Bitter Moon Saga

By Amy Lane

The Bitter Moon Saga is the epic tale of Torrant Shadow—Triane’s Son—and his goddess gift; his lovers, family, and friends; and their struggle against the forces of evil. In Book 1, Torrant and Yarri no longer live in their tolerant home, and Torrant must use his goddess gift for protection if they are to survive. In Book 2, The evil from Torrant's homeland becomes too much to be ignored while he’s in school, and he must choose: will he be a healer or a hero? In Book 3, Torrant and Aylan ride to Dueance to infiltrate the Regent’s council and change policy toward the Goddess’s chosen from the inside. And in Book 4, Torrant must use his healer/poet and predator sides to save his people. If he fails, Rath will eliminate joy from the heart of the lands of the three moons, and all that Torrant and his family cherish will be lost. But success could exact a devastating cost, one Triane’s Son was never prepared to pay.

Includes:

Triane's Son Rising

Triane's Son Learning

Triane's Son Fighting

Triane's Son Reigning

• Language: English
• Publisher: Harmony Ink Press
• Release date: May 12, 2016
• ISBN: 9781634775595

Amy Lane

Award winning author Amy Lane lives in a crumbling crapmansion with a couple of teenagers, a passel of furbabies, and a bemused spouse. She has too damned much yarn, a penchant for action-adventure movies, and a need to know that somewhere in all the pain is a story of Wuv, Twu Wuv, which she continues to believe in to this day! She writes contemporary romance, paranormal romance, urban fantasy, and romantic suspense, teaches the occasional writing class, and likes to pretend her very simple life is as exciting as the lives of the people who live in her head. She’ll also tell you that sacrifices, large and small, are worth the urge to write. Website: www.greenshill.com Blog: www.writerslane.blogspot.com Email: [e-mail] Facebook: www.facebook.com/amy.lane.167 Twitter: @amymaclane

Book preview

Bitter Moon Saga

By Amy Lane

The Bitter Moon Saga is the epic tale of Torrant Shadow—Triane’s Son—and his goddess gift; his lovers, family, and friends; and their struggle against the forces of evil. In Book 1, Torrant and Yarri no longer live in their tolerant home, and Torrant must use his goddess gift for protection if they are to survive. In Book 2, The evil from Torrant's homeland becomes too much to be ignored while he’s in school, and he must choose: will he be a healer or a hero? In Book 3, Torrant and Aylan ride to Dueance to infiltrate the Regent’s council and change policy toward the Goddess’s chosen from the inside. And in Book 4, Torrant must use his healer/poet and predator sides to save his people. If he fails, Rath will eliminate joy from the heart of the lands of the three moons, and all that Torrant and his family cherish will be lost. But success could exact a devastating cost, one Triane’s Son was never prepared to pay.

The Bitter Moon Saga includes:

Bitter Moon Saga: Book One

Torrant Shadow and Yarrow Yarri Moon grew up sheltered in Moon Hold, a place where Torrant’s goddess gifts were meant to be celebrated, and love of any form was a thing of beauty. Unfortunately, in Clough, within a stone's throw of Consort Rath, having beliefs of that sort will get your family killed.

Grief-stricken, Torrant and Yarri are suddenly alone against the elements and a world that would rather see them dead than see them safe. Torrant's goddess gift, which had previously been used for truth and healing, must be honed for violence and protection if either of them are to survive. When Torrant, Yarri, and their new friend Aldam reach safety, will Torrant be able to put this part of him aside? Or will Triane's Son grow to fight the forces that forged him?

Bitter Moon Saga: Book Two

When Torrant Shadow fled his homeland of Clough, he hoped to leave its threats behind. He spent four years living with the Moons, making sure Yarri had a home; now it's time for Torrant and his foster brother, Aldam, to leave for the University of Triannon, where Torrant hopes to create a new life enmeshed in healing arts and politics.

Torrant's new school friends Trieste and Aylan want to teach him about love as he settles in, and at first, Trieste's tenderness seems to make her the logical choice for an interim lover, while Torrant waits for Yarri to grow up. But Torrant has learned the hard way that nothing is simple when Clough still wields its influence over their lives. More and more, Torrant must call on the cold predator in himself, the part that Aylan most admires. The truth is, Torrant has certain gifts that give him an advantage of self-defense, but using them to protect the ones he cares for may destroy the part of him Trieste and Yarri love best.

As the four schoolmates progress to life beyond education and the evil from Torrant’s homeland becomes too pernicious to be ignored, Torrant must choose his destiny: Will he be a healer or a hero? Only Triane's Son can be both.

Bitter Moon Saga: Book Three

Outraged by the destruction of innocent lives and the threat to his family’s safety, Torrant Shadow and Aylan Stealth-Moon ride to Dueance, the capital of Clough, with a desperate plan: Torrant will impersonate Yarri’s dead brother, Ellyot Moon, and infiltrate the Regent’s council to help change to the government’s policy toward the Goddess’s chosen from the inside.

But from the very first night, Torrant and Aylan are pressed into service in the shadows of the ghettoes, fighting for the lives of the brutalized people within. It’s a bitter job, made more so by close scrutiny and mockery from Consort Rath, the ruler whose policies have created the discrimination and cruelty wreaking havoc in their country.

Torrant’s only bright moments come from Aylan, whose love and loyalty never falter, and the hungry, compassionate minds of the younger regents. Believing that all they need is a worthy song to follow, Torrant sets about leading them to accomplish the salvation of their country. But not even Torrant can be everywhere at once. When faced with one disaster too many, he realizes one man alone cannot right the wrongs of an entire government—not even Triane’s Son.

Bitter Moon Saga: Book Four

From the moment Torrant Shadow realized Consort Rath murdered his family, he’s lived a dual identity: a healer and poet by nature, a predator out of necessity. It’s not just exhausting, it’s perilous.

In the deadly city of Dueance, Torrant must succeed in both lives, because while the predator may save the Goddess’s folk from Rath’s brutal policies, it is the poet who will sway the minds of the people to revolt against the oppressive government. As his cause falters, Torrant finds his worst nightmares come to pass as the people he loves most—his family from Eiran, his former lovers, and his moon-destined, Yarri—all come to his aid, despite the danger.

