The Girl Who Drank the Moon(46)

Antain’s finger traced around several thermal vents, skirted the deep ridging that shed razor-sharp shards of rock every time the mountain sighed, and found alternative routes past the cliffs or the geysers or the quickmud flats. The forest covered the sides of a very large and very wide mountain, whose deep creases and slow slopes spiraled around a central cratered peak, which was itself surrounded by a flat meadow and a small swamp. At the swamp a gnarled tree had been drawn. On the tree was a carving of a crescent moon.

She is here, the map said. She is here, she is here, she is here.

“But where did you get this?” wheezed Elder Guinnot.

“It doesn’t matter,” Antain said. “It is my belief that it is accurate. And I am willing to stake my life upon that belief.” Antain rolled up the map and returned it to his satchel. “Which is why I am here, good fathers.”

Gherland felt his breath come in great gasps. What if it was true? What then?

“I do not know why,” he said, gathering his great, vulturous self to his fullest height, “we are troubling ourselves with this—”

Antain did not let him finish.

“Uncle, I know that what I am asking for is a bit out of the ordinary. And perhaps you are right. This may be a fool’s errand. But really, I am not asking for very much at all. Only your blessing. I need no tools, no equipment, no supplies. My wife knows of my intentions, and I have her support. On the Day of Sacrifice the Robes will arrive at our house, and she will relinquish our precious child willingly. The whole Protectorate will sorrow as you walk by—a great sea of sorrow. And you will go to those awful trees—those Witch’s Handmaidens. And you will lay that little babe on the moss and you will think that you will never lay eyes on that face again.” Antain felt his voice crack. He shut his eyes tight and tried to recompose himself. “And perhaps that will be true. Perhaps I will succumb to the perils of the forest, and it will be the Witch who comes to claim my child.”

The room was quiet, and cold. The Elders dared not speak. Antain seemed to grow taller than all of them. His face was lit from the inside, like a lantern.

“Or,” Antain continued, “perhaps not. Perhaps it will be me waiting in those trees. Perhaps I shall be the one to lift the babe from the circle of sycamores. Perhaps I shall be the one to bring that baby safely home.”

Guinnot found his reedy voice. “But . . . but how, boy?”

“It is a simple plan, good father. I shall follow the map. I shall find the Witch.” Antain’s eyes were two black coals. “And then I shall kill her.”





25.


In Which Luna Learns a New Word





Luna woke in the dark with a searing headache. It originated from a point right behind her forehead no larger than a grain of sand. But she felt whole universes burst behind her vision, making it alternately light, then dark, then light, then dark. She fell out of her bed and clattered onto the floor. Her grandmother snored in the swing bed on the other side of the room, taking in each breath as though it was filtered through a handful of muck.

Luna pressed her hands to her forehead, trying to keep her skull from flying apart. She felt hot, then cold, then hot again. And was it her imagination, or were her hands glowing? Her feet as well.

“What’s happening?” she gasped.

“Caw,” her crow should have said from his perch at the window. “Luna,” he cawed instead.

“I’m fine,” she whispered. But she knew she wasn’t. She could feel each of her bones as though they were made of light. Her eyes were hot. Her skin was slick and damp. She scrambled to her feet and stumbled out the door, taking in great gulps of night air as she did so.

The waxing moon had just set, and the sky glittered with stars. Without thinking about it, Luna raised her hands to the sky, letting starlight gather on her fingers. One by one, she brought her fingers to her mouth, letting the starlight slide down her throat. Had she done this before? She couldn’t remember. In any case, it eased her headache and calmed her mind.

“Caw,” said the crow.

“Come,” said Luna, and she made her way down the trail.

Luna did not intend to make her way toward the standing stone in the tall grasses. And yet. There she was. Staring at those words, lit now by the stars.

Don’t forget, the stone said.

“Don’t forget what?” she said out loud. She took a step forward and laid her hand on the stone. Despite the hour and despite the damp, the stone was oddly warm. It vibrated and thrummed under her hand. She glared at the words.

“Don’t forget what?” she said again. The stone swung open like a door.

No, she realized. Not like a door. It was a door. A door hanging in the air. A door that opened into a candlelit stone corridor, with stairs leading down into the gloom.

“How . . .” Luna breathed, but she could not continue.

“Caw,” the crow said, though it sounded more like I don’t think you should go down there.

“Quiet, you,” Luna said. And she walked into the stone doorway and down the stairs.

The stairs led to a workshop, with clean, open workstations and sheaves and sheaves of paper. Open books. A journal with a quill resting across the pages with a bright black drop of ink clinging to the sharp tip, as though someone had stopped in the middle of a sentence before thinking better of it and rushing away.