Daughter of the Moon (The Moon People, Book Two)

by Claudia King

  "Go."

  The man took the shape of his wolf and darted from the northern end of the tunnel faster than a buck fleeing a pack of hunters.

  —41—

  Miral's Pack

  As if to coax Netya back to the waking world, the blue vision appeared before her as she slept. Even though her white wolf pelt was gone, her spirit guardian had lingered on in her dreams like the memory of a lost friend. A phantom pain, remembered only in glimpses and flashes after she awoke. Her dreams lacked clarity and purpose, filled with bitter fragments of everything she had lost.

  But if the blue vision had come to her again, then her connection to the spirit world could not have been lost entirely. She searched the azure plains around her, but the comforting presence of her white wolf was nowhere to be found this time. Alone and unsure, she stepped through the swaying grass until she was standing upon the summit of the outcrop again, with the eyes of every pack resting upon her. The moon shone down from above. The girl clad in white turned to greet her mother. She was so beautiful. Syr's glow shone from her skin, fringing her dark hair with moonlight and painting the world around her in the most brilliant silver Netya had ever seen. She reached out in desperation, sensing within the girl a faint spark of the happiness she had lost. Somewhere inside her was a fragment of the man she had loved. Something worth living for.

  As the dream faded away Netya's fingers brushed those of the shining figure, and for an instant the numb lump that had become her heart swelled with emotion.

  She awoke with a start, her skin flushed and warm as she jerked upright, sleeping furs clutched to her chest. Her head swam, trying to make sense of her surroundings as the spark of happiness that had been born from her dream sought desperately to catch and ignite. But all too soon Netya remembered where she was. She remembered that the man she loved was dead. She remembered the taste of the mud as Adel knelt at Miral's feet and begged for her apprentice's life. She remembered Meadow's scream and Selo's lifeless eyes, and the spark died in her breast, leaving only a cold hollow behind.

  The usual numbness did not follow, however. This time she could not detach her mind from the waking world and float listlessly from one moment to the next, no matter how much she longed for it. She raked her fingers through her hair in frustration, fighting the urge to weep. Why did she have to wake up? Why did she have to remember it all again? It was too painful, and she was not strong enough to endure it. She wished— She wished...

  A rush of guilt welled up inside her. You wish you had died too? And your daughter along with you?

  A nearby fire crackled and popped gently as she sat staring at the tent wall, knees clutched to her chest. Someone had washed the mud and grime from her skin. She was naked, but her clothing had also been cleaned and laid out on the ground next to her. It was so long since she had eaten that the weakness in her limbs and the cramping bite in the pit of her stomach almost seemed normal.

  She lay back in the soft furs and tried one more time to cast her mind into the void it had occupied for the last few days, but as soon as she closed her eyes all she saw was Caspian's face. The sadness dragging at her soul grew so heavy she felt it would crush her. Stifling a sob, she pulled herself upright again and looked around the tent, searching for anything that might give her comfort or respite from her own thoughts.

  It was almost like being back in the small dwelling she had shared with Fern when they were with Khelt's pack, though this tent evoked none of the same feelings of hospitality. It was larger, held up with a wigwam of gnarled wooden poles cut from a dark wood. Old blue paint had flaked away from markings and handprints streaking the hide walls, and the insulating outer layer of furs draped over the tent's exterior looked worn and patchy judging by the amount of light that was shining through them.

  Three more sleeping furs surrounded the low-burning fire, but no one else occupied them. Most of the light streaming into the tent's interior came through a half-open entrance flap, on the far side of which Netya could see a brown wolf sitting with his ears pricked. A guard to watch her, no doubt.

  She wiped her eyes and tugged on her clothing, tying her moccasins around her ankles and her waist wrap around her midsection far more tightly than was necessary. Something heavy and damp pressed against her chest, and after a moment she remembered her concealed medicine pouch. Her clothes must have been left to soak without much care given to scrubbing them, for whoever had done the washing would surely have noticed the small hide bag otherwise.