They must succeed—there is no other option. If they fail, Rath will eliminate joy from the heart of the lands of the three moons, and all that Torrant and his family cherish will be lost. But success could exact devastating cost, one Triane’s Son was never prepared to pay.

This book is, as always, dedicated to my extraordinary, beautiful, heart-filling, exasperating, practically imperfect family. This book is also especially dedicated to my sons, because if you are going to walk like men in the world, it is important to know that the hero isn’t always the guy who kills the bad guy and gets the girl in the end.

And Mate—who will never know how much he inspires. (Because if I told him, he wouldn’t let me buy yarn to compensate for his imagined shortcomings. It’s a dysfunctional system, but it works for us.)

Acknowledgments

WHEN THIS book was first published, I wrote these acknowledgements for all the people who helped me put the story out myself. Although Nessa and Elizabeth and Mary and Lynn from Dreamspinner Press have been added, I think I’ll keep this first list of folks. They gave me encouragement when fans were thin on the ground, and I hope my gratitude is as forever for them as it feels for me:

Do you know how many people it takes to make a book? I mean, I used to assume it was just the author, but now, I know better. Let’s start with my editors—this time around I managed to shanghai, con, sucker, acquire some fantastic, marvelous, compassionate, bright, funny, supportive people to help answer my prayers. (Everybody remembers my traditional prayer, right? Holy Goddess, Merciful God, Please. Let. It. Not. Suck.) I would like to thank Eric, Roxie, Bonnie, Lore, and Ceri—all of whom worked for the promise of a free book and the price of postage alone. (And in Bonnie’s case, FedEx actually tried to charge her!) These people rock, truly, and if I could make a wish for all the adults I love, I would wish that people just this wonderful drop out of heaven and into their laps to help them do that which is most difficult for them. Because that’s what these folks did for me.

I would also like to acknowledge my blogging buddies—oddly enough, most of the people on my editing list are here too, but I’d like to add Donna Lee, Em, Galad, Lady in Red, ismarah, Halo, Sora, Perryman, Julie, Mad Mad, Knittech, Netter, Bells, Louiz, Catie, and anyone else who has ever come in and told me to hang in there, I’d survive. The vote is still out on survival, but you all still made losing my grip a lot more fun.

Prologue

THEY HAD not met well, he brooded, crouching in the shadows of the fetid alley. He scowled—of course they hadn’t met well; she wasn’t even supposed to be here in this dangerous, corrupt, sewer of a place. The whole reason he was here was to make the world safe for the both of them. How was he supposed to do that when she was here and he was afraid for her with every heartbeat?

And not just her! She had brought everyone he had to worry about into the fray, and a very petulant part of him was stamping its foot and screaming that it wasn’t fair. He had worked hard—beyond hard, in fact—to come to a point where he could see his plan, his precious, angry, vengeful, necessary plan almost at a culmination, and here she was, sticking her little upturned nose into it.

The corners of his mouth turned upward. Yes, she had the potential to bollix everything up beyond belief. Yes, she had been infuriating tonight, giving him an ultimatum that boiled down to abandon your bloody mad idea or let me help, you wanker. Yes, he was terrified for her, and for the others, so terrified the very pores of his skin made the air between them vibrate with cold fear. Yes, to everything he had thrown at her during the bright and brittle waltz they had led, having a conversation beyond private in a venue that was beyond public, yes, yes, yes, he was absolutely right about all of it.

But… his smile turned upward another notch, and his breath, which had been fast with fear and anger, was now quickened with passion and anticipation.

But… she had looked beautiful tonight, even down to her newer, (ouch!) shorter hairstyle and the dress his old lover had thrown on her in a panic so that she’d fit in.

But… there were no buts, he acknowledged with a cold exhale. There was no arguing with himself in this—if he denied it, it would put them all in that much more danger, because Goddess, it had been so good to see her. Seeing her tonight in that room full of enemies had been like breathing his first clear breath after months of living in the sewer. Seeing her earlier this night may have been the one bright star of beauty that would get him through this terrible, dark, and pitiless chore.

Torrant heard his mark before he saw him and retreated deeper into the shadows, changing with his gift as he did so.

Please, Goddess, he prayed, don’t let my murderer’s soul taint the one perfect thing in my life….

The mark was coming closer, his Goddess boy held by the scruff of the neck. The poor boy was so used to being raped in alleyways that he didn’t bother to protest with more than a whimper. As Torrant prepared himself to do his job, the bitter thought began to glow in him that their families would have been appalled to know it had ever come to this….

Part I: The Exile’s Moon

Twelve years earlier

Casting Perfect Stones

THEY LOOKED like brothers but were not. Torrant’s mother had been a widow, come begging at the home of Ellyot’s parents with her infant in tow, and she and Torrant had been taken in. Torrant’s father had been the local doctor and midwife, and one night he had gone out for a call, to never return. His body had been found, savaged and cold, the next morning, and Torrant’s mother had, for reasons known only to her, been afraid the attack had been more than random. She left her home to seek shelter at the Moon enclave. When Torrant was a child, he remembered her apologizing for being too weak to keep them safe on her own, but if there had been weakness in her, Torrant had never seen it.

In fact, there had always been strength and a quality to Myrla Shadow that had impressed the Moons of Clough in the extreme. She had volunteered to be a laundress and a maid, but her husband had delivered most of the Moon children with Myrla at his side, and so she had become the enclave healer, the lead housekeeper, a friend and equal to the family, and another parent to the Moon children.

In all of Torrant’s memory, he had been raised like a brother to Ellyot and the twins, since forever, since before Yarri, and since before the King’s guard had become an overt part of the marauding force that overran the countryside. Although Torrant had a Goddess’s name from birth, he didn’t realize how lucky he was to be safe with the Moons.

Torrant had learned to read alongside Ellyot. He had also learned swordplay and archery, politics and poetry. Eating at the table with Myrla and the other members of the enclave, among Ellyot’s father, mother, Tal and Qir, the older twins, he had learned family. Yarri had been born, the youngest daughter, their precious one, and he had learned joy.

