Page 58 of Kingdom of the Two Moons

Blair

Blair has summoned her phantom wyvern, holding on to its barbed skin and glimmering rainbow scales while she circles the landscape at the border to Caryan’s lands, where the wall of his wards is thinnest. The only downside of wards—they can only span over so much distance before they weaken. Blair could risk flying through the curtain of his magic and probably come away more or less unharmed.

But she doesn’t want to.

He would instantly know about it.

She sighs and banks left as she, Aurora, and Sofya keep patrolling along the edges of the Emerald Forest. But its canopy is so thick they can sense nothing. This damn forest is like a shield, impossible to tell who prowls through it.

But Caryan isn’t what Blair’s looking for, even if her mothers believe it is what they are doing day in and day out. Why they have traveled these circles for the whole of last week—flying over and over above the trees until Blair’s limbs were so stiff from cold and exhaustion she could barely move when they finally returned to the inn at the crossroads. The inn is the only place you can get a bed and decent food, that connects the harbor—the doorway to the elven kingdom of Palisandre in the east; Avandal, the city of the healers in the north; and Niavara in the south. A strange patch of land that Calianthe, the queen of the Emerald Forest, granted Caryan back then to make it possible to travel by foot or horse from his kingdom to Avandal.

Before, you could only reach Avandal by ship, or you had to cross Calianthe’s forest, full of her murderous dryads, monstrous flesh-eating trees, and other creatures Blair isn’t sure anyone has ever seen and left the forest alive to talk about.

But then—the myths must come from somewhere, right?

What Calianthe received from Caryan in return, Blair has no idea. But Calinathe’s cruelty and cunning easily match Caryan’s own, so Blair figures Caryan must have given her something that would amplify her power.

No, in truth, Blair’s looking for that spot marked on the blacksmith’s map. She studied it over and over every night, when her mothers were already safe and sound asleep. She’s looking for that godsdamn marker. The place of power.

Hells, she has no intention of ever going against Caryan. Certainly not with her mothers in tow. They would be dead in an instant. No, she has a different plan.

Blair takes one last turn on her wyvern before she signals the other two witches to veer and follow her back to the inn. It’s so fucking cold up here, and Blair craves some spiced beer and a fire to warm her boots.

But halfway, she suddenly spurs her wyvern into a sharp descent.

There it is, finally, the crossing of three tiny brooks that she’s been searching for all this time. The marker on her map. Finally. There, beneath the fog.

Her wyvern’s claws touch the lush, high grass, her huge wings still spread, ready to take off any second. Blair slides down, and her mount pushes herself protectively between her and the forest, her massive head rearing to throw a vigilant glance towards the wall-like trees to their right. A breeze comes up in answer. A warning.

The air down here is treacherously soft, caressing, so much warmer than up there, filled with the foreign fragrances of the forest. Dangerous fragrances, Blair corrects herself.

“I know, I don’t like it here either,” Blair admits as her wyvern gives a warning screech.

“What is this about, Blair?” Aurora’s wyvern touches the ground nearby. Her mother jumps from her bluish wyvern—Vyren—and comes walking towards Blair, her gaze also trained on the forest, as if she expects an arrow to fly at them at any second.

Sofya, on her prickly, grayish hell of a beast—Tharox—follows last. Yes, well, her mothers named their half-solid mounts. It seems that Blair’s the only one who could never bring herself to name her wyvern. Never get too attached. Her credo. That’s probably why she never did. As if her wyvern felt her thoughts, she roars again but Blair ignores her.

With another grounding, deep breath she faces her mothers, pulling the crumpled map from her saddlebag. Her faeish heart suddenly beats unusually fast and her hands tremble when she says, “We can leave the fae world. Here.” She taps a silver nail on the three lines painted on the map, running like veins through the landscape, only to join right here, the drawing in the map resembling a star. “It’s a place of power. Three tiny arms of the healing springs from Avandal. It should be enough for us to open a portal to the human world—”

“We cannot, Blair. We should return to the inn,” Aurora cuts her off sharply.

Blair’s face falls, and her stomach tightens from an unknown terror. “We have to leave. We can just go. Leave this all behind us. You would like it there. There’s so much to see.”

Aurora’s beautiful face stays hard. Blair’s gaze darts to Sofya in a silent plea. But only sorrow and regret shine on her mother’s stunning face. Sofya will always do what Aurora says, no matter whether Blair is their leader.

