the other students filed out. The room plunged into a pleasant silence. The lanterns felt cooler, the air less crowded without the sounds of creaking books and shuffling paper. Saul stayed at work at his desk, poring over a new stack of tomes sailed in from Triaxe. Dreamy-eyed, she smacked her lips and stretched her legs to the end of her couch. The curators of the Inkhouse never minded if she slept over. She and Saul were novelties, popular for being from Graehelm, and famous for ending father’s reign.

  At the very precipice of sleep, a knock at the chamber door dropped her back onto the hard cobble of consciousness. She lifted her head from the couch, glanced to Saul, and waited for whoever had knocked to enter.

  “Yes?” Saul sounded annoyed.

  The door creaked open. Someone’s hand slipped into sight, followed by the pale countenance of a twenty-something Thillrian. Whoever he was, he seemed unsure of entering, for the hour was late, and Saul’s demeanor less than inviting.

  “May I?” said the man.

  “Come in,” replied Saul.

  At first, she only partly paid attention. Another Inkhouse patron, she assumed. Probably a student. Probably forgot his notes.

  She gave him a second glance. Her opinion changed.

  The fellow was certainly Thillrian, but his livery was of a sort she had rarely seen in Denawir. His tunic was the darkest of browns, adorned with a crimson hammer, the mark of the house of Muthemnal. The golden chains around his neck gleamed, the same for his polished black boots. He entered, smiled politely, and stood at the end of her couch.

  “Evening, Master. Evening, Madame.” His refined manners earned her attention. “I hope I’ve the right room. Are you Ser Saul of Elrain and Andelusia of Gryphon?”

  She flipped her hair over her shoulder and straightened herself on the couch. “Yes. He is Saul. I am Ande. To what do we owe your visit?”

  The liveried man reached to his belt, where hung a small satchel. He withdrew two tightly wound parchment cylinders, each sealed with Muthemnal’s red emblem.

  “My name is Ramill. I’ve searched the city up and down. Seems I’ve letters for each of you. Here, take them. Read them. Enjoy them.” He extended one cylinder to her and another to Saul.

  Saul strode across the room and took his. She popped the seal on hers without a thought.

  “You are from Muthemnal, no?” Saul asked.

  “From the palisades along the northern shore, yes,” answered Ramill. “Muthem has recovered well since the warlock was put away. Very nice to see the same is true of Denawir.”

  “Ghurk sent you?” she guessed.

  “Yes.” Ramill grinned. “Very clever, Madame. Milord Duke of Muthem’s son penned these himself.”

  Ghurk, she remembered the skinny young man, dirty and dark-faced in the Undergrave. She also remembered him at the assembly of judgment against her father. Relaxing in his chair and sipping Shiver Red while Tycus sentenced father to his doom. What could he want?