He remembered that last day.

He and Ellyot had practiced their swordsmanship hard and ridden even harder. They had come pushing each other across the neat courtyard of the Moon hold with the rambunctiousness of fourteen-year-old boys. Ellyot, always arrogant, had swept his leg in a half circle, but Torrant had leapt above it and landed on his hands. Then he tucked into a perfect roll and came up twisting to catch Ellyot under the knee, bringing him down. Ellyot laughed, then winced as he felt the bruise to his calf, but laughed again anyway. They were just wrestling, and neither of them played dirty. Torrant won, and that was all.

Ellyot was taller than he was and had shocking blue eyes in his tanned face, whereas Torrant’s eyes were a complicated hazel; but they were both handsome, chestnut-haired boys. Ellyot had a cleft in one cheek, Torrant one in his chin. Ellyot had a slenderness, a grace, that spoke dancer, swordsman, and courtier. Torrant had a heaviness in the chest, a tumbler’s agility, a wrestler’s strength, and when he smiled, one corner of his lip curled up, and twin grooves bracketed his mouth in a way that had made people want to make him smile since he was very young. Ellyot had the family divot in the ear, and, of course, the deadly handsome dimple. But that was all. From a distance, which is all anyone not connected with the homestead really ever saw, they were identical.

That day, a tall soldier had approached, wearing the teal and black of Rath’s house on the tunic over his armor and in his horse’s livery. He called Ellyot by Tal’s name, and Torrant by Qir’s, and the boys looked at each other sideways and lied easily. Yes, sir, no, sir, our father is not at home, sir. He paid his levies, sir; he’s loyal to the consort. The family is away, sir. Then, when they were asked about worship services at the hold, Ellyot’s eyes narrowed, and his carefully politic answers melted like fog in spring.

My father doesn’t allow politics in his hold, he said evenly, and Torrant had to try very hard not to dart a glance at the boy he loved like a brother. People listened when Ellyot spoke—there was an authority to his voice; there always had been. You didn’t argue with someone who could kill you when you had that in your voice, not when you were unarmed and alone.

I’m not talking about politics, boy! the guard had protested. I’m talking about religion!

When you’re wearing a uniform of the crown and asking me about worship, sir, that’s politics, Ellyot replied with the arrogance of a child who had been born and raised on the land and power he stood upon.

All I want to know, boy, is if your father is loyal to the Consort or not! the guard snapped then, out of patience and obviously frustrated that he was being outconned by a youngster.

We’ve been raised to love our country, Torrant said honestly, because Owen Moon was nothing if not a patriot. That didn’t mean he liked what the Consort was doing to the Goddess’s people, but Clough was horse country, and horses were in the Moon blood, and the family all loved the open plains of the valley they lived in with something akin to fever.

So this isn’t an island of Triane’s children, then, planning insurrection? the man asked with narrowed eyes.

You can be assured that no one here would know how to plan an insurrection, Torrant answered, and this, he knew, was the gods’ honest truth.

But it was also the Goddess’s truth, because while Moon’s hold may not have been a hotbed of insurrection, it was a safe haven for those who didn’t feel comfortable making a living in their own country anymore. Although everybody in the hold had a place in their hearts for Oueant and Dueant, the twin gods, they also worshipped Triane, the Goddess, and that was what the Consort didn’t like. Torrant, who was named for the Goddess and who had a wizard’s gift to match, was certainly a child of Triane, and so were Ginny and Arel, two women who lived together in one of the cottages Moon had built for the workers on his land. So was Bren, who had conceived her son Orel during one of Triane’s wildings. There were over thirty workers on the fertile Moon-land: farmers, spinners, weavers, horsebreakers. Until he diced words with this man, who spoke well and stank so badly of death and lies even the nongifted Ellyot had to suppress a retch, Torrant hadn’t realized the two things he had in common with the others on Moon lands were also the two things that put the Moons in danger. When he realized that, he had no trouble lying, none at all.

And it had gone well, right up until the man had turned away, rudely, as it seemed, and a rock had sailed out of nowhere and crashed down on his helm, pitching him out of his saddle. Torrant and Ellyot looked at each other, startled. It was not that they hadn’t wanted to crack the man a good one across the skull, but that they hadn’t had the opportunity. And they had known of the consequences if they had.

Dammit! Ellyot exploded as they ran to the still form on the ground. Where is— Torrant held his hand up and shot a quick look at the fallen King’s man. They had lied about the family being home, and given the strength this man could bring to bear against them, it had been a good pretense to keep up. Ellyot caught himself. Where did that come from? he asked, gritting his teeth. He caught Torrant’s eye, looked to the oaks that arched the road to the boundary of Moon lands where Torrant himself was looking, and scowled consequence at the unseen rock launcher. They sat the man up, checked to see if he was sound, and put him dazedly back on his horse. Torrant closed his eyes hard, thought for a moment, and then staggered. A glazed, evil smile crept up the courtier’s face, and his fine horse cantered off, bearing the man’s wobbly weight with the grace of a nag with a sack of mud.

What did you do? Ellyot demanded, supporting his brother, his voice frustrated and protective.

Torrant shook his head. Made him happy he came here, that was all.

Their eyes met, and they both shivered. Then why, Ellyot murmured, did that smile look so mean? Without looking over their shoulders for the unrepentant Yarri, both boys took off running behind the homestead for the stables to tell Ellyot’s father.

Moon, a black-haired giant of a man, with a reddish beard and wide shoulders, was truly alarmed. His alarm was terrifying. You told him we were gone? he asked his son for the thousandth time. And you made him happy he came? He looked at Torrant, who was beginning to feel sick, and not just in the aftermath of using his gift.

I’m sorry, he whispered, wobbling on his feet. Triane’s travels, Moon—I didn’t mean to get us into trouble…. Moon gave him a grim smile and a fortifying clasp of the shoulder.

Go rest, boy, he said kindly. You were trying to allay trouble, that was all, and it was a good aim. You didn’t count on the evil in Consort Rath. The one thing that would make him happy in all the world is to find me guilty of treason, you understand?

