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The Crown of Moonlight

by Martina Boone

Chapter One

The Stranger in the Wood

Flora

War is never glorious. That’s a lesson we women learn at our mothers’ knees. Apart from those closest to the immortal royals, no human in Alba Scoria will benefit from this battle for a throne the Sun King stole from us and gods that were never ours.

I remember the day another of the Everfolk first came through the Veil from Tirnaeve and ended four centuries of the Sun King’s tyranny. For a moment, we dared to hope. But the Raven Queen has proven herself cruel beyond measure, and I’ve no doubt the rebel king—the Sun King’s so-called heir—will be as bad as his murderous father if he manages to win this war.

Nearly every clan in Alba Scoria is already fighting on one side or another, and as the destruction marches closer, I’m preparing in every way I can: storing food for a siege, making candles, and readying medicines to tend the injured. With my father and brothers dead and our warriors scattered, my authority is tenuous at best. The Clan Council may never accept me as Chief, and even if they do, there’s no guarantee the Raven Queen will repeal the Sun King’s law that prohibits women from leading clans. None of that changes my determination not to let Dunhaelic fall, whatever the cost.

Like everyone else these days, I’m heartsore and tired to my marrow. My early-morning runs with the stallions have become the only chance I have to clear my head.

Today, the cold bites deep. My fingers are numb on the reins against Ari’s steaming neck. The sun spills pink and crimson over the hilltops behind us, but ahead in the Sacred Wood, frost and gloom still linger beneath the mid-April canopy where the old military road climbs through the ancient trees.

I normally turn back at the edge of the Wood, but today I give in to a whisper of rebellion instead. Urging the stallion faster, I lose myself in the sensations: the surge of his muscles, the chuff of his breath, the thunder of hooves on hard-packed earth. Crouched low over Ari’s mane, the wind whips my face and billows my kilted skirt.

We’re flying now, the ground blurring beneath Ari’s strides, when he suddenly snorts and throws his head. His shoulder drops out from under me, and he turns to bolt back the way we came.

I fight to keep my seat and hold him back.

“Easy, lad. What is it?” I pull him in a circle, patting his neck as I force him forward again. He watches the slope on our right with his ears pinned back and his eyes rimmed white.

Nothing stirs around us. Nothing rustles.

Yet the stallion bucks and fishtails, jolting me against the pommel. Pain flashes white, and I circle him again, keeping him moving.

Then I realise that I’ve been slow to understand. It’s always hard for me to pinpoint the source of sound. My left ear is deaf, but I don’t need both ears to hear what isn’t there.

Silence coils around us. Gone is the usual dawn chorus of thrushes and blackbirds, whose morning calls can seem insistent enough to wake the dead. Gone, too, are the rustlings of squirrel and hunting cat, of marten and deer and capercaillie.

Something large must be hiding among the trees.

This is the perfect place for an ambush. Centuries of wagon wheels and iron-shod horses have worn the road away, leaving steep banks of earth and roots on either side that cut off any escape. The thick-trunked trees would give good cover for a highwayman or a deserter to lie in wait, but it could also be some of our own men returning.

I whistle the five notes of Dunhaelic’s signal call and wait.

No one answers.

Still, part of me clings to the hope that a few of our warriors might have survived the recent battle at Culodur. They could be weak. Wounded. Either way, I need to know.

Shifting Ari’s reins to one hand, I draw the dagger from my belt. My fighting skills are basic at best, but if all else fails, I have my one trick of illegal magic to help. The ember of power that lives inside me has burned low these past months, but with luck, it would be enough.

I kick Ari sharply. He rears in protest, then surges into a gallop. I run him ten yards, wheel him, and use his momentum to scramble up the bank.

Weaving through trees and low-growing brush, I search for intruders and follow a diagonal line towards the ridge to cut off anyone lurking near the road. The haunting stillness follows us, and Ari’s footsteps rustling through the leaves and bracken sound impossibly loud. Then twenty yards below the ridge, a gust of wind stirs up a strange, sweet scent.

Fingers of ice shiver along my back.

I’ve encountered this stench before—only once, but some memories burn themselves into your soul and refuse to fade. The smell hurls me back four months into the landscape of my nightmares.

I’m walking among the bloated dead on the battlefield where I went to retrieve the bodies of my father and oldest brother. Searching each corpse for familiar features, I stumble over the severed head of a Grey—one of the Raven Queen’s monstrous enforcers. Its bleached irises stare sightlessly, ash-coloured skin stretched over features twisted by the Queen’s corrupted magic.

