Lost Moon Page 2

  Keep moving. Just keep moving. She alternated between swiping snow with her sword and tucking her gloved hands beneath her cloaks to keep her fingers from freezing off, as she made high steps, like a royal marcher. The snow was not too deep, yet, reaching just above her knees, but that was enough to slow her considerably. She prayed to the Moirai that her fingers and toes had not gone black.

  She was so bloody tired. Oh, how she wanted to rest, to fall where she stood and sleep for several sunrises. Movement is life. Death takes the stagnant, the stupid, the lazy. The icy wind whipped the air and she pressed the fur flaps over her ears when they started to blow upward.

  Others searched for her. She could feel them in the bitter winds, royal bounty hunters looking to take her head. This was the only area of Selenea that bounty hunters feared in winter, so she should be safe, at least until spring. The cave from the talemaster’s story must be close. She had tried to get Manry to it and failed. She trod through the snow, making a path with her sword where she needed to, and praying to the Moirai for survival.

  After a while, the cold did not bother her as much. Numbness had taken the place of pain and it took all her strength to stay on her feet. She closed her eyes, willing what little magic she possessed to help her find shelter. Sometimes magic worked for her, other times not. She trod on, not certain if she headed the right direction anymore. The cold made her sleepy and she used the sword as a cane just to stay on her feet. If she fell, she would not get up. Her steps grew slower and more difficult, and ice froze the wool scarf to her face.

  Just when she was about to give up, about to drop to the ground and let death come for her, she spotted the elder tree, its unmistakable bent trunk and huge branches as large as her middle ten times over. Legends said it was as old as the mountains themselves. It was bare this time of year, appearing no more than a massive tangle of branches, but the sight gave her renewed strength.

  That cave story better be true or I will ring that bloody talemaster’s neck. Unbridled anger could hinder her on the battlefield but it just might save her life here so she let it come.

  She crossed the stream, now frozen over, and smiled when she saw an opening in the rock. At least she tried to smile. Ice had formed along her brows and lashes and any moisture from her lips had long disappeared, even with the scarf over her face. Her nose had stopped running a while ago and snot had frozen beneath her nostrils. What would she find once she removed her boots? And what about her toes, fingers and ears?

  Moirai take it! I need to get warm.

  A few more steps and she ducked through a cave opening that reached as high as her chest. Inside was surprisingly tepid, even with the cold breeze filtering in through the opening, and she leaned against the wall for several moments, afraid to sit for fear she might not get up again. The warm air actually hurt and she groaned as sharp pain racked her lungs and appendages. Curses left her lips as she tried to get her pack unbuckled. Finally, after several fruitless attempts, she gave up and decided to wait for the bloody thing to thaw.

  After a while, she warmed enough to discard her scarf and outerwear. Her fingers were red and bloody but at least they were whole. It took several minutes to thaw the frozen wick in her lantern. Her fingers did not want to work properly. She kept several sulfur sticks in her pocket, thanks to her warrior training, and found one that still lit. The lantern gave off a rank odor as rancid fat thawed beneath the flame, and she wrinkled her nose at the smell.

  At least I have light. And my nose still works. Though what it looked like, she could not tell. Her nose could be as black as night but at least it was still on her face.

  With sword in one hand and lantern in the other, she limped toward the back of the cave, pain shooting up her legs with every step. She checked for hibernating animals in the short tunnels that snaked to the right and left. The place was clear, thank the Moirai, and she made her way back to the main area of the cave. She found some large branches and used them, along with some rope and Manry’s cloak, to make a crude curtain. She placed large rocks over the bottom of the cloak to hold it down. The curtain blocked most of the wind coming through the small entrance.

  Kepriah decided to inspect her feet before she gave in to exhaustion. With her palms, she rubbed at her laces until they became malleable again, then she untied them to remove her boots. No easy task with sore and bloody fingers. The pain caused her to grunt. She managed to remove her stockings with a bit of effort and sucked in a noisy breath at what she discovered. Her toes were starting to turn purple. Jabber shit.

