The Girl Who Drank the Moon (20 page)

33.

In Which the Witch Encounters an Old Acquaintance

When Xan was a little girl, she lived in a village in the forest. Her father, as far as she could remember, was a carver. Of spoons, primarily. Animals, too. Her mother gathered the flowers of particular climbing vines and sapped them of their essences and combined them with honey that she pulled from the wild hives in the tallest trees. She would climb to the tops, as nimble as a spider, and then send the honeycombs down in baskets on ropes for Xan to catch. Xan was not allowed to taste. In theory. She would anyway. And her mother would climb down and kiss the honey from her little-­girl lips.

It was a thing she remembered with a stab in her heart. Industrious people, her parents. Fearless. She couldn't recall their faces, but she remembered the feeling she had when she was near them. She remembered their smells of tree sap and sawdust and pollen. She remembered the curl of large fingers around her small shoulder and of her mother's breath as she rested her mouth at the top of Xan's head. And then they died. Or vanished. Or they didn't love her and they left. Xan had no idea.

The scholars said they found her in the woods all alone.

Or, one of them did. The woman with the voice like cut glass. And a heart like a tiger. She was the one who brought Xan to the castle, all those years ago.

Xan rested her wings in the hollowed-­out nook of a tall tree. It would take her forever to make it to the Protectorate at this rate. What had she been
thinking
? An albatross would have been a much better choice. All she'd have had to do is lock her wings in place and let the wind do the rest.

“No matter now,” she chirped in her bird-­voice. “I'll make it there as best I can. Then I'll return to my Luna. I'll be there when her magic opens up. I'll show her how to use it. And who knows? Maybe I was wrong. Maybe her magic will never come. Maybe I won't die. Maybe a lot of things.”

She helped herself to a portion of the ants swarming the outside of the tree, looking for something sweet. It wasn't much, but it satisfied the edges of her hunger. Puffing her feathers out for warmth, Xan closed her eyes and fell asleep.

The moon rose, heavy and round as a ripe squash, over the tops of the trees. It fell on Xan, waking her up.

“Thank you,” she whispered, feeling the moonlight sink into her bones, easing her joints and soothing her pain.

“Who's there?” a voice said. “I warn you! I'm armed!”

Xan couldn't help herself. The voice sounded so frightened. So lost. And she could help. And here she was all full up with moonlight. Indeed, if she just paused a moment, she would be able to gather it in her wings and drink until she was full. She wouldn't
stay
full, of course. She was too porous. But she felt wonderful
for now
. And down below her was a figure—it moved quickly from side to side; it hunched its shoulders; it looked from left to right to left again. It was terrified. And the moonlight billowed Xan up. It made her compassionate. She fluttered out of her hiding place and circled over the figure. A young man. He screamed, loosed the stone in his hand, and hit Xan on the left wing. She fell to the ground without so much as a peep.

A
ntain, realizing that it was not—as he had assumed—a fearsome Witch bearing down on him (possibly riding a dragon and holding a flaming staff), but was instead a tiny brown bird who probably just wanted a bit of food, felt an immediate stab of shame. As soon as the stone left his fingers, he wished he could take it back again. For all his bluster in front of the Council, he had never so much as wrung the neck of a chicken for a nice dinner. He wasn't entirely certain he
could
kill the Witch.

(
The Witch will take my son,
he admonished himself. Still. Taking a life. With each moment he felt his resolve begin to weaken.)

The bird landed right in front of his feet. It didn't make a sound. It hardly breathed. Antain thought for certain that it was dead. He swallowed a sob.

And then—a miracle!—the bird's chest rose, then fell, then rose, then fell. Its wing angled outward sickeningly. Broken. That was certain.

Antain kneeled down. “I'm sorry,” he breathed. “I'm so, so sorry.” He scooped up the bird in his hands. It didn't look healthy. How could it, in these cursed woods? Half the water was poisoned. The Witch. It all came back to the Witch. Curse her name forever. He brought the bird to his chest, trying to warm it from the heat of his body. “I'm so, so sorry,” he said again.

The bird opened its eyes. A swallow, he could see. Ethyne loved swallows. Just thinking of her made his heart slice in half. How he missed her! How he missed their son! What he wouldn't do to see them again!

The bird gave him a hard look. It sneezed. He couldn't blame it.

“Listen, I am so sorry about your wing. And, alas, I have no skills to heal it. But my wife. Ethyne.” His voice cracked saying her name. “She is clever and kind. People bring her their injured animals all the time. She can help you. I know it.”

He tied the top section of his jerkin and made a small pouch, closing the bird safely inside. The bird made a warbling sound.
It's not happy with me,
he thought. And to drive the point home, the bird nipped him on his index finger when he let it linger too close. Blood bloomed on his fingertip.

