Crescent (Book 1)

+ 58 +

My grip is slick on my blade, but I don't relent. The shadow of a man stands a few paces away. He steps into the light, revealing no weapons- no threat- only a gapped smile of black teeth. Moira nods her head toward him. "Butcher."

"Aye," he greets, but his eyes remain locked on me. He grins when he sees my blade, running a hand down his red beard that stretches halfway down his belly. "Now that's a pretty little thing. Where'd ya get it?"

I don't answer immediately, but one look at Moira, her hands clasped casually in front of her, and I lower it. The blade, one Ceth had fashioned with jewels and decorative sparkling metal, is all for show. It can still manage a lethal blow if wielded correctly... and after months of training, I have no doubt I can do the job. "My fiancé had it made for me. Just one of many from the castle keep- though I prefer others."

The Butcher chuckles, a hearty rounded sound, and stalks toward me. For a moment, his yellowing eyes just watch me, but he smiles, holding out a scarred palm toward my blade. "Yer fiance, is it?"

Moira gives me a purposeful smile. "Butcher is aware of your... situation..." That's a word for it. Still weary of him, I set the blade in his awaiting palm as he examines it carefully. I can tell from his bunched calluses and muscled arms that he probably works with a blade of some sort. I'm just not sure what kind yet.

He twirls the blade, tossing it upwards to test the balance. "Pretty," he catches it, offering it back with a black grin. "Can't say much for its practicality but I have a feelin' you'd make do."

My mouth tilts upwards. After months of having nothing to protect myself, I'd say it's an apt assessment. "It's like I said. I prefer others."

His eyes wander towards Moira. "So yer here about the gala. Thought the Head of House normally did this part alone." He licks his teeth as he glances between us. "Shopping and such."

Moira twists her hands nervously but shows no other sign of discomfort. "This year's different. Everyone knows that."

"Not everyone." His attention turns, eyes sweeping over me before he shuffles toward the curtained wall. He draws the curtains back, revealing the landscape beyond. I'd normally ask him what he means, but as soon as I see the snow whipping over the drop-off, the breath knocks out of me.

Carved into the side of the cliff is a mine. Mine carts chug along the cavern's bottom at a snail's pace, the sound reverberating around us loudly enough to shake the cliff. A pulley hauls gargantuan metal barrels up and down the cliff wall, and I lean over to peer inside: Gems. Stones. Uncut jewels of all variety and size. Coal-blackened workers bus crates or unload barrels of them from the chain-and-pulley system connecting it all.

We're standing at the heart of the realm's wealth, yet I doubt a single person in town is aware of it.

The Butcher plucks a jagged green stone from one of the passing barrels before biting down on it with a clink. "Tough as nails, this is. Part of how ye know it's real." The Butcher pushes the stone into my hand, and I grimace as it glistens, wet with slobber. "Won't scratch. You try."

"I believe you." I look over the edge, the drop probably more than a mile down. "Does this mine run all the time?"

"Yep. Everything closes down on Blesses Day, 'course."

I hand the jewel back, stuffing my hands into my coat as I incline my head toward Moira. "Well, I think it's time we had a look at what we came for."

Moira nods, and the Butcher smiles again. "This way then."

He leads us back out into the snow. We make a direct path to another hut beside the manor. Another wave of magic hits us as the door creaks open. Once inside, I find that there's true walls this time. Tables and desks in every direction sit full with metal tools and saws. Dust coats everything, and when the Butcher leads us toward a space in the back, his boots leave tracks. We pass a couple of chests of half-cut gems, and I realize suddenly why his name might be fitting. Butcher of stone, cutter of gems.

I stop dead in my tracks when our destination comes into view: Glass walls, that slow chugging sound. I've been here before... Only last time, my mother was waiting for me.

My heart squeezes as the Butcher props open the door and allows us inside. My mother is gone, but the room is filled with vases of flowers. Tables have been arranged with rich bolts of fabric and décor I've seen in catalogs.

"Brenna?" Moira calls, watching me expectantly from inside. Her brows crease together as the Butcher goes off on a tangent, listing all the different selections we'd chosen to view. I somehow bring myself inside, but part of me wonders if this is some kind of sick joke on Ceth's part. There's no sign she was ever here.

The Butcher rolls out the fabrics, but I don't care about any of it. I don't care about the gala or the celebrations or whatever rite Ceth has planned. I only care about my family. Damn the rest of it. As the Butcher opens another chest of things to look at, I snap. "These will do. Moira can check over everything, and we'll arrange transportation for the rest." I twist toward the door again.

"Ye don't even want to see the flowers? I had them prepared special- like you asked for."

The table near the door is full of blooms seemingly untouched by the chill. They hang in silence, magic making their color, their scent, and sharp thorns seem even more intense. Decorated. Fabricated. It's the arrangement of poppies in the middle of the table that catches my eye. The blooms are flaming red, petals spread in violent contrast with the blues and purples of the rest. Rosie.

"These will be fine. It was nice to meet you, Butcher." I don't so much as cast a glance back as I stroll through the door.

I manage to find myself back in the snow. It's falling harder, and I almost have trouble finding my way back to the manor. The soldiers, still guarding the horses, stand about ten feet away, but they don't bother me as I lean against the building, filling my lungs with quiet puffs of cold air. The sound of the pulley carries through the air, all too loud now that my nerves are in overdrive.

Breathe, I urge myself as the minutes press on, but red still coats my vision.

A roaring crack fills the air, silence falling quickly after. My thoughts vanish. The pulley sounds like a motor dying, slowing down until it stops altogether. For a few moments, it's quiet enough to hear snowfall, to hear blood pound. One glance at the guards confirms they're equally as dumbfounded. But then there's a flash like lightning, and the pulley screeches to life again. The smell of magic invades my senses, and as if nothing happened at all, the guards continue staring forward.

Moira appears less than a moment later.

"There is a great force gathering in Vervale."