Beneath the Thirteen Moons

by Kathryne Kennedy

  Since the stairs were only wide enough for one man abreast they stepped over their fallen comrade to advance. Mahri felled another. And another. Her arms began to ache from the blows.

  “What in the blazes is going on?” shouted the tavern keeper. His hand rubbed his head, he swayed unsteadily, but managed to stay upright, watching Mahri on the stairs. She thunked another guard upside the head. “Ach, what a swing! You’ve always been a woman after me own heart.”

  Then Vissa turned and sucker-punched Korl.

  Mahri heard a screech from the doorway. Jaja hunkered there, his tail fanned out, silhouetted against the dark outside. Her pet looked from Korl to her then scampered up the stairs, shoulder-hopping, occasionally biting a guard’s hand if he was foolish enough to try and stop him.

  She knew that although he’d fight to the death, he’d still be little help against such numbers, and opened her mouth to tell him to run when another movement from the doorway stopped her. A native stood there, with the black band of a dock worker tied around its neck, watching the scene with a curious detachment.

  Then Mahri had no time for anything below, for she’d reached the landing and kept trying to turn to flee but she wasn’t fast enough to do it before the guards could spread. She now faced five abreast and knew she was outnumbered. Her arms felt like they had weights pulling them down and her fingers ached where they gripped her staff. And the guards realized that not only did their prince no longer watch them with threatening looks, but that too many of their comrades lay strewn along the stairs from the blows of one filthy water-rat.

  One of her enemies grinned, revealing a large gap between crooked front teeth, and lunged at her. Quickly she flicked her wrist and her staff shortened barely in time to deflect his sword. She half-spun, using the weight of her body to slam her bone into his side where something crunched sickeningly before he fell to his knees.

  “Hold steady men,” ordered a voice, and Mahri looked up into the face of the man she’d beat to the ground at the Healer’s Tree. Admiration and anger etched his harsh features. “Don’t underestimate her—on my count, one, two, three, now.”

  And the rest of them closed in on her. Hands clutched at her staff, held firm, and she had no strength left to fight so many off. The guard she’d recognized smiled while she struggled against so many hands, then lowered his voice when next he spoke.

  “If you struggle, we might hurt you, so in your best interest,” he took her staff and butted it against her head. As blackness closed around Mahri’s vision she heard him finish, “time to sleep. I owed you one, love.”

  And then faintly, “Now we’re even.”

  Mahri awoke half-smothered. She tried to sit up, but the thing she lay buried in the middle of wrapped around her and foiled every attempt she made to crawl out of it. She tucked her arms to her side and rolled out, fell onto a polished floor and stayed in a half-crouch as she looked around the room.

  Her mouth fell open. Couches of carved wood with silk cushions, chests of sculpted bone so old it had yellowed, fur rugs combed to fluffy softness, tapestries so painstakingly woven that it would take her days to discover every detail of the artist’s skill. All of these riches lay around her with wear indicating everyday use. Who would dare even touch such masterpieces?

  Mahri rubbed the bump on her head and looked over her shoulder. It had been a bed that had near smothered her, the headboard inlaid with a mosaic of pearls—a black dolphin cresting a wave—and the mattress a huge bag of something soft and light. She yanked a feather out of the loose weave and marveled.

  She felt afraid to move amongst such treasures, but not so Jaja. Her pet sat perched upon a pink shell table, polished to such a gleam that she could see his little behind in the reflection, and picked out tidbits from among an array of dishes spread out before him.

  His belly bulged from his gluttony.

  “Where are we?”

  Jaja’s chirrup exploded into a belch.

  Palace? she thought at him.

  His little scaled head nodded enthusiastically. She rose, strode across the room, somehow feeling that she disgraced the very floor with her dirty bare feet, and tried the handle of a double door. Then shook it. Then pounded on the relief engraved in it; a man fighting a swordfish, with his own sword of inlaid bone.

  “Let me out!” she screamed, knowing the futility of it. If they’d wanted her out the door wouldn’t be locked. “I demand to see that rotten, no-good, son-of-a-king!”