  Did I wait too long to find shelter? Had burying Manry caused a delay that would be her death? She could not let the animals tear him apart and allow his soul to go to the Hollow of the Dead in pieces. Even on a battlefield, warriors assembled limbs and heads for the dead, but now she might just join Manry in the Hollow.

  He will kick my sorry ass if I die after all he did to get me this far. But what would happen to her if she could not walk, could not hunt? Bounty hunters would wait until first thaw before venturing up these bloody mountains, but they would certainly find her if she did not leave here when spring arrived. If I do not starve to death or die from infection first.

  She snorted and flipped her tea-colored braid over one shoulder. “Oh, hell and Hollow, Kepriah of Landerbury. You have survived several battles and now you whine over a few purple toes. Well, jabber shit.” The sound of her own voice, hoarse as it was, gave her comfort. “I had better get used to it. I’m going to be talking to myself a bloody long time.”

  She did not know what she would do once spring arrived, but she was safe from losing her head for now so she focused on that. A few snow flurries drifted in past the makeshift curtain and she watched them settle and melt almost immediately. “At least I will not die of thirst.”

  From her pack, she used rags to wrap her feet, then carefully pulled on a pair of dry, wool stockings. No warrior traveled without extra stockings. I will wait until morning and see how they look then. Not much else she could do now. Careful not to aggravate her toes any more than necessary, she scooted to the opening, dragging her sword. She used the weapon to bury the jabber meat in the snow and marked the spot with a large rock and a fat stick before letting the cloak fall into place again.

  She scooted to her pack and pulled out her rations. She would make them last as long as possible, perhaps three more days, then she would need the jabber meat. The jerky was tough but satisfying after such an arduous trek, and she chewed as she wiped her sword blade clean. She could do with a bowl of hot stew, a bowl of hot anything, and wished she could use magic to create a fire—No one would witness it here—but she did not have that kind of power. Her magic was limited to small, unpredictable things, like knowing when to retreat in battle and where to hide, if needed.

  Luckily, she could hide her magic from others. If anyone ever suspected it, however unintentional…she shook her head to clear that thought, but it did not work and a shiver raced up her spine. I would rather take my final trip to the Hollow than be a slave to some royal cod.

  Though she was fairly certain bounty hunters had not followed her, fear of a beheading pressed her against the notion of building a regular fire, at least for now. Besides, she was not in danger of freezing at the moment and searching for enough wood would be an arduous task. A frigid breeze lifted one side of the cloak and she glanced at her feet. How long could she survive these murderous temperatures if she could not walk? The jabber meat would not last forever and she would have to leave the cave to hunt and to fish. There were other dangers besides the cold, mainly den wolves and screech cats. Manry had warned her of these predators and taught her as much as he could about the mountains before his body gave out.

  Tears threatened but she shoved them back. I am tired. I need to sleep. She blew out the lantern to save what little fat there was, curled up inside her own cloak, sword within reach, and closed her eyes. But even as exhausted as she was, sleep did not come right away, and her mind churned ove
r the previous days. The village council refused to believe she had not murdered Rochar’s family and they had sent word to the royals.

  Those bastards. Kepriah would use children, certainly, as hostages or for trade, but she never killed them. Let them grow up and come after me, then things will be different.

  The fact that her blades did not match the wounds found on the dead family mattered not one whit to the council. Those villagers loathed western warriors and any excuse to execute one made for a joyous holiday. The royals were just as bad. In fact, the only royal Kepriah thought she might trust was Damon. He owed her for saving his life. Twice. The stupid boy’s head would have been on a stake if not for Kepriah.

  She smiled as she remembered his babbling thanks and promises to repay her if she ever needed him. Of course, royals tended to stick together and she doubted her neck would be safe for long, even with Damon, who had become landlord of the Cities of Sleep after his father’s death.

