By the Light of the Moon (4 page)

He could see the castle looming in the distance; an impressive stronghold. Even now, after a century and a half of peace, it still looked as defensible as it must have looked in wartime, in those bitter last decades when the fight had been contained in this region, battles raging on the very ground upon which he stood; blood-drenched earth. He thought he could smell it still, a copper note in the fertile soil.

Owain knew the fief from the songs of his childhood, the stories murmured in his ear when it was time to sleep. Stories of war, of fighting the good fight, of subjugation and freedom. They had taught him pride in being Blaidyn, taught him to have belief in the good. He’d grown up since then, still proud but where his beliefs lay, he did not know. He recognized the landmarks, though. There was that mountain ridge that looked like a toothy castle in the sky, the deep forest at its feet. And growing closer and closer, the innocuously named Bramble Keep, Rochmond Castle, built on a rock overlooking the fief.

It was a striking structure, hardly a straight wall to be seen; just circling towers and rounded battlements, sturdily built with no clear front to attack.

As little as he knew about his appointment there, it had sounded like an easy job. A retirement job, he thought, not without a note of wounded pride in spite of the fact that he welcomed a change of pace. He had spent years on foreign battlefields, vicious and bloody fights over boundaries being drawn a few miles to north or the south, over a river or simply a nobleman’s pride. He had seen bodies hacked to pieces, women raped, towns going up in flames and earth salted. He had witnessed friends die as well as enemies and it was time for a break.

This, at least, was what he told himself; that he deserved a quiet assignment, looking after a spoiled little girl for her overly worried father. He would be hired for his nose and his speed, not for his hands that could break a man’s neck without the slightest difficulty. His warrior pride was wounded, but the rest of his soul was aching for just such a reprieve.

Owain did not see the man at a window in one of the towers as he started to climb the path that wound itself once around the entire rock; a street wide enough for supply carts to be driven up and down. It was hewn into the stone but centuries of use had ground it to an almost soft dirt path, slippery when wet.

He took his time, enjoying the last hour as a free man. He could still turn away. Nobody would stop him; he could shift and let the wolf run, he could turn wild in the woods and find a mate who would give him a beautiful litter of pups. Instead, he kept on climbing, enjoying the knowledge of what he could do more than he would the act of breaking free, the state of unencumbered freedom.

Owain had left the company of his own kind, not without thought or reason, and had little desire to return. He would never be human, would always be looked down upon in their world — but it was easier to take that from them than from his own people. He had made his choice years ago. All he had done after was living with that decision.

When he begged entry at the drawbridge, it was only after the captain of the guard was called that the doorman pulled up the cast iron portcullis to admit him. As though that would have kept them safer had he been intent on harming the Keep.

“Sir Fredrick Clifton,” the man introduced himself, “Captain of his Lordship’s guard.” He was older than Owain himself, a man past his prime for humans, but Owain could sense the soldier in him; a brave man who hadn’t seen many battles in his life as a backwater guard.

“Owain,” he said simply, standing at attention.

Sir Clifton eyed him suspiciously, but when he didn’t seem to find anything too objectionable, he nodded and gestured to the Blaidyn to follow him into the Keep.

“You are the first … the first Blaidyn in his Lordship’s command,” the man continued uncomfortably. Owain sensed that there were many things he didn’t say but that was to be expected. He had learned long ago that humans were as notoriously secretive and polite as they were terrible at either. For a race so dependent on smells and gestures in their communication as his own, humans seemed to interact in an elaborate game of play acting, in which thinly coated lies were exchanged as polite interaction far more often than truths were uttered. He was used to it by now, and only gave the captain a thin-lipped polite smile.

He smelled fear; it was a scent he knew well. Not a pleasure by any means, as fear smelled sharp and unattractive.

Sir Clifton led him into a small study on the ground floor. A window looked out over the small moat and toward the mountains, the walls were covered in maps and bookshelves and a floor plan of the Keep was pinned onto the table in the center of the room.

