Moonlight

by Ann Hunter

  “His Excellency, The Right Honorable Barwn Xander Blacksteed,” announced the herald.

  Xander turned as another figure emerged beside him. Aowyn’s throat knotted when the herald called, “Her Ladyship, the good Glenna of Monmouth Flail.”

  Xander grasped the young woman’s hand and held it up for all to see. The sun glinted off a ring on her hand. She was beautiful and gentle-looking.

  “Are to be joined in matrimony at sundown tomorrow and invite all to join them in celebration at this joyous occasion.”

  The world began to spin for Aowyn. Everything went bright white around her and blurry in the center. She fought against a sick wooziness and bolted toward the gates. Two soldiers in black armor stood guard. They grabbed Aowyn when she tried to run between them into the keep. She pointed wildly at Xander and Glenna. The guards looked at her quizzically.

  “Yes, they make a nice couple, don’t they?”

  Aowyn shook her head. She pointed at Xander again. I need to talk to him!

  “No, I’m sorry, miss,” said the guard. “Lady Glenna and The Barwn are happy together. They do not wish to see anyone.”

  Aowyn pointed at Xander then placed her hands on her heart. Her gestures implored the guards to let her in. I love him!

  “You’re delirious. He doesn’t love you. He loves Lady Glenna,” said the soldier. “Now leave!”

  Aowyn struggled against the soldiers. You don’t understand! I must see him.

  The guards tossed Aowyn like a sack of grain. She landed hard on the dirt path.

  “You’ll stay away if you know what’s good for you.” The guards crossed their polearms with finality.

  SHE WHO WALKS IN MOONLIGHT

  A burst of light illuminated the Swamp of Morgorth, a place so dark it choked out the sun and moon from sheer willfulness. A figure barreled through the light and plunged into the black loam of a clearing. Willows of lichen swayed like ghostly veils in the darkness. The thick air stank of putrid water.

  The figure groaned and rolled on to her back.

  The light swirled behind her, dimming for a moment. It burst and spewed a naked man with the head of a maned lion. He landed and rolled several yards from the woman.

  The woman sat up and crab-walked slowly away from it. “Donestre.”

  The donestre’s muscles rippled as he pushed himself upright. He breathed heavily and stared at his hands. He touched his chest and face before turning toward the woman.

  The woman was transfixed. “My son…”

  The donestre’s nose wrinkled as he sniffed the air. He bore his fangs and strode toward the woman.

  She raised her arm to defend herself. “I am your mother. Do you not recognize me?”

  The donestre grunted. The tension in him subsided momentarily.

  The woman rolled onto her knees and crawled toward the brackish water. Moonflies hovered near the squelching bubbles, giving just enough light to cast a brief reflection. The woman touched her face, no longer young but full of wrinkles. “No,” she gasped.

  A black rune symbol burned into her hand in the form of a footed arc with a slash through it. The joints of her fingers were bulbous and knotted. Sunspots offended her once-milky skin. “No. No!”

  The light of the vortex surged forth a third time as Sylas Mortas calmly walked through. “Well, well, well. What have we here?” The skin above his teeth peeled back with approval.

  The woman crawled toward him. “Sylas…”

  Sylas laughed darkly.

  “It’s me, Sylas. Ciatlllait.”

  Sylas shook his head. “No, it isn’t. Is it, Crwys?”

  The woman hissed. “How dare you call me that name.”

  Sylas folded his hands behind his back and chuckled. “Long have I waited for this day when you would no longer inhabit my love. The day when you no longer had power over me.”

  The ban sídhe, Crwys, howled. “I gave you your power.”

  “No. I took it from you, little by little, when you possessed Ciatlllait. You’ve used up what I left you. Ciatlllait was a shell for you, and how dare you use her so. I loved her once upon a time, and you used that against me. You are powerless here.”

  The ban sídhe coughed and sputtered.

  “Each of us must play our part. Ciatlllait served hers. I will serve mine.”

  Crwys looked up haggardly. “And what is mine?”

  Sylas circled the woman while charging the donestre to settle. “I think you know. You and I both have a job to finish. Our parts are not yet done. The question is—will Aowyn keep to hers?”

  Sylas summoned the vortex and returned whence he came.