But, Dad, you’re a Regent! Ellyot was saying, just as Torrant’s unusually pale face blanched green, and without ceremony he sank to his knees and vomited in the clean straw. Moon bent and held his head, then wiped his mouth with a cloth. Torrant was exceptionally gifted—as his name might imply—but gifts never came without cost. The Moon family understood that. With little protest, Torrant was ushered to a bale of hay in the corner of the barn, covered with a horse blanket, and told to sleep.

I should help, he murmured as Ellyot tucked him in. Moon was already making plans to gather the whole family and the workers off the land by sundown—Torrant could tell by his booming orders and the hard edge of command in his voice.

Ellyot rolled his eyes. You’re no good to us now…. He grinned wickedly, his blue eyes twinkling. The dimple in his cheek deepened, and Torrant thought bemusedly that it was a good thing he’d known his brother all his life, or he might be made as foolish by that smile as girls were around Qir and boys around Tal. Besides, Ellyot continued, we might need to hunt, and you know that’s not your thing.

Piss off—my aim is better than yours and you know it! Torrant yawned, and his shoulders hunched as his body prepared to protect itself in sleep.

Yeah—it’s hitting flesh and blood that balks you, you poor, sensitive thing, Ellyot teased without mercy. It’s a good thing you talk pretty, or we would have pasted the barn with you.

Piss off…, Torrant mumbled again, and was rewarded by his brother’s laughter as his dark, curly head bobbed away among the hay bales. He would think about that later, because they had been telling each other to piss off since they were old enough to say it without adults present. He would hope, later, that piss off had come to mean, in the language of the fourteen-year-old boy, the same thing that I love you did to a full-grown man. As he drifted off, he was dimly aware that the family made ready to take a hasty holiday with cousins in the north.

The sun had traveled a bit when Torrant opened his eyes, and late afternoon shadows dappled the barn. It was autumn, so the heat was not too intense, but Torrant still sweated a bit as he made to turn in his nest in the hay. It was then that he met a somber pair of frightened brown eyes in a fair, piquant little face with a halo of reddish-gold hair caught back in a very frazzled braid.

’llo, Yar…, he mumbled, fighting to keep his eyes open. Torrant’s mother had been the midwife at Yarri’s birth, and Torrant had helped her. His mother had placed that perfect, red, wriggling body in his arms and he had heard, far off and ringing in his heart, the sound of great bells that tolled from the soles of his feet to the soul in his chest. Every time Yarri smiled at him from that moment on, Torrant heard the far-off sound of bells.

Ellyot hollered at me, she told him now, unhappily. Yarri was six, and she adored her older brothers—Torrant included—fiercely.

You flew off the handle, Yar, Torrant told her gently. It made things difficult.

She shook her head, brown eyes welling with tears. I’m why we have to leave, she quavered, and he opened the horse blanket so she could come in and snuggle. Usually Yarri was petted beyond words, every tear caught and soothed before it could hit the ground. But the family was packing for a flight from a bitter enemy, and she had probably been overlooked in the chaos. Torrant felt stirrings of guilt—he should be helping, but his body, overexerted by his gift, was not going to cooperate with that imperative.

Where are we going? he asked.

Father’s brother, Moon in the next country, she said softly, and Torrant grimaced—that wasn’t a help. Their little kingdom was an island surrounded by mountains; outside of the mountains were at least four kingdoms that could be termed next country.

We’re going to the sea, Yarri said next. Mama said I could see a whale. And Torrant had a better idea—they were headed northwest, to Eiran. Good, he thought, it should have been long before.

It wasn’t your fault, he told Yarri belatedly. I’m the one who told the silly sot he was happy. Your rock on the head wouldn’t have done much harm if I hadn’t butted my big head into it.

Can you really do that? Yarri sniffled. Can you really tell someone that they’re happy, and they believe it?

He knew what she was asking, but he’d known her since her first bath, and it wouldn’t take his gift to help. Yes, Littlest, I can. Would you like me to make you happy now?

Oh yes…, she sighed, wiggling down some more into in her big brother’s embrace. Make me happy.

Torrant began to sing of whales and travel, of autumn leaves and sweetness. Yarri’s eyes closed, and happily, she fell asleep.

A few moments later, his mother came to check on him. She rolled her eyes when she saw Yarri’s fair head peeping out of the blanket and bent to kiss her son’s own tousled, brown hair.

How’re you feeling, sweetheart? she asked gently. Myrla Shadow was always gentle, Torrant thought fondly. His mother was a pretty woman, even with the silver that shot her dark hair in other places than her temple and the lines at her hazel eyes from her deep and quiet smile.

I’m feeling stupid, mama, he confessed with a pained sigh, careful not to wake Yarri. I can’t think of what else I should have done, though. I didn’t want him to get mad at Yarri.

Myrla shook her head in mock exasperation. The world is not all about Yarri, you know.

He would have hurt Ellyot too—

Or Ellyot! she overrode, and then sighed. I can’t blame you really, darling. They’re your family. I’m proud of that. But someday you’re going to need to see bigger than Yarri and Ellyot. We’re going to Eiran, you know.

He nodded. I heard—I’m sorry I can’t help. Just raising his head made him dizzy and weak, and he was a little worried. I’ve done… bigger things… with my gift. It’s never made me feel like this. He had spun illusions for Yarri out of the air when he was singing and engraved paper with those same images when he’d held the paper and sung.

You forced your will on someone else, son. That’s the biggest, hardest, most painful thing any human can do. It should have a bigger backlash, don’t you think? He nodded, and his mother went on. Going to Eiran will be good for you. You’ll see a bigger world than this hold.

Torrant, as weak as he was, was shocked. I love my home! he said, although he knew, he always knew, that his heartbeat had never thumped in time to the hoofbeats of horses in the way of his brothers of the heart and their father. Clough was horse country, and Torrant loved it because his family loved it, but he’d never thought beyond that to the things he loved himself.