A night moth fluttered into Antain's face, probably attracted by the moonlight shining on his skin. Thinking fast, he grabbed it, and offered it to the bird.

“Here,” he said. “To show you that I mean no harm.”

The bird gave him another hard look. And then reluctantly snatched the moth from his fingers, swallowing it in three jerking bites.

“There. You see?” He looked up at the moon, and then at his map. “Come. I just want to make it to the top of that rise. And then we can rest.”

And Antain and the Witch went deeper into the wood.

S
ister Ignatia felt herself growing weaker by the minute. She had done her best to swallow all the sorrow she could—she couldn't believe how much sorrow hung about the town! Great, delicious clouds of it, as persistent as fog. She really had outdone herself, and she had never, she realized now, given herself the proper admiration that was her due. An entire city transformed into a veritable well of sorrow. An ever-­filling goblet. All for her. No one in the history of the Seven Ages had ever before managed such a feat. There should be songs written about her. Books, at the very least.

But now, two days without access to sorrow, and she was already weak and worn. Shivery. Her wellsprings of magic depleting by the second. She would need to find that boy. And fast.

She paused and knelt beside a small stream, scanning the nearby forest for signs of life. There were fish in the stream, but fish are accustomed to their lot in life and don't experience sorrow as a general rule. There was a nest of starlings overhead, the hatchlings not two days old. She could crush the baby birds one by one, and eat the mother's sorrow—of course she could. But the sorrow of birds was not as potent as mammalian sorrow. There wasn't a mammal for miles. Sister Ignatia sighed. She gathered what she needed to build a makeshift scrying device—a bit of volcanic glass from her pocket, the bones of a recently killed rabbit, and an extra bootlace, because it was helpful to include the most useful thing on hand. And nothing is more useful than a bootlace. She couldn't build it with the same level of detail as the large mechanical scryers she had in the Tower, but she wasn't looking for very much.

She couldn't see Antain. She had an idea of where he was. She was fairly certain she could see a blur where she thought he might be, but something was blocking her view.

“Magic?” she muttered. “Surely not.” All the magicians on earth—at least everyone who knew what they were doing—had perished five hundred years earlier when the volcano erupted. Or nearly erupted. The fools! Sending her with her Seven League Boots to rescue the people in the forest villages. Oh, she certainly had. She'd gathered them all safe and sound into the Protectorate. All their endless sorrows, clouding together in one place. All according to plan.

She licked her lips. She was so
hungry
. She needed to survey her surroundings.

The Head Sister held her scrying device up to her right eye and scanned the rest of the forest. Another blur.
What is the matter with this thing?
she wondered. She tightened the knots. Still a blur. Hunger, she decided. Even basic spells are difficult when one is not operating at full strength.

Sister Ignatia eyed the starling nest.

She scanned the mountain. Then she gasped.

“No!” she shouted. She looked again. “How are you still alive, you ugly thing?”

She rubbed her eyes and looked a third time. “I thought I killed you, Glerk,” she whispered. “Well. I guess I shall have to try again. Troublesome creature. You almost foiled me once, but you failed. And you shall fail again.”

First,
she thought,
a snack.
Shoving her scrying device into her pocket, Sister Ignatia climbed up to the branch with the starling nest. She reached in and grabbed a tiny, wriggling nestling. She crushed it in one fist as the horrified mother looked on. The mother sparrow's sorrow was thin. But it was enough. Sister Ignatia licked her lips and crushed another nestling.

And now,
she thought,
I must remember where I hid those Seven League Boots.

34.

In Which Luna Meets a Woman in the Wood

The paper birds roosted on branches and stones and the remains of chimneys and walls and old buildings. They made no sound outside the rustle of paper and the scritch of folds. They quieted their bodies and turned their faces toward the girl on the ground. They had no eyes. But they watched her all the same. Luna could feel it.

“Hello,” she said, because she didn't know what else to say. The paper birds said nothing. The crow, on the other hand, couldn't keep himself quiet. He spiraled upward and sped into a cluster gathered on the extended arm of an ancient oak tree, shouting all the while.

“Caw, caw, caw, caw,” the crow screeched.

“Hush,” Luna admonished. She had her eyes on the paper birds. They tilted their heads in unison, first pointing their beaks at the girl on the ground, then following the crazed crow, then looking back at the girl.

“Caw,” said the crow. “I'm frightened.”

“Me, too,” Luna said as she stared at the birds. They scattered, then massed again, hovering over her like a great, undulating cloud before settling back onto the branches of the oak tree.

They know me,
Luna thought.

How do they know me?

The birds, the map, the woman in my dreams. She is here, she is here, she is here.