“His Lordship will be with you shortly,” the captain said, as he looked around and then departed. Owain wondered whether his hasty retreat was ordered or fear-induced but didn’t dwell on it. Instead, he concentrated on the floor plan. It really was an interesting structure. He knew little of architecture, nor had he held many indoor positions in his career as a hired sword, but he didn’t like doing anything unless he was ready to do it well. In order to protect a girl in a castle, he had to know the layout, the nooks and crannies, the passageways and shortcuts.

When a while later, the door opened behind him, Owain quickly straightened up and turned around. The speed of his reflexes had the entering man halt in his step, staring for just a moment. Finally, he seemed to remember his station and his face relaxed as he stepped closer, followed by Sir Clifton.

Owain bowed low, his hand on his unadorned leather breastplate. A nobleman was easy to recognize. This one was old, in his late forties or fifties, at least. Owain found it hard sometimes to guess human ages; they passed from youth into old age so much faster than his own kind. Lord Rochmond smelled of good soap, of tobacco and of worries. He was shorter than he had expected, but Owain didn’t cower to try and hide the height difference.

“Thank you for coming, Mr. Owain,” the nobleman said after a long moment of mutual appraisal. He then walked over to the other side of the table and sat down without offering his guest or the captain of his guard a seat as well.

“Just Owain, my Lord.” His correction was quiet, the perfect picture of a humble servant and Lord Rochmond, after eying him for a long moment, took it as such with a small nod.

“Sir Clifton will take over your general instructions but I wanted to welcome you personally.” He paused for a long time until the silence grew heavy and the captain stepped from one foot to the other. Owain remained unmoving.

“My daughter, the Lady Moira has a streak of … she is a free spirit.” The Lord’s eyes fell onto the room she inhabited as it was drawn into the floor plan. “She is my only child and I want to ensure her safety. She has a tendency to wander the castle at night — sometimes outside — and you will not leave her side when she does.”

Owain listened, nodding occasionally. So far, the assignment was as he had been made to expect.

“While I want you to try and limit her wanderings, you will never physically restrain her, enter her chambers or act in any other way untoward, understood?”

“Yes, my Lord,” he answered in his deep grumble of a voice that was so typical of his kind. “Of course.”

Lord Rochmond eyed him for a long time until he finally nodded and rose from his seat again. “You may familiarize yourself with the household here. Sir Clifton will show you to your quarters; you will live in the main house so that you may follow her if she gets up. You will eat with the rest of the guards and payment will be issued at the end of each week.”

“Yes, my Lord.”

Owain could sense the Lord’s discomfort. He knew the stories that were still told about his race, some true, some not. He was a frightening figure to behold, tall and strong, his features starker than most humans, with a pronounced nose, large, intelligent eyes and a strong jaw. He finally relaxed his utterly motionless stance just a little bit to put the two humans at ease. It seemed to work because Lord Rochmond nodded and walked back toward the door.

“I will summon you to my study to meet my daughter when you have settled in.”

• • •

“Have you seen him?” Moira asked her maid, Bess. She was sitting on a chair, perfectly straight and looking at the wall ahead while the maid was carefully coiling her hair into ornate braids that encircled her head in a simple, adorning crown of flowing red.

“No, milady,” Bess answered distractedly. Her mouth was full of little pins and she carefully extracted one to hold the braid in place.

“I heard they have claws instead of hands,” Moira said then. Her frown sat deep in her face, her shoulders pulled up higher than any natural body stance would suggest.

“I heard their eyes are bright silver and that they growl instead of talk like us,” Bess added for good measure. She had long managed to keep up a conversation with her lady while getting her ready. Most days, she was the only soul the ghostly young woman exchanged more than a few words with at all.

Moira shivered a little. Her hands kept fingering the green fabric of her dress, long and flowing. She had seen the fitted bodices women in the capital wore, had seen them dance and move in them, but she herself was happy with the ones her tailor made.