So do I, Torrant. Myrla laughed a little. Of course we love our home. But it will be good for you to see the world beyond it, so you know what it is you love. Your father wanted the wide world for you. It will be good to see some of it. He was going to protest, but she forestalled him with a kiss on the forehead. Now sleep, baby—you and Yarri just stay out of the way and rest. We’re not leaving until dark of night, so you can get in plenty of sleep in the meantime. She bent and kissed him again, and at first Torrant took the gesture for granted, as do all children who are loved, and then, feeling childish like Yarri but needing to say it just the same, he said, I love you, mama.

I love you too, sweetheart. She laughed outright. And I love you too, Yarri, she murmured, and Torrant realized the sleeping child in his arms was giggling and not altogether asleep. Myrla gave Yarri a hug and smoothed back the hair from her small face, then turned and left. Yarri settled down and actually slept, and Torrant found it easy to follow her.

When they awoke hours later, it was to the smell of smoke and the sound of screams.

Torrant knew instantly that something was wrong, and, well rested, without the muzz in his head, he knew enough to be still. He clapped his hand over Yarri’s mouth and peered out from the blanket that hid them both from view. Soldiers had herded the family into the barn, and the family was fighting bitterly. Ellyot had an arm twisted behind his back and a knee wedged against his knee, and Moon was on the ground with a boot on his head. Torrant’s mother had a gauntleted arm around her waist, and cruel fingers gripping her breast. That alone would have made Torrant bound out of the haystack, death to the wind, but against him he could feel Yarri, small and trembling, eyes wild under the blanket. The King’s guardsman was saying something to Moon, so all eyes were on the helpless, proud landowner, when Ellyot’s blue eyes caught Torrant’s attention. Ellyot knew what to look for and imperceptibly nodded at the hidden Yarri. Torrant felt his heart thud in his stomach and fought the urge to weep.

Under the haystack, in the back corner of the barn, sat a trapdoor. It was used at night so the barn cats could come and go, and in the summer so they could move the haystack and flush out the barn. It swung on hinges, both in and out, and was the size of a smallish man. Or a fourteen-year-old boy. Yarri, the family’s pride and joy, would slide out easily. Torrant, her adopted older brother, was the only one left to lead her to safety. Torrant gave Ellyot an anguished look. This was his family, in word and deed—leave them? But he felt Yarri trembling beneath his hand, and he knew, more importantly, what his priority should be. But it wouldn’t be easy.

Ellyot was growing tense for them. He glowered at Torrant, and Torrant shot him an annoyed look—yes, everyone was looking at Moon, but….

He shifted, just a little, and dug the two of them deeper into the straw. Damn! A guard saw the movement and began to wander in their direction. Ellyot shifted his stance, as though to create a diversion, but Myrla Shadow beat him to it. In the center of their frightened tableaux, of Tal and Qir straining against their own captors, of Myrla and Kes fighting an obscene embrace of evil men, and of the King’s captain with his foot perilously near Moon’s neck, a phantasm appeared.

It was ferocious and female, a wolf the size of a horse, standing upright and snarling, reaching out with a phantom paw and razored claws to rip the heart out, through metal and all, of the knight who had moved toward the corner. Blood flew everywhere, and the soldiers, dragging their victims, bolted about in confusion. Torrant saw his mother slump to the ground unconscious and took his chance to wriggle down into the straw with the wall at his back. When he felt the latch, he reached around and pushed, sliding backward as the straw slithered with him and pulling Yarri out at the same time.

They slid out into the rear of the courtyard, and Torrant tumbled wildly for a moment to get his bearings. When he came to his feet, his head swiveled toward the source of the smoke, and he felt his throat constrict with grief. His home. Their home. The Moon house, gracious, white-boarded, with its two stories and graceful willow trees flanking the wings… was ablaze, and the trees were catching. He heard Yarri’s outraged screech and barely caught her before she went running across the yard to the inferno.

Yarri, no! he thundered in her ear and caught the squirming body in a hard grip. She was surprisingly strong.

But Anye! she wailed, and he realized she was talking about the skittish calico fluff ball that sat on her bed.

Anye’s a smart cat, he told her, and to his relief she relaxed a bit. She’ll get out… and we need to as well.

Yarri came to her senses. But Mama… Daddy…, she realized and looked back to the barn from where they had come. Then she looked into his eyes and a totally adult look of understanding passed her pointed features. You need to save them, don’t you? His throat caught at her faith. He was fourteen, more child than man, and she had no doubts.

I’ll try, pigeon, he told her seriously. But you need to be safe, or they’ll never forgive me for leaving you. And with that, he swept her up and, hiding in the shadows of night, ventured to the west of the house, to where the road curved around. Across the road were the workers’ quarters, set on public lands where, Moon said, his people could know they were free men. He and Myrla had been the exceptions, because for the last ten years, they had been family. He could see soldiers, most of them in ranks, a few sent to set fire to the house, and only a few others, he was sure, in the barn itself. With desperate haste and a tensely still Yarri in his arms, he ran through the orchard and across the road to the workers’ quarters. He snuck in through the back, where he and his mother often came with meals. As the door closed and he accustomed himself to the darkness, his knees almost buckled into the blood coating the floor.

Oh Goddess and moons, he gasped and pushed Yarri’s head against his shoulder before using the same hand to open the door and let himself back out.

Torrant…, Yarri mewed, aware of the shaking of his usually sturdy body.

No one’s there, he lied.

But Ginny and Arel—they could keep me safe.

No one’s there, he lied again, keeping his face from crumpling. Oh merciful Dueant, please, let that be the truth. Let their souls be with you, if their bodies are that wreckage in the room. We’ve got to find somewhere else.

But…. He clapped his hand over her mouth, listening. The soldiers were coming back. The center of the Moon property was near the river and thick with trees, and the servants’ homes were no exception. He looked at the frightened child in his arms and then up to the fierce tangle of oak and birch trees above him. Yarri’s eyes met his, and she nodded. In a fluid movement, he threw her in the air, catching her feet in his hands and catapulting her to the branches above. He didn’t wait to see her scramble aside. They had been playing together since her birth, and they had practiced this maneuver often in the sibling skirmishes they delighted in. In a mighty leap, he caught the branch Yarri had just alighted on, swung perpendicular to it, then caught the next branch up with his knees as he released from the first. Yarri watched his swing, then scrambled into position below him, throwing her hands up and letting him loft her to the branch above him. Her hands nearly slipped from his before she landed, and as they stilled and allowed the tree to stop shaking with the force of their acrobatics, she looked unhappily at the blood that had smeared on the branches with his shredded skin.