I back away in horror and fall onto the Grey’s headless body. The sweet stench is everywhere. I lurch to my feet and brush at the crust of dried blood that clings to my hands, my skirts, my bodice—wherever I touched the Grey’s stained uniform and scarlet cloak.

The memory chokes my lungs. Gulping deep breaths, I blink away the tears that blur my eyes.

Today, I will not cry.

My tension, on top of the smell of blood, only adds to Ari’s nerves. He plants his legs and refuses to go farther.

“Easy, my handsome,” I whisper. “We can both be brave.”

If there’s a Grey bleeding in the Sacred Wood, I need to know. I can’t risk having one of the Raven Queen’s abominations follow me back to Dunhaelic Keep.

Ari rears as I kick him forward. His front legs thrash the air. Then his hind legs skid on the incline, and I jump out of the saddle to keep him from going over backwards.

Clinging to the reins, I pull his head down and wait until he steadies. His heart pounds so hard that it thuds against my shoulder.

I coax him forward. A dozen yards below the ridge, we edge around a thicket of dog rose blocking our path, and Ari snorts and stops. Head low and ears pricked, he stares fixedly at something on the ground ahead.

The trees have thinned to scattered birches and wind-gnarled pines. Light slants through them, revealing a man lying flat on his back. A few yards beyond that, a second man lies face down, tied across the saddle of a dappled mare who’s collapsed onto her side. The horse’s ears twitch, but she doesn’t raise her head.

Neither man is moving.

They aren’t Greys—they don’t have the pale skin or deformed limbs of the Raven Queen’s monsters. But they aren’t human, either. Our mortal magic was outlawed after the Sun King put the last of the Cailleach Queens and most of my family to death. Where the magic survives, as mine has, it’s kept strictly secret, and what little remains in my blood doesn’t carry nearly the strength that charges the air around these Everfolk.

They’ve done their best to look ordinary, dressing themselves in coats and breeches like tradesmen from the south instead of their own finery from beyond the Veil or the kilted plaids our Highland warriors wear. Still, even if I couldn’t sense the magic coming from them, the swords buckled at their belts would give them away as the rebel king’s companions.

My pulse kicks into a run as I consider what their presence—and deaths—might mean. Not only that, but they didn’t die alone. Their bodies have been arranged. Someone arranged them. The man on the horse is tied to the saddle, but the other has been positioned respectfully, like a corpse in a coffin, with his hands folded across his chest.

Someone else was here—may still be here.

The thought brings on an eerie sense of being watched. Gooseskin prickles along my arms, and the sweat-slicked hilt of the dagger digs deeper into my palm.

I turn in a slow, wide circle, searching every shadow that shifts in the wind and each tree trunk thick enough to offer a place to hide. Nothing moves, and Ari’s attention stays fixed on the mare and the two dead bodies around her.

Eventually, my heartbeat eases. Inch by inch, I persuade Ari to move upwind until I find a sturdy tree where I can tie him. Then I creep back for a closer look. Ari whickers anxiously, pulling at his reins and pivoting to watch me.

The sweet smell of the Evers’ blood and the warmth of magic thicken as I approach the bodies. I can’t see where the man on the horse is injured, but he’s bled enough to leave a purple-brown crust dried along the withers, belly, and foreleg of his horse, and more blood has stained the coat and shirt front of the man lying stretched out on the ground. Yet if they are truly Everfolk, and if any of the ancient stories are to be believed, then it makes no sense that they would die of wounds like these.

According to the stories our elders tell by firelight, the immortals from the world beyond the Veil can only be killed if their heads are removed or their hearts are pierced by celestial steel—an instant death that leaves no time for their magic to start to heal them. These men still have their heads, and if their hearts were pierced, then they must have been here in the Sacred Wood when they were killed. That is a problem for many reasons.

In the 1,600-odd years since the doorways through the Veil were sealed, only twelve Evers have crossed through from Tirnaeve to Alba Scoria: the Sun King who murdered our last mortal queen, the Raven Queen who killed the Sun King almost a year ago, and the rebel king and his Riders who arrived shortly after to challenge her for the crown.

If these dead Evers were among the rebel king’s close companions, the Sun King’s so-called heir will demand revenge.

Snakes of fear coil around my heart as I think it through. Because the king’s wrath isn’t the only danger. If the queen discovers Riders here, she’ll take it as proof that I’ve been sheltering her enemies.

Neither side would need to prove anyone at Dunhaelic had any hand in these deaths. The ancient laws still make it a hanging offence to harm an Ever—no questions, no trial, and no reprieve. I would face the gallows, and I wouldn’t face them alone. Vengeance, like water, trickles down to those below. Everyone I’m meant to protect would be as good as dead.