  ***

  Xander tossed fitfully in his sleep. He dreamt of Aowyn in the moonlight of An Cuan Áille. The way her nose wrinkled under her freckles when she smiled. The way light caught in her emerald eyes. Her nearly-crimson curls. Her warmth when he held her. The way she transformed into his golden-haired betrothed. Wait. Xander pushed Glenna from his mind. He wanted Aowyn. Yet he was bound to another. Aowyn walked along the shore of An Cuan Áille, clothed in a white gown. The moonlight accentuated her features. A summer breeze picked up and pressed against the gown, hugging Aowyn’s curves. Xander shivered for want of her. The moon glinted off of Aowyn’s hair, turning it blonde. She transformed again into Lady Glenna, then back into Aowyn. The two forms wrestled between duty and love. Xander raced toward them, sword drawn, and split them into two. His chest heaved. He looked first to Glenna, then to Aowyn. They faced him and demanded, Choose.

  ***

  Aowyn sat across the road from the inn, weeping. The stars twinkled above her. The moon dawned smaller here in the Twelve Kingdoms. Aowyn winced as she thought of Xander in the tower beside the blonde beauty.

  He loves me no longer!

  Aowyn desperately wished things had been different that Bealtaine night. She wished she had said yes to his proposal. She had driven him off with her hesitation, and now he was out of her reach. She had sailed to the Twelve Kingdoms for nothing.

  “Oh, sweet child….”

  Aowyn jumped and gasped at the voice. A woman in a black cloak stood before her. The hood shadowed her face save for wrinkled lips and sagging chin. White bedraggled hair framed what features Aowyn could see.

  “Why do you weep so?” the woman asked sweetly.

  Aowyn pressed her hands to her heart and shook her head.

  “Love lost?” The old woman hobbled closer. She touched Aowyn’s shoulder.

  Aowyn noticed a black rune symbol on the woman’s trembling hand, wrought with palsy.

  “Do you still long to be together?”

  Aowyn would give anything.

  The woman scanned the road. She lowered her voice. “I could give you something for that.” The woman reached into her cloak and produced a vial of blue liquid. “I’m an alchemist, you see. I own a shop in Council’s Realm. This,” she shook the bottle lightly, “this is a love potion.”

  Aowyn reached for the vial.

  The woman held it away. “Uh, uh, uh. You are a lovely girl, but love does not come freely.”

  Aowyn fidgeted as she hurriedly reached for her coin purse. She held it up, eager to exchange.

  The old woman grasped the small, leather pouch jingling with coins. “Mmm, ha, yes. Yes, my sweet. This will do.” She passed the vial to Aowyn.

  Aowyn held the vial up against the moon. The light turned the liquid green.

  The woman quickly reached for Aowyn’s hand to lower it, almost nervously. “You must be careful with it, love. You must find a way for your sweetheart to drink it. Then all will be right again… won’t it?”

  Aowyn’s eyes narrowed. She thought she saw something familiar and imperceptible hiding under the woman’s wrinkles. She pushed the thought from her. She had a chance with Xander. All she had to do was get close to him. She hugged the old woman.

  “Yes, yes,” the old woman patted Aowyn’s back, “that’s all good and well, now, isn’t it?”

  Aowyn felt
nails awkwardly dig into her back. She let the woman go.

  The old woman placed Aowyn’s coin purse into her cloak and turned up the road.

  Aowyn watched her. She chewed her lower lip and clutched the vial. A love potion. It struck her as so simple that it was silly. She wanted Xander to love her, to give her another chance.

  I would never hurt you or force your hand… Xander’s words echoed in Aowyn’s memory.

  Didn’t Xander deserve the same love and respect that he had shown her? Did she really want him to love her under a false pretense? Aowyn closed her fingers around the vial. If Xander saw her, would he love her again?

  Aowyn searched the road for the woman and wondered if it was too late to change her mind.

  TRIAL BY FIRE

  Aowyn lay awake in the cot beside Maeb’s. Maeb’s snores filled the room. Aowyn grimaced and hid under the covers in an attempt to drown out the noise. She found it of little use. Aowyn sighed so deeply that the stray hairs in her face blew aside. It didn’t help that she couldn’t sleep to begin with. She didn’t think an old woman could travel too far quickly, but she had been wrong. She had run up the road and down it again. She even ventured a few feet into the forest that hugged the road. The woman had vanished. Aowyn was stuck with the potion, penniless, and relying on Maeb’s good graces. If Maeb knew how the money had been squandered, Aowyn would be dogged just as badly as by her own mother for brash foolishness. But she had the potion now and wasn’t going to let it go to waste. She had paid steeply for it.