Oh, Torrant, ouchie, she quavered, her lip trembling as their eyes met.

No gloves. He shrugged. He didn’t need to add that the backs of his knees were shredded as well. They usually practiced acrobatics in the barn, with the hay below them and the smooth metal fixtures above their heads. Suddenly, the guards had moved up the hill and were under their tree.

Torch the place?

Aye—but be careful of the trees and the grounds. Rath wants these grounds perfect—the better to show off the blood on the barn.

Wonderful. Artwork! The guard shrugged ironically. Torrant could hear the tone of his voice and knew that this was distasteful work. He didn’t like the slaughtering of innocents. In that moment, at the disgust in the man’s voice and the memory of the carnage in the workers’ quarters, Torrant learned to hate that most of all. There was nothing, he raged, worse than a good man who could do nothing.

And then he caught Yarri’s anxious look and the full import of the man’s words hit him. Whether the guards stopped the blaze before it hit the trees or sacrificed a few for safety, the two of them were in the line of fire.

Anxiously, Torrant looked around, but there were only the two guards. He could probably knock them out, he surmised, because he was stronger and had surprise on his side, but he couldn’t risk leaving Yarri so vulnerable. With a quiet finger to his lips, he lay across the tree and began to inch his way to within hand distance of the next branch. Yarri, seeing his intent, moved into position behind him. After waiting until the armor-coated guards had moved on, checking for survivors, he let his bottom fall into the darkness, held his body on the limb with the bloody backs of his knees, and waited for Yarri’s practiced jump into his hands. This time he compensated for the blood and released her in perfect time to land in the next tree. After a painful backward swing, he caught the next branch of the tree, and they scuttled to its heart. In this way, scrambling, tumbling, and swinging, they moved from tree to tree along the outside of the orchard, to the borders of the Moon lands. They saw soldiers, periodically, riding back and forth across the way that ran parallel to their own course, and finally, they saw them riding only one way—away from the homestead itself. They stopped to rest every so often, not speaking, but nursing trembling, scratched limbs and pressing anguished faces together in comfort. As they neared their destination, they saw the lightening of the sky that indicated dawn.

In the last tree they crouched, their hearts beating, and listened for soldiers, knowing they were too exhausted to run if they saw any.

We’re safe, Torrant breathed at last and swung Yarri down to crouch near the bole of the tree. As he stumbled to a rest beside her, he caught her in a fall and settled her down. It was an old tree, and the season was early autumn. There were enough leaves piled near the cleft in the roots to cover her trembling body and assure she would be hidden.

Tor… where?

I’ve got to go back, Yar…. I’ve got to see…. He stopped at the stricken look on her face. Her next words would echo in his head until his own death and beyond, because they were spoken by a six-year-old, and they were so very certain, and so very calm.

Torrant, they’re dead now—I know that. It’s just you and me. Don’t leave me.

He breathed in and out, concentrating, because he was afraid he would forget how in that moment. His family. Her family. But he couldn’t believe it in the words of an exhausted child. He had to go see for himself.

I need to go see, Yarri—for both of us. What if we’re wrong?

She nodded, her eyes fluttering closed with exhaustion, and fell into a shivering, miserable sleep. He looked helplessly around for something to cover her with besides leaves. All he had was his own tunic. He used it without regret, and, dressed in an undershirt and breeches, forced his scraped, bruised limbs across the familiar, alien territory of his childhood home.

The Death of the Childhood Moon

THE DESOLATION of his homestead was worse than he had anticipated. The house had burned down—not to the ground, but in a patchy, uncertain way that left skeletons of familiar things thrusting up from the ashes and cinders. He saw the coatrack that Moon had whittled two winters ago, untouched. He saw Kes’s looking glass that Yarri had stared into for hours with a child’s vanity. He saw the charred boxes of winter clothes that had been hastily packed, and, from the half-burned pantry, he smelled the oddly comforting smells of burnt wheat and cooked ham. That last alone was enough to make him want to vomit.

The barn was worse. The family had been killed—probably immediately after Torrant and Yarri had escaped, he surmised sickly. Their bodies lay in sticky red puddles, next to the bloodless bodies of the guards killed. The guards themselves had been killed by the illusion, and their eyes gaped open in a horrible parody of life. His family had not died so mercifully.

Torrant had no words.

He ran to his mother first, and after yanking her skirts down and fixing her shirt, he finally had the presence of mind to close her eyes gently and kiss her brow. Brave Myrla—she had worked so hard, been so content in the Moon household, so proud that her son had a good life. That final illusion had surprised him—he’d known she was gifted, but to produce an illusion that could kill was so far beyond what anyone had anticipated. The implications of his own gift would stagger him in the months to come, but for now, all he could think of was her sacrifice and how not to make it hollow.

Moon was completely headless. Torrant steeled himself and brought the misshapen head back to the corpse. He arranged head and body as close as possible and covered the body up to the chin with a horse blanket. Kes had not died soon enough, and with sorrow he pulled skirts down chastely to the feet of a woman who never said a coarse word in her life, and, although she had been truly and lustily in love with her husband, had rarely even kissed his cheek in public. Tal and Qir had died quickly, with swords in their bellies, fighting in the face of hopelessness, falling within inches of each other, who had never been parted more than a few hours in life. And for all this, it was Ellyot who well and truly broke Torrant’s heart.

Ellyot was a fierce fighter, and he had wounds on his face and on his hands, but the mortal wound was on his back. He’d been killed fighting his way to the door. Torrant had to look away. The only reason Ellyot would run from battle was to distract the guards. To save Yarri. To save him. He knelt for a moment, placing his hand on Ellyot’s back. The flesh was still warm but cooling rapidly in the dawn.