“He wouldn’t dare harm you, milady,” Bess finally said, sensing Moira’s worry. She had served her Ladyship since she was a child and Bess herself not much older. In different circumstances they could have been friends and in a way, they were the closest either of them had to a sister.

“They are strong, but he is but one man. He must know that.”

Moira nodded, gave her maid a tired and half-hearted smile and wet her lips. She held still while Bess fixed the simple headpiece of green leaves and pearl flowers upon the braids and finally stood up to inspect herself in the dull mirror.

“I have little experience in dressing to receive my own prison guard,” she said quietly. Her pale cheeks were colored with a hint of peach and so were her lips. Tentatively she tried a smile but even she knew it never looked comfortable on her face and quickly gave it up.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to do something about … ” Bess nodded up at Moira’s face but a look from her mistress made her stop. Moira never looked healthy, not like Bess or any of the other maids in the house. She was sallow and pale and her huge liquid eyes seemed forever framed with dark circles that made her look withdrawn.

“I apologize, milady, I meant nothing by it.”

“I know … ” Moira’s voice was quiet and just for one moment, she touched Bess’s hand before she quickly drew it away and pushed herself off the low chair by the mirror. “Thank you, Bess, that will be all,” she added. A shiver went through her body and her face twitched to the side just once as though trying to dislodge a spider from her hair.

Sucking her bottom lip between her teeth again, she gathered the courage to step toward the door. She had never been comfortable with meeting strangers — and this one was not just a stranger. He was not even human. And from this day on, he would be around her as much as Bess; more than her mother and father, more than her tutor Brock or her governess or her other instructors. A shadow to watch her every step. Another shiver ran down her spine, making the little hairs on her arms stand to attention, tingling uncomfortably.

When Bess left the room, she sat down again. She knew they were waiting for her, and she knew it wasn’t polite, but she needed a few moments to gather herself. Moira needed the quiet and the calm, the loneliness. She went to open a window and closed her eyes against the gentle breeze. It was always a little colder at her side of the castle, the one that faced the mountains. It had less sun and every so often, Moira was sure that the ice-capped peaks in the distance sent a little touch of winter through her window; the promise of snow.

She inhaled deeply and slowly, it quieted her aching and clammy chest, slowly loosened the tight muscles in her neck and shoulders. Wind and snow, a kiss of the wild outside; she had to keep her eyes closed to picture it, to erase the warm glow of the busy autumn afternoon in the fields below.

When she finally walked down the long corridor toward her father’s study, the breeze had already torn a few strands free from their tight and careful braid, wisping around her noble face as she walked. She couldn’t hear any voices as she stood in front of the oak door that led to the library. Breathing and gathering herself, she hesitated a moment before she pushed it open. Inside, her father stood by the window, several feet away from Sir Clifton and the stranger. All three men had their hands behind their backs and she thought she could taste the tension in the air; that note of crackling sulfur, like the wind before a thunderstorm.

“Moira,” her father said immediately, walking a few steps to meet her and take her arm. She thought she’d detected a note of relief in his quick steps. His eyes lingered on her face for a long moment and Moira looked away uncomfortably. She didn’t like being looked at, particularly not with that worried expression her father always held in store for her.

“This is Owain.”

Now that it was proper, she permitted herself to look at the man who wasn’t really a man. His hands didn’t look any different than any other human’s though, nor did his eyes. He was tall, almost shockingly so, dwarfing her father as well as the captain in height and stature.

“My lady,” he uttered and his voice, while low and a little raspy, was by no means a growl. Bowing low, he looked less intimidating but Moira still took a tiny step back before her father’s hand on her shoulder stopped her.

“Owain has taken up residence in the chamber by the stairs,” Lord Rochmond continued into the silence left wide open by his daughter. She was still looking at the now-standing Blaidyn and he had the audacity to look back.

“You should see little of him provided you stay where I know you are safe.”

Turning to her father, she gifted him with a cold glare, the humiliation of the punishment biting deep in front of the other men.