  But he owes me and I might need to collect. That thought monopolized her mind as she drifted into a troubled slumber.

  ****

  When she opened her eyes, dim light entered the cave, peeking around the makeshift door. Kepriah tried to stand but her feet did not hold and she fell hard onto her hip. After a string of curses, she scooped up her sword, scooted toward the entrance, pushed the cloak aside to see better, and removed the foot wraps.

  Her toes were black. Infection would soon follow and Kepriah cursed under her breath. She would have to sear her feet after she severed her snow-bitten toes, and she looked around for kindling with which to start a fire. She glanced at the journal that had fallen from her pack last night, and noted the markings and numbers that represented passing days, then looked at her feet again. Happy sarding day of birth to me.

  Chapter 2

  Bitter winds whipped the air. A large, screech cat crouched on a distant ledge, but Sorinieve only gave it a cursory glance. Pulses filled the crystal-laden staff and pushed through her body all the way to her booted feet, causing additional chill in her old bones, as she held the archway open and waited for Jakon to ride his jabber through to the next elevation of Forbidding Mountains. They needed to find the exact location where her most recent vision took place, and it was somewhere in these bloody, almost impassable, mountains.

  When Jakon gave the all-clear signal, Sorinieve kicked her jabber in its fat sides and steered it through the archway. The beast rolled its thick lips and bobbed its head, so she uttered a few soothing words. Not the most intelligent animals, and Jabbers’ overbites and tiny eyes made them appear quite stupid, but they were strong and their clawed hooves allowed them to traverse difficult terrain, a plus on these hideous mountains. Their thick hides were ideal for winter travel, though Sorinieve still had to use magic to keep them from freezing to death in this frigid landscape.

  Once on the other side, she turned her mount so she could see the southern village through the archway. The place had changed since she had been born all those centuries ago but she still thought of it as home. This would be her last glimpse of her birthplace. The delicate balance that had held so long, ages in fact, now threatened to unravel unless the Trine recovered the lost moon. For just a heartbeat, Sorinieve could feel the giant orb in the shadows far above the world, cloaked in ancient magic. That sensation came and went quickly but she knew it meant the possible end of Selenea, just as ancient prophecy foretold. Prophecy she hoped the fabled Trine would prevent. If I can get to them in time.

  Centuries ago, she had been chosen Keeper of the Faytools, predicted by the seer and knighted by the scepter’s visions. As Keeper, she protected the scepter, the talisman, and the ring until she found the true Nobles, the Trine, three women born during the last sunless portion of a day that comes every few centuries on Selenea. The day when the sun and smaller moon hide behind the larger, visible moon and the aurora blazes bright. The most recent happened twenty-five years ago today. Sorinieve had been one of many over the eons born at the height of a famed aurora eclipse, but she was not one of the Trine. Back then, no one knew who the Trine would be, only that three women would hold the title. Through the centuries, Sorinieve’s visions had revealed only snippets about these women, until recently. To complete the Trine, the Faytools needed to accept the three Nobles of prophecy.

  And we are running out of days.

  The future First Noble was somewhere in these bloody mountains. Why the girl had chosen to come here was beyond Sorinieve. Unless she was in trouble. Visions did not reveal everything, mostly just enough for Sorinieve to figure out the main message. She would definitely be on her guard in this part of the world so she steadied herself and crooned to her jabber as it tossed its head with impatience.

  The prophesied Second was a healer’s daughter fair of hair and temperament. The Third lived in the sister world, a strange and frightening place full of oddities Sorinieve did not understand. Though her ancestors had crossed into the sister world many times over the millennia, and Sorinieve had heard fascinating stories that survived today, she saw Earth for the first time in visions with the appearance of this year’s aurora. Hearing stories about the strange world in no way prepared her for what she encountered in those visions.

