The Girl Who Drank the Moon(11)

It had been a year. No one ever left the Sisters of the Star. It wasn’t done. Yet, Antain continued to wait. And hope.

He followed his uncle at a run.

The other Elders still had not arrived at the Council Hall, and likely would not until noon or later. Gherland told Antain to sit.

The Grand Elder stared at Antain for a long time. Antain couldn’t get the Tower out of his mind. Or the madwoman. Or the baby left in the forest, whimpering piteously as they walked away. And oh, how that mother screamed. And oh, how she fought. And oh, what have we become?

It pierced Antain every day, a great needle in his soul.

“Nephew,” the Grand Elder said at last. He folded his hands and brought them to his mouth. He sighed deeply. Antain realized that his uncle’s face was pale. “The Day of Sacrifice approaches.”

“I know, Uncle,” Antain said. His voice was thin. “Five days. It —” He sighed. “It waits for no one.”

“You were not there last year. You were not standing with the other Elders. An infection in your foot, as I recall?”

Antain tilted his gaze to the ground. “Yes, Uncle. I had a fever, too.”

“And it resolved itself the next day?”

“Bog be praised,” he said weakly. “It was a miracle.”

“And the year before,” Gherland said. “It was pneumonia, was it?”

Antain nodded. He knew where this was going.

“And before that. A fire in the shed? Is that right? Good thing no one was injured. And there you were. All by yourself. Fighting the fire.”

“Everyone else was along the route,” Antain said. “No shirkers. So I was alone.”

“Indeed.” Grand Elder Gherland gave Antain a narrowed look. “Young man,” he said. “Who on earth do you think you’re fooling?”

A silence fell between them.

Antain remembered the little black curls, framing those wide black eyes. He remembered the sounds the baby made when they left her in the forest. He remembered the thud of the Tower doors when they locked the madwoman inside. He shivered.

“Uncle—” Antain began, but Gherland waved him off.

“Listen, Nephew. It was against my better judgment to offer you this position. I did so not because of the incessant needling of my sister, but because of the great love I had, and have, for your dear father, may he rest easily. He wanted to make sure your path was assured before he passed away, and I could not deny him. And having you here”—the hard lines of Gherland’s face softened a bit—“has been an antidote to my own sadness. And I appreciate it. You are a good boy, Antain. Your father would be proud.”

Antain found himself relaxing. But only for a moment. With a broad sweep of robes, the Grand Elder rose to his feet.

“But,” he said, his voice reverberating strangely in the small room. “My affection for you only goes so far.”

There was, in his voice, a brittle edge. His eyes were wide. Strained. Even a bit wet. Is my uncle worried about me? Antain wondered. Surely not, he thought.

“Young man,” his uncle continued. “This cannot go on. The other Elders are muttering. They . . .” He paused. His voice caught in his throat. His cheeks were flushed. “They aren’t happy. My protection over you extends far, my dear, dear boy. But it is not infinite.”

Why would I need to be protected? Antain wondered as he stared at his uncle’s strained face.

The Grand Elder closed his eyes and calmed his ragged breathing. He motioned for the boy to stand. His face resumed its imperious expression. “Come, Nephew. It’s time for you to return to school. We shall expect you, as usual, at mid-afternoon. I do hope you are able to make at least one person grovel today. It would put to rest so many misgivings among the other Elders. Promise me you’ll try, Antain. Please.”

Antain shuffled toward the door, the Grand Elder gliding just behind. The older man lifted his hand to rest on the boy’s shoulder and let it hover just above for a moment, before thinking better of it and letting it drift back down.

“I’ll try harder, Uncle,” Antain said as he walked out the door. “I promise I will.”

“See that you do,” the Grand Elder said in a hoarse whisper.



Five days later, as the Robes swept through the town toward the cursed house, Antain was home, sick to his stomach, vomiting his lunch. Or so he said. The other Elders grumbled during the entire procession. They grumbled as they retrieved the child from its pliant parents. They grumbled as they hurried toward the sycamore grove.

“The boy will have to be dealt with,” the Elders muttered. And each one knew exactly what that meant.

Oh, Antain my boy, my boy, oh Antain my boy! Gherland thought as they walked, tendrils of worry curling around his heart, cinching into a hard, tight knot. What have you done, you foolish child? What have you done?





7.


In Which a Magical Child Is More Trouble by Half





When Luna was five years old, her magic had doubled itself five times, but it remained inside her, fused to her bones and muscles and blood. Indeed, it was inside every cell. Inert, unused—all potential and no force.

“It can’t go on like this,” Glerk fussed. “The more magic she gathers, the more magic will spill out.” He made funny faces at the girl in spite of himself. Luna giggled like mad. “You mark my words,” he said, vainly trying to be serious.