  Aowyn kicked back the covers and placed her feet on the wooden floorboards. They creaked softly under her weight. Aowyn winced as Maeb stirred. Maeb resumed snoring, and Aowyn reached for her traveling cloak hanging on the post at the foot of the bed. It rustled as she drew it over her shoulders. She grabbed her boots and crept across the floorboards. Five steps from the door. Two steps. The boards groaned beneath her as she reached for the doorknob. Maeb rolled over with a loud snort. Aowyn’s hand froze over the knob. Maeb rolled on to her belly. Her arm drooped over the side of the bed. Her round face squished against her arm. Her mouth opened, and she let out another loud snore.

  Aowyn opened the door. It moaned in the same tone as Maeb’s snore. Aowyn breathed a sigh of relief and shut the door behind her. She tugged her boots on in the adjoining tavern downstairs, pulled her hood over her hair, and snuck out into the night.

  Aowyn walked briskly along the dirt road leading up to Blackthorn Keep. Giant drums of fire hugged the portcullis. Torches lined the walls. She took a deep breath of sea air. The waves crashed along the cliffs nearby. A breeze rustled the high grasses. Dirt and rocks crunched and scratched beneath her boots. All she had to do was sneak into the keep, find Xander, slip the potion to him, and sneak out again.

  Aowyn stopped in the middle of the road. This is madness!

  She pivoted to return to the inn, but then reached into her cloak and felt the vial. She glanced over her shoulder at Blackthorn. She had to try. She sucked in a breath and turned once more for the keep.

  The crackling of fire grew louder as she drew closer. She paused before the open gate and gawked at the massive black iron spikes. The fire drums cast a long shadow behind her. Standing between them caused a dull roar to rush through Aowyn’s ears. She squared her shoulders and stepped into the bailey. A guard patrolled nearby, but his back turned to her. Aowyn hurried toward the nearest door and slipped inside. She pushed her back against it, arms spread, and exhaled deeply.

  Aowyn took a moment to adjust to the surroundings. The short corridor opened on to the polished, black stone of the main hall. Yellow shields with a black steed playing the field hung on the walls. The smell of food wafted from the neighboring kitchen. Aowyn’s mouth watered, but she stayed focused. She leaned forward and searched for guards. Two suits of armor guarded large doors, but she was not sure if they were inhabited or for show. She took her chances and crept toward a nearby staircase.

  Aowyn tiptoed up the stairs. She wished there was more light to see the tapestries on the walls and swords unique to the region. Torchlight lead one where they needed to go and did not give quarter to the decorations.

  Aowyn ducked into a shadow as a guard passed by the end of the hallway. She closed her eyes and hoped to the gods he would not come this way.

  The guard’s footsteps came closer. And closer.

  Aowyn’s hand clutched a door handle for quick escape. She turned her head aside as the guard paused in front of her. She held her breath.

  The guard examined the stairway and then spun on his heel for a return down the hall.

  A soft rush of air escaped Aowyn. She opened her eyes and waited until the guard marched down the other hall, away from this one. She sidled from door to door, peeking in as quietly as possible. At last she came to a room of a man with wavy black hair.

  Xander. Aowyn bit her lip and slunk toward him. She pulled the stopper from the vial and reached for her love.

  The man’s hand shot forth and grabbed her wrist.

  Aowyn accidentally spilled some of the potion on him.

  The man jolted upright and clutched his face with a roar of pain. Thin wisps of steam wafted from under his fingers.

  Aowyn froze.

  Guards rushed in and circled the man. They lit a bedside lantern. “My Lord, Rab,” one the guards said, “are you alright?”

  Rab’s hand trembled over his burning face. He raised his other to point shakily at Aowyn. “This girl was trying to poison me.”

  The breath Aowyn took in shocked her lungs. She shook her head and dropped the vial. The liquid turned green and oozed and smoked on the floorboards. Aowyn backed toward the door slowly.