And it was too much. His mother, Moon, Kes, Tal, and Qir—all his family. And Ellyot. His friend, confidante. His brother. He loved them all, but Ellyot was his mirror, the man he would have yearned to be. Reluctantly, he felt tears prickle at his eyes. He couldn’t do this, he thought. Yarri was waiting for him. He had plans to carry out, responsibilities. This entire family had sacrificed their lives so he could save their youngest child, and by all the gods, he would not fail them. Abruptly he straightened, and that sudden movement saved his life.

The soldier had appeared dead, killed by Myrla’s last, desperate illusion, but death is a tricky thing. If he had been left for long, he would have died and never known he’d had a choice—his fellows were dead because of their own belief. But he’d heard a gasp, a sob, a rustle, and had known his heart had not been torn out, and in that knowledge, he had made it pump again. And awoke, seized with zeal, to kill an enemy who crouched among a slaughtered family on the bloodstained stone floor.

Torrant didn’t feel the sword tip as it nicked his ear, but his adrenaline, high from despair, kicked in, and he felt himself tumbling into the same roll he’d executed on his brother, less than twelve hours before. Instinctively, his foot kicked out, felling the stunned guard, and the man’s sword went clattering across the ground, bouncing among the carnage like a child’s toy. Torrant seized it without a thought, his tumbler’s grace made jerky by anger and pain, and without mercy plunged it into the back of the guard, who was stumbling to his feet. The man quivered and jerked as his blood spattered warmly on the floor, and Torrant stared at him, dazed, wiping futilely at his own blood that drizzled down his face from the divot in his ear. The same place where Ellyot had his by birth. He didn’t think of that then. He didn’t think of anything as he stared at the corpse of the man he had killed.

Torrant moved then—not quickly but purposefully. He posed the rest of his family in peace. Then, after grabbing the tinder that was stashed in a back cupboard, he set fire to the hay in the barn. The soldiers hadn’t burned the barn the night before—he assumed it was the better to show off the artwork he’d heard spoken about. Well, let them wonder, he thought dully as he watched the wood catch fire from outside. This was his family, and he would not leave them there to be food for carrion. If he had not the strength nor the time for a burial, he could at least honor their passing.

At last, when he could linger no longer, he moved to the house. The Moon family had been packing, and it was no trouble to find Ellyot’s and Yarri’s packs among the luggage at the back of the house, relatively untouched by fire and pillage. He and Ellyot were of a size, and Ellyot’s luggage bore his initials and the family crest. That would be needed for identification. When he had pulled Ellyot’s and Yarri’s winter cloaks from the two trunks and shoved them into the packs with some rolled-up bedding, he pulled a spare scrip from the rubble and went to the pantry next. He found relatively unscathed meat and bread and knew that, for at least the next forty miles, there would be a windfall of apples to spare. When the food was stashed, he reluctantly and systematically began to search through Kes’s and Moon’s packs.

It felt profane, in a way. His mother’s possessions he was free with. She had given him the only thing they owned of value—a small silver locket with a miniature of her and his father, painted with her trousseau when they were married—and that he carried with him. Yet for all the Moons’ generosity and warmth, it felt awkward to be pawing their possessions. But he had to, for Yarri’s sake, if not for his own. Moon himself had ample coinage, both great and small, in his pack, and of this Torrant took freely, stashing the coins individually in parts of his pack and in his and Yarri’s clothing as quickly as he could. From Kes’s pack he pulled her wedding necklace. She had worn it on special occasions, like Solstice and Beltane and Midsummer’s Night… and when Yarri begged her because she had been so very good all day long. He joined that to Moon’s necklace that he had pulled from the bloody floor, the thick links of silver no safety against a sword blade, and put it all in his pocket to be sorted out later. Then, with a hint of exhaustion, he hefted the food and the two packs over his shoulders and set out.

He had only gone a little way when he realized he was not entirely alone. Whispering alongside him, making plaintive little sounds in the back of her throat, was Yarri’s skittish calico cat. He thought about leaving her, anticipating the joys of traveling with a cat and Yarri’s heartbreak should they be separated again. But with his next step he heard the jingling in his pocket of those necklaces. His and Moon’s and Kes’s. He and that calico cat, he realized. They were all Yarri had left of a family that had been splitting at the seams just the day before.

With a sigh, he stopped, pulled a bit of meat from his scrip, and held it out to Anye. She liked Torrant, and with a dainty movement pulled it from his hand and allowed him to scoop her up. Her purring in his arms, he realized years later, was all that kept him going as he stumbled across the Moon grounds to find Yarri, still sleeping in the bole of the tree. Exhausted, he stumbled next to her and covered them both with his cloak in the chill of the dawn. The tree was turned away from the road and a little way back. That will have to be enough, he thought as he pulled leaves on top of himself. Next to him, in the crook of his shoulder, he felt something small and furry. That—and the child in his arms—gave him enough warmth and comfort to sleep.

Wizard’s Gifts and Goddess’s Get

WHEN HE awoke, he was conscious of two things. The first was the throbbing of his injuries—his hands, the back of his knees, and his ear all pulsed with ache and ague. The second was that Yarri, with help from Anye the cat, was busy ferreting into his wallet, where they smelled food.

Not too much, Yar, he mumbled, trying hard for consciousness. It’s got to last us until we hit the mountain village. That won’t be for a week.

Yarri paused in the act of stuffing a hunk of ham into her mouth and snatched her fingers back from the cat, who was beginning to lick them a little too aggressively in search of another morsel. Whe’’we’oin’? she asked, chewing.

To the Moons in Eiran, he told her, sitting up painfully. The same place we were going yesterday, only…. He stopped, starkly, and met her gaze head-on. She swallowed, hard. And swallowed again. Carefully, she brushed the crumbs off her hands and gave Anye one last piece of meat. Then she met his gaze.

Only, he continued, we’re going alone. She nodded and then took his outstretched hand, heedless of the terrible scrapes and the dried blood. As soon as she had ensconced herself on his lap, and not a moment before, she dissolved into sobs in his arms. He cried with her. The grief he had clamped down as he knelt over Ellyot’s corpse welled up, and he wept for all of them, for his mother, for his adopted family, and most painfully, for the sobbing child next to his heart.