It was too much to think about. The world had too many things to know in it, and Luna's mind was full. She had a pain in her skull, right in the middle of her forehead.

The paper birds stared at her.

“What do you want from me?” Luna demanded. The paper birds rested on their roosts. There were too many to count. They were waiting. But for what?

“Caw,” the crow said. “Who cares what they want? Paper birds are creepy.”

They
were
creepy, of course. But they were also beautiful and strange. They were looking for something. They wanted to tell her something.

Luna sat down on the dirt. She kept her eye on the birds. She let the crow nestle on her lap. She closed her eyes and took out her book and a pencil stub. Once, she had let her mind wander as she thought about the woman in her dreams. And then she had drawn a map. And the map was
correct
. Or at least it had been so far. “She is here, she is here, she is here,” her map said, and Luna could only assume that it was telling the truth. But now she needed to make something else happen. She needed to know where her grandmother was.

“Caw,” said the crow.

“Hush,” Luna said without opening her eyes. “I'm trying to concentrate.”

The paper birds watched her. She could feel them watching. Luna felt her hand move across the page. She tried to keep her mind on her grandmother's face. The touch of her hand. The smell of her skin. Luna felt worry grip her heart in its fist, and two hot tears came tumbling down, hitting the paper with a splat.

“Caw,” the crow said. “Bird,” it meant.

Luna opened her eyes. The crow was right. She hadn't drawn her grandmother at all. She had drawn a stupid bird. One that was sitting in a man's hand.

“Well, what on earth?” Luna grumbled, her heart sinking into her boots. How could she find her grandmother? How indeed?

“Caw,” the crow said. “Tiger.”

Luna scrambled to her feet, keeping her knees bent in a low crouch.

“Stay close,” she whispered to the crow. She wished the birds were made of something more substantial than paper. Rock, maybe. Or sharp steel.

“Well,” said a voice. “What have we here?”

“Caw,” said the crow. “Tiger.”

But it wasn't a tiger at all. It was a woman.

So why do I feel so afraid?

E
thyne stood as the Grand Elder arrived, flanked by two heavily armed Sisters of the Star. She was, by all appearances, utterly unafraid. It was galling, really. The Grand Elder knitted his eyebrows in a way that he assumed was imposing. This had no effect. To make it worse, it seemed that she not only knew the two soldiers to the right and left of him but was
friends
with them as well. She brightened as she saw the ruthless soldiers arrive, and they smiled back.

“Lillienz!” she said, smiling at the soldier on his left. “And my dear, dear Mae,” she said, blowing a kiss to the soldier on his right.

This was not the entrance that the Grand Elder had hoped for. He cleared his throat. The women in the room seemed not to have noticed that he was there. It was infuriating.

“Welcome, Uncle Gherland,” Ethyne said with a gentle bow. “I was just heating some water in the kettle, and I have fresh mint from the garden. Can I make you some tea?”

Grand Elder Gherland wrinkled his nose. “Most housewives, madam,” he said acidly, “would not bother with herbal trifles in their garden when there are mouths to feed and neighbors to look after. Why not grow something more substantial?”

Ethyne was unruffled as she moved about the kitchen. The baby was strapped to her body with a pretty cloth, which she had embroidered herself, no doubt. Everything in the house was clever and beautified. Industrious, creative, and canny. Gherland had seen that combination before, and he did not like it. She poured hot water into two handmade cups stuffed with mint, and sweetened it with honey from her hive outside. Bees and flowers and even singing birds surrounded the house. Gherland shifted uncomfortably. He took his cup of tea and thanked his hostess, though he was certain that he would despise it. He took a sip. The tea, he realized peevishly, was the most delicious thing he had ever drunk.

“Oh, Uncle Gherland,” Ethyne sighed happily, leaning into her sling to kiss the head of her baby. “Surely you know that a productive garden is a well-­balanced garden. There are plants that eat the soil and plants that feed the soil. We grow more than we could ever eat, of course, and much of it is given away. As you know, your nephew is always willing to give of himself to help others.”

If the mention of her husband hurt her at all, she did not show it. The girl seemed incapable of sorrow, foolish thing. Indeed, she seemed to glow with pride. Gherland was baffled. He did his best to contain himself.

“As you know, child, the Day of Sacrifice is rapidly approaching.” He expected her to grow pale at this pronouncement. He was mistaken.

“I am aware, Uncle,” she said, kissing her baby again. She looked up and met his gaze, her expression so assured of her own equality with the Grand Elder that he found himself speechless in the face of such blind insolence.

“Dear Uncle,” Ethyne continued gently, “why are you
here
? Of course you are welcome in my home whenever you choose to stop by, and of course my husband and I are always pleased to see you. Usually it is the Head Sister who comes to intimidate the families of the doomed children. I have been expecting her all day.”

