Midnight Moon

Chapter 14 - Spirits

Tia felt like she had been blinking sand. She had never slept soundly away from the security of her tribe, but over the last few weeks, she had spent many nights on guard. With the stars above and the sounds and scents of the forest around, her thoughts always circled on the young woman who slept beside her.

Veanna had become her ward, her charge, her reason to fight. For so long she had been a weapon without a purpose, but now here was this girl: alone and in need of help. Every morning, Tia rose with the fear that she had failed and Veanna was lost.

Old scars prickled as she packed their bedrolls away. Absentmindedly, she rubbed at her shoulder, where an owl tattoo once soared proudly. Now it was disfigured and ruined; slashed in two by a blade. The inked vines springing from it were untouched; left as a mark of the people she had killed. A new branch signified a death, both a trophy and a curse, for each fresh tattoo showed her prowess in battle and every time she had determined a life must end. To become enveloped in vines was to lose oneself, and the earth would reclaim her as one of the dead.

Neyerith called to her across their small campsite. "I don't suppose you could give me a hand packing away my shelter?" He gave her a brilliant smile that made her feel sick to the stomach. "I'm so good at getting it up, but making it go down again is a trial."

"Dear ancestors," Veanna muttered, but her lips twitched.

Tia's scowl darkened. There may have only been a glimmer of mirth, but it signalled danger. She could not afford to let Veanna lower her guard, not when they had so far to go. Though the man could play the part of a harmless cad, she would not let them be lulled into a false sense of security. He could still be the death of them both.

Neyerith shrugged when Tia didn't dignify his words with an answer. "I guess I'll have to sort it alone with my own hands."

Veanna gave a cough that sounded like it was covering a laugh, and Tia's eyes narrowed. Neyerith was one of many concerns on her mind, and he wasn't even at the top of the list. The threat of his betrayal or attack was at least something she could guard against, but the constant hovering fear of the Order was far worse. Veanna was in real, constant danger.

Who knew when they would next strike, coming to reclaim the blood they needed and eliminate the girl whose life it drove? She hated the powerlessness of waiting, with only an untrustworthy louse for help. Yet she would not back down from this fight.

She could not.

***

Veanna's spirits jumped to have a day break with bright blue skies overhead. The air was fresh and full of smells of nature, and the sun's waning heat was just able to brush her cheeks.

They didn't walk for long before Neyerith brought them to a stop in a clearing, and Veanna's calm vanished. It was too easy to temper her disgust with amusement when he was making jokes instead of threats – particularly as all she wanted was to feel safe for a few moments – but she had to remember that he could be her enemy too.

Seeing her and Tia tense, however, he laughed. "Calm down, I don't have a retinue of thugs waiting to spring from the treetops. There's a stream nearby; I thought you might like to have a wash and refill your water."

Veanna raised her eyebrows. "That's suspiciously considerate of you."

"Anything to get your ravishing companion's clothes off," he replied with a wink.

She sighed, her lip curling. "And you ruined it."

"Is there any risk of attack?" Tia asked, stoic and unimpressed as ever.

"Barely even a chance," he assured her. "This area is kept well cleared of bandits. There is a village a day's walk to the north, but I'm assuming you would prefer to avoid contact with people."

Tia gave a curt nod and turned to Veanna. "Take a fresh set of clothes to the river, and keep your dagger close. I will ensure that you are not disturbed." She stared pointedly at Neyerith, who had already flopped down on the ground.

"What did I do?" he protested, eyes wide and innocent.

Veanna frowned. "Only a minute ago you were talking about Tia taking her clothes off."

"True," he conceded with a devilish grin, "But your honour isn't at risk, your Highness."

"I feel so safe," she muttered, rooting through her pack before turning towards the sounds of the river. "Good luck," she called over her shoulder.

"I'm too smooth to need luck," Neyerith replied.

"I wasn't talking to you," she shouted back, glimpsing Tia's scowl before the pair of them disappeared behind the trees.

The stream was clear as crystal in the dappled sunlight, diamonds spraying into the air where its path was interrupted by rocks. Veanna gasped at the chill on stepping in, but closed her eyes and forced her legs to keep walking until she was immersed. She pulled apart her matted braid and fanned her hair in the water, letting her breathing slow as she relaxed into the momentary solitude.

The passage of time had been hazy since she was last in the palace, but she knew weeks - if not months - had surely passed. In all that time, she had barely stolen a moment to herself: first trapped, now protected, but never alone. Her thoughts felt caged inside her head; any space to think was oppressed by the unremitting presence of others.

The constant company was less stifling with Tia, and having Neyerith nearby was putting her on edge less and less as they travelled without incident. He hadn't even commented on her royalty in days and seemed more intent on unsettling Tia than Veanna. Yet a portion of her mind was always focused on the two of them, checking her comfort was close and her danger distant. And she could remember the unrelenting sensation of being watched in that cold, dark space where she had been chained by the Order.

Veanna's eyes snapped open, relieved to be assaulted by sunlight. She felt a stinging in her hands and saw that she was gripping them in a bid to centre herself.

Uncurling her fingers, she unwound the bandages Tia carefully replaced each day, monitoring and cleaning the wounds. She threw the damp fabric to the riverbank and dipped her hands into the stream, soothed by the chill.

As the clear water rushed between her fingers, she gazed at her palms. Crimson slashes from the Order's blades had become dark lines, stark against her skin. A twitch of her hand was no longer enough to conjure the pain of the dagger carving into her flesh, but too much movement caused a dull ache.

A sob escaped her lips as thoughts of that night burst through her mind, and she began to cry before she realised it was happening. Tears blurred her vision and spilt into the water. She bowed her head and pressed her wounded palms over her eyes.

As the sobs overtook her body, she released the walls she had tried so desperately to build inside herself. She had fought to hide her fear from the intimidating Order, her vulnerability from concerned Tia, and her weakness from untrustworthy Neyerith. She allowed herself to think of the things she repeatedly banished from her mind: the duties she was neglecting, the loved ones she left behind, every fear that crept upon her in the quiet of night.

She had dropped from her position as one of the most influential people in the Lands to being powerless, helpless, unable to do anything for herself or the very kingdom she travelled through. At every moment, she waited for some new threat to jump out of the shadows; thugs, Order members, or yet another danger. All she wanted was to be home with her family. If she squinted, she could almost imagine the scars on her palms were actually Jate's hands dark against hers, but the cold river was no substitute for his comfort.

She could conjure an image behind her closed lids of his smile, of his eyes, yet she found that she could no longer remember the feeling of his kiss. Her heart twisted. It seemed mad that she survived for decades without even knowing of his existence, yet every day without him hurt. Back in Beyall, she could track the missions and movements of his unit, but now she didn't even know whether he had been recalled to the capital or deployed somewhere new - or, ancestors forbid, had fallen somewhere in battle and become just another name on a list of the dead.

Giving into her emotions was not something she permitted herself as heir to the throne; she could not afford to show fragility or permit her judgment to falter. Yet, for once, Veanna let go as the cool stream flowed gently against her skin and her tears dripped down her scarred hands, alone at last and allowing grime and pain to wash away with the current.