By the Light of the Moon (12 page)

Brock started to pace again and even as Iris was trying to follow his scheming train of thought, she knew entirely too little to be able to. In a way, she was still trying to come to terms with the knowledge that the Fae had an agent here. Did they have one in other places, too? How thin exactly was the ice she and Maeve were standing on?

“All right, crossling,” Brock finally said, turning around to her again. “I will take it under advisement. He might be convenient in the end. But no spells, no using the blood without my permission, is that clear?”

Iris nodded, shivering a little. She didn’t know what he could really do to her, but he obviously didn’t even need his powers to harm her. He had proved that easily. If she was right about him and his nature of a spy for his kind, he would resist using any major powers that might get him detected, especially with other magically inclined folk like the Blaidyn or herself around. That didn’t make him less frightening, however.

“I would know. Like I knew today,” he warned and another cold shiver ran down her spine. It wasn’t her he’d sensed and maybe there was one small thing to be grateful for in this utter fiasco.

“I understand,” she said quietly and then nodded toward the door. “Am I free to go?”

Brock shrugged and stepped back.

“I will find you if I have any instructions. And obviously it would not be good for you if any part of this conversation, or any comment about my person would leave those wrinkly old lips of yours.”

Again, Iris nodded. She maintained her composure enough to leave his room in small, dignified steps. Once the door closed behind her though, she started to shake so hard, she had to cling to the banister not to fall down the stairs. She would have to adjust; she would have to stay away from Maeve and she definitely had to find out what in the world had triggered the girl to glow like that.

The morning after a full moon was never an easy one. Stumbling for clothes, usually wet and clammy after lying somewhere all night, to fighting to keep his eyes open while he made it back to the castle and right into the mess hall. He generally had a healthy appetite — all Blaidyn did — but shifting form required energy and while sleep would help some, what he really needed was food. A lot of food. He could feel the curious glances of the other members of the guard on him; they looked away when he glanced up. But their reflexes were poor and their charade transparent.

Owain didn’t even mind. In fact, he was so focused inward, he hardly tasted the huge plate of eggs and meat and bread in front of him. The wolf inside of him preferred meat raw but Owain was too used to living among humans to insist on uncooked mutton or chicken. In truth, his own tastes had gotten rather fond of the spices and the salt and the taste of slightly charred crust. This morning, however, he was ladling it into his mouth almost mechanically.

He had shifted during the full moon for as long as he could remember, but this had never happened before. He usually made sure to avoid humans or human-inhabited regions and the night before, he had made sure to walk far into the forested foothills of the mountains. The wolf, however, had not been content to stay there.

He had hunted and fed, but then something — someone — had inevitably drawn him back toward the Keep. It had been dangerous and in a way, Owain still had trouble believing his wolf’s reactions to the girl. He had noticed a certain desire to protect her before his human side started to share that sentiment, but seeking her out was not something he would ever have expected of the animal nature inside of him.

Of course, Moira’s reaction was no less shocking. There was a reason why he kept the wolf away from humans; he was dangerous, quite literally so, but he looked even more ferocious than he was. And yet he had wagged his tail and smiled his wolf-smile and she had treated him like a playmate, like an overgrown puppy to run around in the fields with. She had even hugged him. No human had ever,
ever
hugged the wolf. That simply didn’t happen.

Owain had a certain amount of influence on the beast when they shared his body, just like the wolf had a certain sway when they shared Owain’s human form but it generally came down to more of a consciousness and a certain ability to push a situation this way or that. And the night before, the wolf had denied him even that. Owain had been a spectator and he could feel his insides drumming a little at the memory of her laughing face and his enchanted wolf.

Shaking his head, he heard the dull sound of his fork on the empty plate and he was a little surprised to find it empty. He could have eaten the same portion again, but he was late already. As unsure as he was of the prospect of seeing her, he was her guard and the least he could do was remain at his post and make sure he was there when he was needed. Always the dutiful soldier.