“Well,” Gherland said. “The Head Sister is not available. I have come instead.”

Ethyne gave the old man a piercing look. “What do you mean ‘not available'? Where is Sister Ignatia?”

The Grand Elder cleared his throat. People did not question him. Indeed, people did not question
much
in the Protectorate—they were a people who accepted their lot in life, as they should. This young woman—this
child . . .
Well,
Gherland thought.
One can only hope she will go mad like the other one did so long ago.
Locked in the Tower was far preferable to insolent questioning at family dinners, that much was certain. He cleared his throat again. “Sister Ignatia is away,” he said slowly. “On business.”

“What kind of business?” the girl asked with a narrowed eye.

“Her own, I suspect,” Gherland replied.

Ethyne stood and approached the two soldiers. They had been trained, of course, to not make eye contact with the citizenry, and to instead gaze past them impassively. They were supposed to look as a stone looks and feel as a stone feels. This was the mark of a good soldier, and
all
of the Sisters were good soldiers. But
these
soldiers began to flush as the girl approached them. They tilted their gaze to the ground.

“
Ethyne,
” one of them whispered.
“No.”

“Mae,” Ethyne said. “Look at my face. You, too, Lillienz.” Gherland's jaw fell open. He'd never seen anything like it in all his life. Ethyne was smaller than both of the soldiers.
And yet.
She seemed to tower before them both.

“Well,” he sputtered. “I must object—”

Ethyne ignored him. “Does the tiger prowl?”

The soldiers were silent.

“I feel we are moving away from the subject of the conversation—” Gherland began.

Ethyne held up her hand, silencing her uncle-­in-­law. And he was, remarkably,
silent
. He couldn't believe it. “At night, Mae,” the young woman continued. “Answer me. Does the tiger prowl?”

The soldier pressed her lips together, as though trying to force her words inside. She winced.

“What on earth could you possibly mean?” Gherland sputtered. “Tigers? You are too old for girlish games!”

“
Silence,
” Ethyne ordered. And once again, incomprehensibly, Gherland fell silent. He was astonished.

The soldier bit her lip and hesitated for a moment. She leaned in toward Ethyne. “Well, I never thought about it as you did, but yes. No padded paws stalk the hallways of the Tower. Nothing growls. Not for days. We all”—the soldier closed her eyes—“sleep easy. For the first time in years.”

Ethyne wrapped her arms around the infant in his sling. The boy sighed in his dreaming. “So. Sister Ignatia is not in the Tower. She is in not in the Protectorate, or I would have heard of it. She must be in the forest. And she no doubt means to kill him,” Ethyne murmured.

She walked over to Gherland. He squinted. Everything in this house was bright. Though the rest of the town was submerged in fog, this house was bathed in light. Sunlight streamed in the windows. The surfaces gleamed. Even Ethyne seemed to shine, like an enraged star.

“My dear—”

“YOU.”
Ethyne's voice was somewhere between a bellow and a hiss.

“I mean to say,” Gherland said, feeling himself crumple and burn, like paper.

“YOU SENT MY HUSBAND INTO THE WOODS TO DIE.”
Her eyes were flames. Her hair was flame. Even her skin was on fire. Gherland felt his eyelashes begin to singe.

“What? Oh. What a silly thing to say. I mean—”

“YOUR OWN NEPHEW.”
She spat on the ground—an uncouth gesture that seemed strangely lovely when she did it. And Gherland, for the first time in his life, felt ashamed. “
YOU SENT A MURDERER AFTER HIM. THE FIRST SON OF YOUR ONLY SISTER AND YOUR BEST FRIEND.
Oh, Uncle.
How could you?
”

“It isn't what you think, my dear. Please. Sit. We're family. Let's discuss—” But Gherland felt himself crumble inside. His soul succumbed to a thousand cracks.

She strode past him and returned to the soldiers.

“Ladies,” she said. “If either of you have ever held me in any modicum of affection or respect, I must humbly ask for your assistance. I have things that I would like to accomplish before the Day of Sacrifice, which, as we all know”—she gave Gherland a poisonous look—“waits for no man.” She let that hang in the air for a moment. “I think I need to visit with my former Sisters. The cat's away. And the mice shall play. And there is much that a mouse can do, after all.”

“Oh Ethyne,” the Sister named Mae said, linking arms with the young mother. “How I've
missed you
.” And the two women left, arm in arm, with the other soldier hesitating, glancing at the Elder, and then hurrying behind.

“I must say,” the Grand Elder said, “this is highly—” He looked around. “I mean. There are rules, you know.” He drew himself up and gave a haughty expression to no one at all.
“Rules.”

T
he paper birds didn't move. The crow didn't move. Luna didn't move, either.