  Either way, it mattered little. The spirit powder inside was wet and probably useless now anyway. What good would a pinch of Adel's magic do her, even if she could summon up the cunning to think of a way to use it?

  Netya stood up, swayed on her feet, and slumped back down. She needed to eat, even though the thought of food still sickened her after everything that had happened. Adel had taught her many things about carrying a child recently, not least of which was that she needed to maintain her strength if she wanted the baby to stay healthy. Netya might have cared little for her own life at that moment, but could not inflict the same neglect upon her unborn daughter.

  Before she could make another attempt to stand, however, a figure ducked through the open tent flap and saved her the effort of fending for herself. Netya's eyes were immediately drawn to the bowl of fruit and seeds clasped between the new arrival's long-nailed fingers. The woman standing before her wore a heavy mantle of bear skin decorated with painted beads, and atop her head of whitening yellow hair sat an otter hide headdress.

  "You are with us today?" the seer said in a voice that might have sounded condescending had it not been so weary.

  The way Netya's eyes flicked to the woman's face and then back to the bowl of food seemed to be answer enough, for the seer gave a grunt of affirmation and set the meal down in front of the fire. She waited for Netya to sate her hunger and drain the contents of a small waterskin before speaking again.

  "Are you sick?"

  Netya glanced at the woman and shook her head.

  "Only a sickness of the heart, perhaps. The alpha told me he killed your man in front of you."

  Netya looked away again, closing her eyes and fighting the urge to expel the food she had just eaten. The thought of Miral filled her with a sickness that went beyond anything in her heart or mind. His presence both repelled and terrified her, as if simply existing in the same world as such a man was a violation of some kind.

  "You will go to him later," the woman continued. "He will decide your place among us."

  Netya swallowed the unpleasant feeling in her throat. "What is my fate to be?"

  "A merciful one, I can tell you that much, but my seers and I are not comfortable allowing your dark magic into our clan. We warned the alpha of the ill fortune you would bring, yet he chooses to ignore us. He cares little for the ways of the spirits."

  "Am I to be thankful that he has let me live?" Netya said bitterly.

  "You should be thankful to any man who holds your life in his palm. He is your alpha now, and you will do as he wills. He could have claimed your life or given you to his warriors, but instead he has gifted you with food and shelter. Few who make enemies of our alpha are so lucky."

  "I care not what he does with me."

  The woman shook her head in dismissal. "Care for what you will. I would gladly see you gone from our pack, dead or alive. Witches bring nothing but ill omens." Picking up the empty bowl and waterskin, the seer rose and exited the tent without another word.

  Netya was left alone once again with the despair of her thoughts, and the food had brought on another bout of the nausea she had been suffering from ever since she learned she was with child.

  Was she truly now a dark witch, as they all believed? It had seemed like a trick at first. A deception to make the other clans fearful. But she and her sisters had poisoned Miral's warriors and set visions of evil spirits upon them. They had fashioned totems and burned Adel's violet powder and cast magic that went beyond what the seers
of Khelt's clan had practised. Even the idea to set the bonfires had been her own.

  If that was what made a witch, then she supposed she was one. Not the healer and soothsayer she had aspired to be, but a weaver of dark powers. Perhaps it was only right that Miral's clan feared her, if the things she had done were an affront to the ways of the Moon People. It had not felt wrong or wicked to use such methods, but who was she to judge? She was just an apprentice.

  Have I brought this suffering upon myself? she wondered. In her heart of hearts she trusted Adel. But so had Caspian, and he had died for his loyalty.

  He wanted us to go back to Khelt.

  Netya hugged her knees, warm tears running down her face as the emotions that had been trapped within her for days on end finally broke loose. Soon she gave up on trying to stifle her heartbroken sobs, curling into a ball atop her sleeping furs as she allowed all the awful thoughts and memories to sink their teeth into her.