Blair’s heart sinks, back down, down, down into that bottomless pit. “We will die if we don’t leave,” she pleads, her voice trembling with all the desperation that haunts her every night, every day, every breathing second, for fuck’s sake .

“We are to find the girl,” Aurora counters sternly.

“Fuck that girl. We can just leave. We can have a life. A real life. Do you know how that feels?” Blair asks.

Aurora steps up to her, and Blair closes her eyes as her mother’s still-cool hand rests on her cheek. Part of her expected a slap, yet her mothers have never hurt her in any way. Not then, not now.

“My beautiful witchling, we cannot. This is bigger than us.” Her mother’s voice is as gentle as it was when she sometimes sang to Blair at night, when Blair was still a child and couldn’t sleep. She hasn’t heard that voice in a long time. “You have a responsibility, Blair. One you cannot just turn your back on.”

“The Abyss knows we’re entitled to our freedom,” Blair says, her eyes flying open, her teeth clenched.

“There’s a reason you were brought to Caryan, Blair. A reason for all that pain. I know it. All your suffering, it was not for nothing.”

Blair can feel her stomach bottom out. They knew. They always knew.

“Who told you?” she hisses.

“Oh darling, no one. Everyone could see the way you looked at him.”

“It’s because of that fling that Perenilla says I committed treason,” Blair grinds out.

She expects Aurora to be disgusted. To step back, or hurt her finally, for the first time. Take it out on her,

But her mother’s face stays unbearably soft, so understanding Blair feels something in her cracking open to bleed all over.

“Then find a way out, Blair. I know fate brought you to him and to that girl. I know that you’re meant for something else. Something more .”

“To be queen,” Blair spits, but her mother shakes her head.

“No. You are meant for more than even this. You are meant to change the world. You have a bond with that girl, I can feel it. There is a reason for everything, Blair. A reason you never brought her here. You cannot deliver her up to Perenilla. ”

“You and Sofya will die if I don’t bring her to Perenilla.” Blair’s eyes fill with all the unshed tears she’s been saving. But they just well up there and do not fall. Not here. Not in the fae world. That she’s able to produce tears in the first place should scare her, because no fae can.

“Then so will it be, if this is our fate,” Aurora says, so easily Blair wants to grab her and shake some sense into her.

Again, her eyes go to Sofya, looking for support, but the blonde witch just watches silently.

“You will find a way, Blair. You always found a way. And I know that this is not the end. Not for us, not for you,” Aurora says.

“You cannot know that,” Blair seethes with sudden fury.

“Yes, my beautiful darling. I can feel it. Our time has not yet come. Find a way and let us no longer speak about it.”

With that, Aurora pulls her hand back. But the echo of her warmth stays, even when Blair stalks back to her wyvern. The creature is restless, snapping the air with her vicious teeth as they soar higher and higher, until Blair can make herself believe it’s just the wind stinging in her eyes and nothing else.

***

An hour later, they open the battered door of the inn, entering the dimly lit room. The smell of food and fire fills the warm air, welcoming their stiff bones. Blair and her mothers are wearing strong magic on their bodies to camouflage themselves as simple elves, hiding from the crowd with their combat clothes and their daggers and swords. Not to mention their innate weapons—silver nails and canines. It would wreak havoc if witches showed up here, outside of their territory. Blair, Aurora, and Sofya would have to kill every guest at the inn.

A prospect Blair wouldn’t have minded only a year ago.

But since she’s been to the human world, she’s changed. She knows it, but she isn’t ready to tell Aurora or Sofya that much. Not when it won’t matter anyway .

Not after what just happened.

She quietly nurses her beer, tucked in a dark corner of the shady inn, boots close to the fire.

“I kept my ears open. No trace of elves or a witcher, for that matter,” Sofya says, the blonde beauty putting a plate laden with a heavy piece of what looks and smells deliciously like roasted piglet in the middle of the table, interrupting Blair’s brooding.

Her fair-haired mother pretends they are still set on doing Perenilla’s bidding. Aurora too meant what she said—both of them behave like nothing ever happened and will continue to do so until their last breath. Well, trust her mothers when they decide on something.

Fine, they can have it their way. But Blair isn’t fine. Not even close. They know. They are ready to die, for fuck’s sake. For this world, for her fucking mistakes.

They fucking refused to come with her to safety.