When he reached her corridor, however, he easily heard her quiet and regular breathing through the door. The young lady was actually sleeping. It shouldn’t have made him smile the way he did, but it was too late for that. On the way back to his chamber, he allowed the wolf’s self-satisfaction to permeate through the both of them and he collapsed on his own bed with a deep breath. He was sharply attuned to her now, and he knew he’d wake up when he heard her move around upstairs. He could afford a little nap of his own; build up his own low-burning fire for an hour or so.

It was almost noon when he woke; wide awake in an instant at the sound of her voice so many rooms away. It was dull and hard to make out, but it had a relaxed cadence. She was talking to her maid, which he had come to understand as one of the few people that never caused that trill of panic in Moira’s voice or drive her to seeking refuge in silence.

He shook his head a few times in a distinctly canine gesture and then quickly dressed in a fresh set of garb. He didn’t wear the guard colors; nobody had asked him to or provided them for him but he did wear the Rochmond crest on his chest now, engraved in a leather plate one of the servants had left in his room along with his cleaned and pressed clothes. He fetched himself another snack from the mess hall. It was getting quite easy to predict the young lady’s day. If her maid was to get her ready to be among people, especially the young nobleman who seemed so intent on winning her heart, it took them at least an hour to get her ready. That was more than enough time to feed his recharging body.

When she was ready to come downstairs, however, he stood by the staircase as he always did, straight and proud and silent. She didn’t look at him but he couldn’t help it. She was wrapped in fine fabrics and jewels; they shone and glittered. Her head was held high and stiff and her expanse of hair was tamed into braids that elegantly curled around her head, supporting a crown of pearls.

And just like that, the night seemed like a dream, far-fetched and impossible. This woman wasn’t the one who had played and run with his wolf. This woman was silent and hard and utterly tamed. And finally he looked away as he fell in step behind her, wondering at the hurt this caused him.

She was led up another flight of stairs and into a circular sunroom. It was beautiful and filled with windows. The bright light made Owain blink a little. It was only slightly uncomfortable but especially so around the full moon. Moira chose that moment to finally acknowledge him and he immediately adjusted his features, steeling his eyes against the sun.

He could smell Sir Fairester quite a while before he actually arrived. His odor of scents mixed a masculine musk with flowery notes Owain associated with females. On the battlefield, men did not bother with such trifles and given the man’s other shortcomings, Owain found it difficult not to wrinkle his nose when he caught the scent.

He didn’t look at the young lady when her suitor entered to take her hand. He brought it to his lips, offered her compliments that sounded hollow and human to Owain and then they sat together in the sun. He knew of Moira’s discomfort, the way it inhabited her muscles and her face, all the way down to her toes and the way they scraped against the inside of her slippers. It was in her smell, too, and in the strange quality her voice attained each time she hummed assent or thanked him. Who was that girl? Or, he supposed, the right question was: who had been the girl who had run with his wolf the night before?

Owain tried not to listen. If they got married, he would most likely be relieved from his guard post, but he couldn’t entirely lament the fact. He didn’t belong here, and that had been abundantly clear from the start. Exhaling a very small sigh, he permitted himself to come up with plans for the future. How many more years of fighting did he have in him? It wasn’t a thought he enjoyed entertaining. In contrast to many of the soldiers he had met over the years, he saw no honor in dying in battle anymore, maybe just because so many people had told him he was supposed to. In the end, however, he didn’t really have an image for a death he considered more worthwhile either. If he aged into a wizened old man, he would most likely be starving or maybe train some younglings how to fight. Human ones, he supposed, unable to imagine a pack that would take him anymore.

It was a gesture that tore him out of his thoughts. Sir Fairester was trying to close in on Moira again, but this time she didn’t shrink back so hard. He could still see the tension in her muscles, the strained quality of her breath but no immediate need for him to step in. Just for a moment, her eyes met his, and they triggered a surprisingly painful pull in his gut. The next moment, she was looking at the young nobleman again as he pushed a small velvet bundle over the table toward her.