  We could have gone. We could have run again. Why did we have to make an enemy of Miral? Why did we need to be our own pack? We should have minded our place. We were happy with Khelt. We were safe. Adel's pride, her stubborn pride did this. Our wicked magic. Caspian, Meadow, Selo. How can fate be so cruel? I could have helped him. I had my wolf. I lay there in the mud and let it happen. What am I but a wretched, foolish, lost little sun girl. She swallowed a hiccuping gulp of air. I am certainly no more than that now. Not without him. I am Miral's trophy.

  A youthful courage had buoyed Netya's darkest moments ever since she had left Khelt's pack with Caspian. It had surrounded her like a golden shell, spurring her to act selflessly in times of need, and protecting her from despair whenever she failed to do so. At times it had been weak, other times strong, but it had always been there. A strength of spirit. A spark of restless life that refused to go out.

  But as she lay there sobbing into the furs, with much of what she had once loved brought to ruin, she felt that bright shell beginning to crack apart.

  Only when Netya's body ran out of tears did she stop weeping. Her sore eyes and running nose had made a puffy mess of her face, and she did not have the courage to ask the stoic wolf perched outside for more water. No one else intruded upon her grieving, allowing her to cry herself out and fall into a feverish doze as morning slipped into afternoon.

  When at last she awoke she was thirstier than ever, and her sadness had dried up along with her tears. Her heart felt small and shrivelled, as cramped and useless as her starving stomach had been before she ate. She wished she could cry again, for it had felt better than the dismal weight of acceptance that now settled in her chest. He was gone. Her pack was gone. And now, once again, she was nothing. No one. A broken vessel carrying only a small trace of hope within her belly.

  A short while after Netya awoke she received another visitor, though it was no seer this time. Nekare seemed visibly uncomfortable when he noticed her harrowed appearance, leaving her food and water by the fire before turning his back and waiting for her to finish with them. She cared little for his discomfort, but she was thankful that he did not sit watching her like the seer had done.

  Once she had swallowed the contents of the waterskin and forced down a few mouthfuls of food, Nekare beckoned for her to stand, then offered his arm to help her up when she struggled.

  "You will come and speak with the alpha now."

  Netya shrank back against the tent wall, suddenly fearful.

  Nekare's brow creased with a look torn between sternness and sympathy. "I do not think he wishes to hurt you. He would not have offered you comfort first if he did."

  "I am not ready," Netya said, her voice strained and husky after her tears.

  "But he is, so you must come with me," Nekare said. "The alpha has shown you mercy, but that will not last long if you disobey him. Believe me, I have seen it before."

  "How can you be loyal to such a beast?" Netya replied quietly.

  Nekare gave her a pitying look, but it was not devoid of kindness. "It is only natural that you hate him. He is your enemy. Your warriors hated me when I was captured at the creek."

  "He killed my—" Netya stopped when she felt her voice cracking. "My kin."

  "Such is the way of battle. Every clan of this land has lost brothers and sisters to the very people they sit and share hearths with at the gathering."

  "There was no battle. He killed my sisters in front of me. It was not honourable."

  Nekare glanced to the tent's entrance, gesturing for her to lower her voice. "I told you, mind your tongue if you would rather the alpha not tear it from your throat. You are upset, so I will not tell him of these things you say, but the others may not be so kind."

  "You are not a wicked man," Netya whispered, clutching his arm tight. "I know it. Why do you not see that your alpha is?"

  Nekare grimaced, averting his eyes. "Is it wickedness for an alpha to protect his clan, as your den mother weaves her dark magic to protect yours? What I saw in that valley was not the work of a kindly seer."

  "We only did what your alpha forced us to."