  “Seize her!” Rab commanded.

  The guards rushed to Aowyn and bound her arms behind her.

  Aowyn’s heart raced. She struggled out of fear. Her legs crumpled beneath her, but the guards dragged her away.

  Rab cried out in pain once again and sucked in a breath. “Throw her in the dungeon. We will decide her fate in the morning.”

  Aowyn skidded on her shoulder across straw and filthy stones in a cell with one window. The heavy door slammed shut with a harsh finality. Aowyn’s hands stung. Her fingers curled around stalks of straw. Moonlight revealed small spots of blood on them. Aowyn examined her hands before stuffing them under her arms. They were scathed and mildly burnt. Her shoulder complained. Aowyn’s chin quivered. What have I done?

  She gazed at the moon.

  Your luck is taken away from you forever. She recounted the story she knew so well. It is a bad deed you have done, to destroy us without cause. She knew she should not have taken that potion from the old woman. It could be only one person. We know what your true name is, witch. You have struck us down with no relief, and you fall in satisfaction for it. Your power for our destruction is not greater than our love for each other.

  Aowyn sank to the floor and clung to what faith she retained. Love will redeem us. Her stomach knotted. But I am out of luck, and I am out of love.

  The heavy door of the cell groaned as it opened. Aowyn lifted her head. She squinted against the stretch of sunlight streaming into the room. Pieces of straw twisted in her tangled curls. Guards entered the room and grabbed her elbows, hoisting her to her feet. Their fists were firm on her as they led her upstairs to the main hall.

  The doors of the great hall swung wide. Rab, dressed in crimson under onyx armor, sat at a table in the center of the room.

  The guards jostled Aowyn before him.

  Rab’s face matched the shirt beneath his armor. It was pockmarked on one side where the potion had seared his skin. Aowyn wished she could send Maeb to him for healing as penance for her mistake.

  Rab’s thick fingers wove together. “State your name.”

  Aowyn opened her mouth to speak, but dared not utter a word.

  “Your name, girl,” Rab demanded.

  Aowyn put her hands to her throat and shook her head.

  Rab pointed to her with
his dagger. The guards circled Aowyn and pried open her mouth. “She has her tongue, sir.”

  Aowyn glared at the guards, incredulous that they would treat her no better than a cow.

  “And yet she will not speak.”

  Aowyn tried to show Rab again by touching her throat. A few nights in prison were not worth losing another brother over.

  “Very well.” Rab sat back in his chair. He scribbled something on a scroll. “Girl of inconsequential descent.”

  Aowyn’s aching hands closed into fists. She raised her chin. I am a queen!

  Rab glanced up. “You stand here accused of the attempted murder of Vicomte Rab Blacksteed’s life via poisoning. How do you plead?”

  Murder? No. No! This is a mistake!

  Rab leaned forward, his dark stare boring through Aowyn. “How do you plead?”

  Aowyn choked on her breath and shook her head. I’m innocent. I never meant to hurt anyone!

  Rab leaned his head to one side. “Look, Girl. You are young and pretty,” he licked his lips deviously, “and I may be… persuaded… to show mercy if you confess.”

  Aowyn shook her head indignantly. Rab’s mercy was not the kind a queen deserved!

  Rab frowned. “Pity.” He scribbled something else on the parchment and glanced up at Aowyn. “Tell me, where did you get that vial?”

  Aowyn pointed to the back of her hand to suggest the runic sign she had seen on the old woman.

  Rab’s expression grew darker. “I see. You do know that consorting with witches is punishable by death, do you not?”

  Aowyn’s legs felt weak. The room began spinning.

  Rab wrote another line on the parchment and then spoke clearly. “Girl of Inconsequence, you are to be burned at the stake, after the wedding of my son, for witchcraft and consorting with a witch.” He waved his hand. “Take her away.”

  Aowyn screamed.

  Aowyn fixated on the bars of her cell. A short distance away, the rumble of knights clashing on destriers shook the ground to the raucous cheers of the crowd. The sound of lances splintering on shields and armor echoed the breaking of Aowyn’s heart. The cell stank of standing water. Droplets slid down the corners of the walls. A greedy, old rat scampered by. He reared and sniffed the air. Aowyn gave him a wayward look. I have nothing to give.