  Mahri thought she detected muffled laughter but couldn’t be sure. Belatedly, she reached down and felt for her pouch. No zabba to help her See anything and no dregs of Power left after that tug-of-war with Korl.

  She decided further screaming wouldn’t accomplish anything, and besides, it made her head ache even more. So when Jaja yanked at her legging and held up a half-eaten piece of fruit, she shrugged and took the offering, wondering what it was as it dissolved in her mouth with a spicy-sweet flavor. Mahri stifled a sound of delight, followed Jaja back to the pink table like one in a trance, and began to sample one delicacy after another.

  I’m starving, she thought. All that fighting made me hungry. And sore, I can barely lift my hands to my mouth.

  But she managed, then curled up on one of the floor furs and slept again. The next time she woke she felt much better, rested and alert. And allowed herself to remember his betrayal.

  Of course, she’d never trusted Korl, she told herself. Not really. But still she’d thought him to be honorable. A prince, after all, should be a man of honor. Yet, she’d kidnapped him—the Royal’s couldn’t allow such impunity to go unpunished, whatever the reason—and had allowed herself to get caught. He didn’t have much choice but to arrest her.

  Mahri shook her head. Don’t make excuses for him, she scolded herself. A part of you had believed that he could be as attracted to you as you were to him. Not just the body but also the soul. That his mind had revealed the truth when she’d glimpsed that he loved her.

  She fought an empty feeling, the sense that her world had again crumbled around her, and began to pace the room. She’d felt this way once before, when Brez and her son had died. Her lifemate had betrayed her by his leaving, for he’d sworn he never would, and thus proven to her that no man’s word could be trusted.

  Mahri shook her head and winced from the pain of it. Brez had no control over his death—she had. If it’d been up to him, perhaps he would’ve managed to bring a Healer to the village. She’d failed him, not the other way around.

  Jaja hopped to her shoulder and stroked a webbed hand across her cheek, crooning tiny syllables of sound at her.

  “See what that man’s done to me?” she murmured to her pet. “All the agonies I’ve buried now rise to haunt me.” She couldn’t let grief overwhelm her. With a mental shrug Mahri focused on her one weapon: anger.

  So, he half-convinced me that he did love me, using his bravery and good looks to sway my mind. How many other women had he used that irresistible charm on? Did he laugh at my doe-eyed looks at his incredible physical beauty? Did he grin with triumph when I wasn’t looking whenever I melted at his touch? Oh, how I hate him!

  Mahri cursed and raved until she remembered her saving grace. She’d not wholly given him her heart. Her mind, yes, but only until Jaja had created that barrier around it, and her Power with the Bond, but only because she had to in order to save the village. The important thing, the one that truly mattered, she’d not given him.

  Why then did she still feel like a fool?

  And soon to be a dead fool.

  She stopped pacing and Jaja hopped down from her shoulder to pick at the food. So this is prison, she mused, looking around again at her elegant surroundings. And the feast on the pink table, is that my last meal? Before they… what? Hang me? How far would Korl’s betrayal go? Did he tell them she’s a Wilding? By-the-moons, what did they really do to a captured Wilding? It’d be worse than a hanging, she felt sure.

  Mahri fought the weakness of p
anic as it rose in her chest.

  She cursed him again, this time leaning out the only window while she screamed her rage. Then hastily withdrew inside when she looked down. Not particularly afraid of heights, the abyss that lay below her was another matter. How high up in the tree were they? How would she ever escape?

  With unthinking fear and rage she began to tie together tapestries, bedding, rugs—only cringing a little as she ruined some of the beautiful fabric with the making of her rope. Mahri knew it wouldn’t be long enough but the window was her one avenue of escape. Perhaps she’d hit a branch… or something.

  A knock on the door and she spun, for the moment saved from what she knew to be folly.

  Did one knock on the door of a prisoner?