  "I do not doubt it, and there was a time when we were weak and defenceless as well. When I was a boy I watched my father torn down by Alpha Gheran's warriors before they took our hunting grounds from us and left us to starve that winter. Many of my brothers and sisters knew nothing but defeat and misery back then. Miral's father was—" Nekare caught himself, seemingly afraid to speak ill of even a long-dead alpha. "He was not as strong as his son. Miral taught us not to be timid—that we must spill the blood of our enemies before they spill our own. He fought for our status. He won us our place alongside the other great packs. Now when I leave this den I no longer fear for the lives of my mate and daughter the way my father once feared for me. I know they are safe, because the strength of our alpha protects us." He raised his eyebrows at Netya earnestly. "Do you understand? You may see a wicked man, but I see a man who has fought to make us strong the only way he knows how, and we have survived because of it. I might have spared your mate and your sisters had I been given the choice, but I am not alpha. Perhaps, if I was, I would have lacked the strength to do much of what Miral has done for us."

  Netya shook her head. "Cruelty is not strength."

  Her simple response drew a look of frustration from Nekare. "When your people beckoned that bear from the forest to fight for you, our alpha stood his ground while we fled! He fought a battle he could not hope to win to protect his clan. Tell me that is not the courage of a great man?"

  This time Netya said nothing. Men respected strength and prowess in battle, and perhaps Miral possessed both those things. But she had seen the look in his eyes when he killed Selo. Adel had not threatened him or attempted to harm his pack. He had turned his ire on her out of spiteful pride. He fought and killed for his own sake, not out of any need to protect his clan.

  Nekare gazed at her for a moment, the upset in his expression evident as he willed her to understand, but he was met with nothing but a blank stare. Netya did not want to risk angering him or his alpha. What good would it do her? Miral had crushed the people she loved beneath his heel, and any hope of vindication or revenge was an empty one. Nothing she said to Nekare could change that.

  "Come," he said after a moment, tugging her arm slightly less gently than before. He lifted the tent flap and led them outside, stepping around the warrior standing guard and into a wide open space at the centre of Miral's camp.

  Tall, pointed trees clad in coats of needles reached up from the south to greet the cloudy sky, similar to the ones Netya remembered from the rocky lands to the north. As she shielded her eyes and glanced around she came to realise that they might be on the fringes of that very same territory, for the air held a similar chill, and the mountainous landscape stretching up behind her was strewn with familiar outcroppings of stone. The camp itself looked to be settled within an open sliver of land atop a small plateau at the base of a sizeable hill. Many tents like the one Netya had occupied lined the plateau's edges, some of
which looked as though they led into caves on the camp's northern edge. It was not at all dissimilar to Khelt's old den, though the wide open space in the middle detracted from the close-knit sense of intimacy that had always pervaded the outcrop.

  Netya saw several groups of people and wolves clustered outside some of the tents, but most of the pack seemed to be absent.

  "Our warriors are out hunting," Nekare said in answer to her unspoken question. "They have barely eaten for many days. Once they return we shall hold a feast, and our seers will make a ritual to purge the last of Adel's magic from our bodies. They say we have brought many dark phantoms back with us into the camp." He gestured to where a small group of women were seated around a fire snapping sticks into small pieces. "There, they are preparing now."

  Netya cared little, giving the camp only a few brief glances before she remembered where she was going, and her gaze fell to the grass between her feet again.

  "Our warriors watch the pathways to the forest at the east and west of the camp," Nekare continued, occupying the grim silence by talking rather than letting the tension between them linger. "Of course, you know you may not leave."

  Netya bobbed her head slightly when he looked to her for confirmation. Of course she could not leave, not unless she wanted to chance outrunning a pack of seasoned hunters.

  The reason the southern side of the plateau was not guarded soon became apparent as they drew nearer, and a sheer drop off the edge revealed that there was no way to reach the forest below short of plummeting to a certain death. Nekare led the way to the edge before approaching any of the tents, showing her a small stream that spilled out of the rocks before spattering down to join a raging river far below. She could not get close enough to the edge to see properly, but it looked as though the churning watercourse was emerging from a cave directly beneath the plateau itself.