Owain didn’t want to watch but for his kind, even with his eyes averted, his nose and ears provided all the information he could want and so the scene simply unfurled while he stood there. Moira opened the bundle. Owain smelled precious metals and heard the jingling of jewelry. He listened to her expressions of gratitude, hollow and human again, and then watched her flinch when Fairester insisted on putting it around her neck. It was gold, Owain noted with distaste, human metal. Blaidyn didn’t use it, it felt uncomfortable on their skin and could burn; it weakened the wolf with its sunny, golden sheen.

It shouldn’t have concerned him; he knew that well. It wouldn’t have. But it was moon day still and the wolf inhabited a large part of who he was, especially on that emotional level. And the wolf had his hackles raised and wanted to growl at the nobleman, wanted to tear him limb from limb if he got close to the girl again that the wolf had claimed for his own.

The wolf was another reason why Owain knew he couldn’t leave this place early enough.

• • •

The night was bright under the moon and Moira was climbing the circular stone steps up the tower, dragging the hem of her skirt behind her in a constant brushing sound. Her fingers traced the round wall until, out of breath, she found the stone give way to wood. Her shadow wasn’t far behind, she knew, but she had been ignoring him all day, not quite knowing what to say or whether it was proper to say anything at all.

The door was old and creaky; she had to lean her entire weight against it to make it swing open, but when it did, the moon stood high in the sky, reflecting on the light-colored stone of the battlements. It still looked full to her, but it had passed its peak the night before.

Not looking back, she walked out breathing the night air in deeply until she reached the center of the battlements, the drawbridge somewhere far below, and carefully climbed into a crenel, feet dangling off the wall, the side of her forehead leaning against the cool stone.

She loved it when the moon was bright like that; so bright you could almost not see the stars anymore, cool and silver and full of ancient power. Up there, she could hear the wind in the trees, and if she listened very closely, she was sure there was the bubbling sound of the water in the distance or the swaying grass or so many little insects. It was more than she had in most other places and it was closer to the moon.

Owain was growing harder to ignore. She was sure it was some illusion of the mind caused by her experience the night before, but she could almost feel the large beast, right there, where she knew he was standing in the shadow of the doorway. It was patient and satisfied and just for a moment, she was almost tempted to get up and pet it again. Except, she wouldn’t find a trace of the beast, only the strong and silent guard.

“You can come out,” she said quietly. She spoke the words in her natural tone and if there was one positive aspect to his super-human senses, it was never having to raise her voice to make sure he understood. For a long moment, a few slow inhales of breath, nothing happened. Moira frowned and closed her eyes. Could she be mistaken? Had she heard anything at all? She didn’t remember. But she felt him so strongly, what else could it be?

Finally, there was the rustle of clothes against wood, and he emerged from the doorway. His head was bowed, the moon finding the smallest strands to highlight in his dark hair.

“I assumed Milady would wish to be alone,” he answered, and she liked that he didn’t raise his voice either. There was no need. His reply made her shrug, though. Did she? The answer was yes, it always was. It was the only answer she knew and still, with her shoulders pulled up to her ears, she wasn’t sure.

“I knew you were there,” she finally answered. Being alone was out of the question since he had come to the castle.

“I tried to be quiet, milady, I shall endeavor to … improve on that front.”

Moira frowned, but she didn’t know why the answer didn’t meet her pleasure. For a while, she eyed the crenel wall in front of her. She closed her eyes and breathed; almost instantly it was as though the wolf was standing next to her. He was nicer than the man, smiling his wolf smile with his mouth a little open as he breathed. She had liked him and just for a moment, she looked back at the man, just to make sure it was another image conjured up by her imagination. But there he was. Had he moved at all? A tremendous sense of loss washed over her and she couldn’t explain it. She wondered if he even knew about that night or whether it was something she had only shared with the large and proud beast. She hadn’t thought so; something about him had felt like her silent guard, too. But it was hard to try and reconcile that feeling with the reality in front of her.