  She shook off those disturbing thoughts to focus on the future Trine again. Three women born with mage blood of the old line, strangers now, destined to come together in training and deed to fulfill the prophecy. Or so Sorinieve hoped. She had also hoped to be their teacher, but she was old, much older than she ever thought possible, and death stalked her from every shadow. The talisman weighed her down like a heavy rock around her neck. It was not meant for her and she had felt that discontented burden from the moment she had put it on, centuries ago. Same with the ring.

  The jeweled scepter, the only Faytool that allowed her to use magic, had drawn her to Forbidding Mountains, where the aurora swirled and waved above on various nights, signaling the beginning of an end. Sorinieve could feel herself dying with every movement and she pulled her cloak tighter in a futile attempt to ward off the cold. This body, which now appeared as a withered and feeble old woman, had only a short while left. Days. Perhaps weeks if she were lucky. But that would not matter if she failed to locate the prophesied women. Unless the Trine hoisted the lost moon back to Selenea’s skies in time, it would remain hidden forever. If that happened, unimaginable cold weather would engulf Selenea and the sister world until both were dead.

  “Noble, we must continue.” Jakon’s tone held urgency as he moved his jabber close. “The seer has predicted a terrible flood in the east. Remember?”

  Sometimes she did not remember things, but she had been to the seer hours earlier and had not forgotten. He was not a pathetic soothsayer shackled by the royals. This one, the true seer, a man older than Sorinieve, was no fool to be caught and enslaved by those who only believed in magic for folly and royal children’s parties. “Yes. I remember.” Sorinieve lowered the scepter and felt the power drain from her, shrinking the archway and the view of her birth home. Without the scepter, it would have taken days to get to this area. “Waters will soon flood the lowlands and kill those who refuse to flee to higher ground.”

  “Yes, Noble. We must hurry.”

  She turned to Jakon. Thanks to his people’s natural longevity, the centuries had not shrunken and twisted the body the way they had hers. The desert dweller looked only a few decades older than when she had first met him. He studied her with those familiar golden eyes, peering over the protective scarf that covered his mouth and nose. She scratched at her own, the wool itching her fragile facial skin. Jakon’s dark, hairless body, now covered in fur-lined clothing, twitched with anxiety as he fingered the broadsword at his waist. His muscular build presented an imposing figure compared to Sorinieve’s petite and now shrunken stature. When she had first seen him all those centuries ago, she had feared him, something that had shamed her as a warrior. As days turned to months and the years passed, their relationship became one of mutual resp
ect and love. Jakon was a loyal soul, worthy to be a protector, his family’s duty since anyone could remember. He still wore the long braid of an honored warrior, a sign of nobility among his people, though his hair now had gray in it.

  If I fail, he must get the Faytools to the chosen women and see that they learn to use them. As she studied him, her mind took her back to younger days. They had been lovers on and off over the centuries, had seen wars come and go, watched generations grow old, die, and be replaced by another generation of offspring. For a moment, she thought she was a young girl, but the moment passed quickly. She squeezed the scepter, the only weapon she carried, but even after all these centuries, she longed for a sword in her hands. I am a warrior displaced by prophecy. And my life is at its end.

  Since she was not one of the Trine, the scepter did not respond to her touch alone. Meditation disciplined her mind enough to tap into the dim magic that permeated everything around her, and that magic had faded with the passing centuries, growing ever more difficult to reach. Her head throbbed from weariness now. She placed the scepter in its leather hold near her foot, then clenched and unclenched her gnarled hands to relieve the ache of age. Despite her spell to keep them from freezing, she still felt the cold through her gloves.

  Few could touch magic anymore, and those who could had little power. With one exception. Nyanan. Like the coming Trine, the legendary Nyanan carried the old blood. She used ancient mind magic, giving and taking memories as she desired. No one had seen or heard from her in a number of years. No one knew her birth name or where she came from, not even Sorinieve. Perhaps her magic has failed as well. Perhaps she is already in the Hollow.