  Jaja quit ripping apart the cushions, dismayed at the interruption of this new game, and chirruped at the door. An impossibly old man entered, long hair and beard that merged into a mass of white, a beaked nose that hovered beneath intelligent faded-green eyes that sparkled with cunning and shot sparks of green Power. Behind him hid the most graceful delicate women Mahri had ever seen, decked in cloth that billowed and swayed with every nervous movement they made.

  Mahri became aware of her bare feet and tangled hair. She dropped the cloth in her hands and almost smoothed it before she caught herself, lifted her chin, and planted hands on hips. A Master Seer, she thought. Korl overestimated her abilities. Or perhaps he just wanted to humble her.

  He betrayed you. Who cares what he thinks?

  The old man assessed the damage she’d done to the room, settled an almost amused gaze on her flushed face. The women tittered and Mahri caught whispers of “water-rat” and “savage.”

  She scowled.

  “I’m tempted,” said the old man, “to give you zabba, and then see what you’d accomplish.” He sighed and shook his head regretfully. “A Wilding. Hmm. Well, we haven’t the time. His Highness is most impatient.”

  Mahri swallowed. To see her hang? If she hadn’t been so enraged she would’ve drowned in this grief Korl made her feel. Her face tightened with anger and the old man didn’t miss it.

  “My name’s Master R’in. You can cooperate on your own,” he paused and Mahri could feel the promise of his threat. “Or I’ll control you completely.”

  She felt his Touch in the muscles of her arms just as her hand flew up and slapped her face a stinging blow.

  “Do we have an understanding?”

  Mahri nodded. She understood completely; he didn’t mess around. But what did he want of her?

  Master R’in hobbled across the room and pressed a panel. A door sprang open and Mahri silently cursed that she hadn’t discovered it herself. But even if she’d found it earlier it only opened on another small room, this one without windows.

  The three women scurried past her and into the room, pulled some levers and the sound of running water made Mahri follow them. She gasped in surprise. A miniature waterfall poured into a large basin of mosaic shell, steam rising from it upon contact. The women looked at her bemused expression and tittered.

  For some reason Master R’in took it upon himself to explain. “Seer’s heat the water and it’s carried through small tunnels dug into the tree.”

  “Won’t it hurt the tree?” wondered Mahri aloud.

  The old man’s winged eyebrows rose. “No more than it hurts them for us to carve our homes in the outer bark. As long as we leave the heart pure, no harm will come to the sea tree.”

  Mahri sighed with relief and the old man appraised her again. She didn’t like the way he kept evaluating her, like an animal that had shown a spark of unexpected intelligence.

  “Anyway, it’d be easier to heat the tub rather than the water,” she muttered.

  The Master Seer stifled a smile. “Perhaps.”

  Her ignorance of the water-thing seemed to make the women less frightened of her, for they surrounded her and began to unlace her clothes. They picked at the dirty snar-scale as if it were a dead carcass.

  “I take it I’m supposed to bathe?” Mahri kept her voice even. If he thought to completely intimidate her, he could think again.

  Master R’in nodded.

  “Well, I don’t need any help.”

  She tried to push away the hands of the women. One had hold of her vest laces and managed during the struggle to pull them all the way out. Mahri’s breasts sprang free, and old man or no, his eyes near popped out of his head. The women gawked at her as if she were some kind of freak, comparing her body to their white skin, small bones, and delicate, almost boyish figures.

  “Barbaric,” mumbled one of the women.

  “Positively vulgar,” whispered another.

  Mahri wondered if Korl had thought the same as these women when he spewed his charming compliments to her. Wishing it could be the prince, she shoved the women hard, a tumble of frothy material and flying feet.

  “I’m sorry,” she hastily told the old man, remembering the sting in her cheek. “But I’ll bathe myself, thank you.”

  Master R’in cleared his throat, face flushed bright red. “See that you do,” he muttered. Then quickly, “I’ll overlook it this time.”

  The smallest woman wailed and clutched her elbow, but Mahri knew she couldn’t be too badly hurt. The old man ushered them over to the shredded bed and glanced over his shoulder just as Mahri bent to strip off her leggings. His eyes bugged again. “For the love of… shut that door, woman!”