Torrant had no recollection of when the tears stopped. All he knew was that suddenly it was very quiet, and it was no longer morning. With that realization, the terrible quiet was disturbed by the distant clatter of horses. Without thought, Torrant hauled Yarri back into the leaves and against the deep cleft of the tree. Anye didn’t need warning or coercion—she huddled by Yarri, shivering, as the two humans listened carefully. Hardly daring to move, hardly daring to breathe, Torrant snuck his head around the tree and glimpsed flashes of Rath’s teal-and-black livery flashing through the trees, heading north, toward what had only the night before been their home. Closing his eyes, breathing deeply, he thought of those colors and opened his gift. Torrant gasped, his eyes snapping open, his breath coming in pants.

It’s Rath! he gasped as soon as the last horse had passed and its dust had faded into the road. Oh, Triane, merciful Goddess of gifts—it’s Rath—and he saw the smoke and is wondering who is left, and he’s angry. Goddess and kin, he’s black with anger. Yarri, we’ve got to go—wait. He grabbed her arm. Wait! There’s a follow-up guard. And something else. Another gifted presence… oh Goddess.... Yarri, do me a favor, precious. Think like a tree.

Tor….

"Brown wood, green leaves, sap, earth…. But not in words, Yar, pictures. Think like a tree. Or a root. Or a cat… hot mice, twitching tail… there’s a wizard…. Yar… just do it…." The pile of leaves in his lap shook its head, and he tried to resume his breathing and follow his own advice. They sat in silence for a moment, trying hard to breathe through the mouthfuls of leaves covering them, sweating from all the warmth of the afternoon, and thinking like a tree and a cat, respectively.

The next clatter of horses coming up the drive was not nearly so loud, but the quiet was almost part of the awfulness that kept trying to push its way into Torrant’s chest. Tree. Tree. Toes in earth. Slow sap, yellow leaves, green leaves, brown leaves. Slow breaths through thick, hard skin. Many, many arms, one firm leg… tree. Brown. No words. Brown. Sky. He thought it, felt it, lived it for a heartbeat, and then another, and then a third. The horses got closer; he felt them through his toes, rooted in the earth, tickled with root hairs, visited by wriggling, happy worms. Tree. The horses galloped past. Reined to a stop… holy Goddess, tree.

With a yowl, Anye hopped from Yarri’s hands and climbed up his side, then jumped to the trunk of the great oak they were sheltered by. From just up the road, Torrant could hear voices.

See there, wizard—there’s your cat and your trees….

"I said tree, moron, not trees. And I see them—I’m telling you, I heard them thinking. One was thinking cat, and the other tree."

Well maybe, wizard— The first voice was sounding a bit affronted. "—you heard them think cat and tree because they are a cat and a tree. There’s enough magic in Moon lands for that not to be an impossibility. And even if the cat was thinking cat and the tree was thinking tree, neither of them, apparently were thinking Moon, or enemy of the state, and so I suggest we go on. Rath doesn’t like to be kept waiting."

Fine…. The wizard’s voice was a growl of impatience, but Tree heard the creak of leather, the jangle of harness, and the clatter of hooves. When that had died away, Tree became aware of the child sitting at his trunk, and that it was saying something.

Torrant! Torrant, stop! she begged, panicked. Torrant, come back!

Shaking his head at a final image of birds dropping shite in his hair, Torrant looked at her oddly.

Yarri, I’m still here…. At the sound of her name, Yarri stifled a yelp and collapsed against him.

Torrant, you were a tree. He was looking for us, and I thought we were dead, and I felt for your hand, and you were a tree, and I was inside you. Torrant, how did you do that?

Sap, wood, earth, sky, leaves…. Torrant shook off the feeling of his flesh congealing into a tree and looked at Yarri, puzzled, exhausted as only the gift could make him, and stood hurriedly. "I don’t know, but we’ve got to go now! If we left, do you think Anye would catch up?" At that moment Anye leapt onto his back, clawing for purchase, and they scrambled for their packs and hurried away.

For the next couple of days they stuck to the orchards, eating windfall apples and raiding the occasional gardens for the last of the summer squash. When their tummies grumbled enough, Torrant consented to chewing on the hardened bread in their scrip, but only enough to keep them from crouching behind a tree for most of their hurried, running days. They stopped and bathed on the first night, and not even trying to be strong for Yarri could have kept Torrant from howling at the first touch of cold water on his wounds. He had stashed some soap in their packs, and had to submit to Yarri’s ministrations as she rubbed it into the backs of his knees and the soft, traumatized skin of his thighs and gams. His hands hurt so badly he had to wrap them in his shredded undershirt, and still, every night as he looked for freshwater and a place to camp, he dreaded the process of ripping the bandages off the seeping wound. By the third day, fever pulsed behind his eyes in constant counterpoint to his footsteps.

And still they moved north and west—toward the tallest of the mountains, the one with the flattened top and the jagged mountain sticking out from its side like an axe in a tree. Toward Hammer Pass.

For a nameless, gifted peasant, Torrant was an educated young man. He knew that to the east were the Old Man Hills—gentle mountains with a series of lakes between them, where peasants raised sheep and spun fine cloth. It was possible to get to Otham, Eiran’s neighbor, separated by a deep channel of sea, by going across the Old Man Hills, but in order to get there they would have to go near or through Dueance—Clough’s main city. Since Rath lived in Dueance, Torrant was rightfully more afraid of the city and who might be looking for them there than he was of the elements, but that didn’t mean it was an easy choice.

To the south were the Kitten Mountains—fir trees and sharp, granite claws. To the northwest was the Anvil, sheer cliffs rising to a plateau pitted with sinkholes and vast glacial surfaces that had swallowed parties of travelers whole. It was the only one of the two with a road, a narrow, winding path that came halfway up the mountain and then clung to the side like skin to your hand. The path twined between the Anvil and the Hammer—the mountain that had risen from inside the Anvil in some seismic upheaval of long ago—only sometimes accessible, when the ice didn’t form an impenetrable wall, a oneness of iron and copper ore. People called it Hammer Pass.

If they were going to Eiran, they had to go through Hammer Pass, and they had to hurry. Winter wasn’t here yet, but every morning the chill was sharper, and the stream