My knees tremble as I take the last steps to the nearest Ever. I crouch beside him, and a hot flush of magic ripples across my skin. More than I’ve ever felt at once. But that isn’t the only shock. Although the ancient tales talk about the beauty of the Everfolk, seeing it in front of me makes my breath catch.

The Ever is handsome in a way that explains the warnings in the ancient stories—the sort of blinding, dangerous beauty that makes humans lose their will and drives them into madness. His features are too eerily perfect, his black hair has the gleam of raven’s wings, and the blue eyes that look unseeingly into the sky catch the light like layers of stained glass, revealing more colours the deeper I look.

That sightless stare unnerves me, and I brush my fingers over his lids to close them. The skin is still warm. I flinch away from the contact, and my hand grazes a pale-blue crystal set in a ring the Ever wears on his right hand.

A pulse of pure magic jars me as I touch the ring—a hot, bright, and startlingly familiar type of magic. It reaches out towards the ember of power that burns inside me.

I snatch my hand away. The sensation ebbs, but I miss it when it’s gone—my magic misses it. Careful not to touch it again, I bend closer to examine the crystal set into the ring. There’s movement within it, gold threads of magic dancing like lightning behind a thin haze of cloud. The movement is mesmerising, holding my attention even as Ari snorts and stomps his foot.

It takes a moment for the thuds and the jingling of the bridle to register. Ari’s muscles are braced as he uses his back to pull harder against the reins that tie him to the tree.

A twig snaps somewhere close. Behind me? To the left?

I spin around, searching. But there’s nothing. No one.

Well, I refuse to cower and play this game.

“Who’s there? Come out and show yourself instead of hiding like a coward.”

The Wood falls unnaturally still. Then shadows stir beneath an oak tree to my left.

“I know you’re there,” I say, gripping the dagger tighter.

A voice answers me from the shadows. “Careful, little one. Taunt the things you fear, and you might just prove you were right to be afraid.”

The voice is male—slow and resonant, pitched between a growl and a cat’s deep purr. A predator’s voice, claws barely sheathed.

A shiver of awareness ripples down my spine. I draw on the cool, gritty power of the earth and fuse it with the fire that burns inside me. Needles of magic rake through bone and tissue as I force it outward, pouring it into the dagger. The blade groans, lengthening and thickening until it becomes a perfect replica of my father’s sword and rests cold, heavy, and steadying within my grasp.

An Ever steps forward, his figure cloaked in gloom, footsteps whispering over the frost-crusted moss. He’s larger than the bodies behind me seemed, taller and broader, his features carved in bold strokes beneath gilded hair that’s tied half-up in a warrior’s knot and reveals a widow’s peak. He looks gaunt, worn down, yet power and command still radiate from him. And he’s every bit as beautiful as the others in a way that remains entirely male.

He watches me with a faint but dangerous smile. “You can put that illusion away,” he says. “You’re lucky I didn’t mistake it for a threat.”

“The sword is no illusion,” I say through gritted teeth, “and the threat is no mistake.”

His easy dismissal stings more than I’d care to admit. I spent months mastering even this small feat of magic, pouring all my strength and then waiting days—sometimes weeks—for the ember inside me to grow warm enough to try again.

The Ever’s eyes harden, the molten honey colour darkening into something sharper. “You do know what I am, don’t you?”

“An Ever…a Rider,” I say, watching him. Still hoping there’s a different explanation.

His jaw tightens. “We prefer to be called Siorai. Not Evers. Not Everfolk. Your mortal epithet is impolite.”

“Just leave. Go away. We’ve done nothing to harm you, and we don’t want any trouble.” My voice stays steady, but the sword quivers and gives me away.

The Ever moves towards me, one step, then two. I back an equal distance, giving myself time to think.

The width of his shoulders and the way his muscled thighs and arms strain against his clothes leave no doubt about his strength. His hand rests on the hilt of his sword in a quiet threat. Then he steps even closer, emerging from the shadows into a shaft of broken sunlight, and for the first time, I see the blood that slicks his coat and seeps down one leg of the breeches he wears tucked into his leather boots. His skin is pale and beaded with sweat, and the silver-gold hair that falls to his shoulders is damp along the temples.

He’s wounded. Weak. That gives me a chance.

My blade won’t kill an Ever, but I’d lay odds that his is made of celestial steel. If he’s injured as badly as I suspect, I might be able to take it from him.

His mouth twitches at the corners as if he knows exactly what I’m thinking. “Please don’t try anything foolish,” he says in that deep purr of a voice. “Trust me, if I’d wanted you dead, you would never have seen me coming.”