  Mahri complied then hugged her naked chest and shivered in the privacy of the bath. She’d never be able to continue this brave act, she told herself. They’d undressed her in front of a complete stranger and she’d had to put up with it, no, actually pretend it didn’t bother her. How many more humiliations would Korl put her through?

  Did all the Royals think that Wildings were savage animals?

  Mahri immersed herself into the hot water until the wrinkling of her skin was near painful, until the sharp smell of the scented soap and the fruity aroma of hair dressing near overwhelmed her. She tried not to think of the reasons they had for letting her bathe while she dried off with some abnormally fluffy cloth.

  Would they give her to the guard to “play” with before they hung her?

  Stop it, she commanded herself.

  Mahri took a deep breath and left the room, feeling she’d just had her last moment of privacy on Sea Forest. She’d have to be strong now, put on a mask of arrogance like she’d seen Korl do so many times.

  After the hot water the air stabbed her skin with frigid fingers and she clutched the cloth tighter around her. The women were still there, the one she’d hurt now looking at her with daggers. The old man sat with his back to the room, small purrs of contentment coming from his lap.

  Jaja, you little traitor, she thought with half-hearted anger.

  Master R’in tweaked her muscles once, just to let her know that he Saw with the Power. “Don’t harm them again.”

  “I should let them insult me?”

  “When it’s from envy and spite, yes.”

  The small woman stuck her nose in the air. The other held up a concoction of white lace and advanced on Mahri with the air of a trainer handling a tigershark. They stuffed her into the frock while avoiding her gaze.

  “Do you dress all condemned Wildings with such finery?” asked Mahri, fingering the tiny pearls that hung from the tiers of lace that cascaded down the skirt.

  “Eh,” grunted the old man. “What’s that you say?”

  The women stepped back and eyed her with something akin to horror.

  Mahri struggled for composure. “The Royals want me to look good, I suppose, for the hanging. Probably consider it an enjoyable event, like entertainment.”

  It was the only thing she could think of for putting her into such an outrageous garment. The dress billowed so far out that the women had to stand a few paces away and lean forward to brush her hair. A train of cloth lay draped along her back and spread behind her like the plumage of a peacock-fish.


  The small woman gasped at her words and her face softened somewhat. Her hands gentled as she lay a circlet of pearls around Mahri’s dark red hair and began to weave tiny braids here and there among the mass of it.

  The old man jerked around, tumbling the chair to the floor as he stood. “You’ll not be hung, woman.” His mouth lay open to say more when he focused away from the Sight and he saw her with normal vision. Those faded eyes traveled from the crown of her softly brushed hair to the hem of white lace and he sighed with what almost seemed like longing. “I understand now, the madness of my prince.”

  “What… what do you mean?” Mahri struggled with fear and confusion. If they weren’t going to hang her, what then? She tried not to speculate on her fate. It might be better not to know.

  “She’s ready, Master,” whispered the taller woman.

  “Hmm, yes, I see that. Let us go then, it’s best not to keep him waiting.”

  The executioner?

  Mahri had to ask.

  “Who?”

  “Why, the prince, of course. Never seen him so eager,” continued the old man, hastening her out the door. “Youth, I suppose. Hard for me to remember what it felt like, although you reminded me for a heartbeat there.”

  Mahri concentrated on not falling on her face. How did women walk in these things, much less work? She grabbed handfuls of the lace and lifted but still more cloth tangled up her feet. She kept her face lowered and blinked back tears. It’d been ages since she’d cried, where had they come from? It couldn’t be from hearing that Korl couldn’t wait for her death, could it?

  Mahri sniffed.

  They traversed through high-ceilinged tunnels of polished wood, hundreds of light globes creating a soft brilliance that hung like stars above them. Guard after guard saluted as they passed, the shell adorning their uniforms polished to a high sheen, their swords of bone sharpened to a wicked glint. Other doors opened off their corridor, allowing Mahri’s curious gaze a glimpse of their interiors. Myriad treasures sparkled at her, yet the blackness of her own death lay over all she saw with each step they took.