“Word would have spread if someone spotted them.” Aurora hums her agreement, as if they were talking about the fucking weather in fucking Palisandre. Both witches just joined Blair at her table as if it were theirs. Aurora takes out her hunting knife and starts to elegantly cut off a neat piece of juicy meat. Aurora always reminds Blair of a high elf, the way she carries herself, speaks, and even eats.

“Still not hungry?” she asks, her groomed eyebrows raising at Blair.

Blair gives an animalistic snarl as an answer, huddling deeper into her corner.

“I’ve never known her to be so quiet,” Aurora says to Sofya as she puts a delicious-looking piece of roasted piglet into her mouth with a fork.

“I’ve never known her not to be hungry,” Sofya replies, tearing off a huge piece of meat with her fingers and nails and stuffing it into her mouth, unbothered by the pink meat juice dripping over her elegant chin.

It has always been like this—Aurora the lady, while Sofya and Blair ripped into the meat with their nails and teeth like animals, and Aurora playfully chiding them for their lack of etiquette.

It is so engrained into Blair she almost waits for it to happen.

But her mothers continue to eat in silence. Blair can’t help but watch the large piece of meat disappearing too quickly in front of her eyes and her empty stomach. The smell of it makes her mouth water and her belly twists with hunger. Fuck witches and their appetites.

Blair reaches out and slices off a fat-dripping piece, her nails going through it like a knife through warm butter.

Sofya’s shrill laughter fills the room. “I knew it.”

Blair cuts her a sharp glance but goes for another chunk of meat. She might be brooding, but she is also starved.

“You are brutes,” Aurora sighs theatrically.

Blair bares her teeth at both of them, Sofya flashing her an innocent grin in return.

Aurora says, “At least you could do better, Blair. It’s not like I didn’t try to teach you some manners.” There we go.

“That would imply that I want to do better,” Blair retorts dryly, struggling to keep a treacherous smile from her face despite her anger.

“If it were up to you, Aurora, Blair would run around with a patrician countenance, demanding powdered pearls and kelpie-caviar.” Sofya swipes to her aid, ruffling Blair’s hair before she plucks another piece of meat from the bone.

Aurora rolls her eyes in playful annoyance . “Good then that you taught her how to roll in the dirt to camouflage her scent.”

“I like to think that I balanced all those lessons in decorum and grace. And—that was definitely one of her favorites. I remember how she came home one day, covered from head to toe in boar shit,” Sofya says, a vicious smile on her face at the memory of it. “And how she screamed like a skewered pig because you put her straight into the bathtub and scrubbed it off.”

“I didn’t scream like a skewered pig,” Blair mutters under her breath .

“Oh yes, you did. It took forever to get it out of your hair. We used up all the lavender soap,” Aurora reminds her sourly, crossing her trained arms.

“Oh, that precious lavender soap. Aurora will never forgive you this, Blair.”

Blair grumbles, “Soap’s overrated anyway.”

But the witches no longer listen. When Blair looks up, she catches Sofya and Aurora sharing a long, warm look. Lost in memories. Blair tries to swallow the lump in her stomach, heavy as lead and burning like acid. How she missed this—moments like this, just the three of them being together like a normal family. As they had been back then in that hut in the woods where they’d lived when Blair was still a child. Before they had to return to Gatilla’s court.

“What about another round of ale to patch things up?” Blair asks. Not expecting an answer, she gets up to fetch some more honey-sweetened and cinnamon-spiced beer. A handful of moments later she returns, putting the three jugs on the table before she slides back onto the bench.

Aurora and Sofya seem to have finished eating, so she helps herself to the bone, sucking the meat off it before cracking it open.

“I remember it took three baths a day for a week to get the scent off her and out of that hut,” Aurora adds with a sigh, picking up the conversation after taking a hearty swallow of her ale.

“I was so proud. No one could smell me,” Blair retorts, still chewing.

“No, Blair. Because you were a moving pile of feces,” Aurora chides.

“Old gods help me, I still remember that dwarf walking past her on that market one day and muttering that she smelled like an arsewipe,” Sofya burst out, laughing so hard she barely gets the words out. Almost spitting her ale all over the table.

Blair joins in and both sit there, tears running down their cheeks from laughing so hard. When Blair almost slides off the bench, even Aurora can’t hold back her smile .

Blair tries to memorize their faces then. Every line and expression, frozen in smiles, their eyes glistening.

How long had it been since they laughed like this? Bantered like this? This is how she wants to remember them.

It might be the last time she sees them, and she wants to keep them in her heart.

Forever. Shining.

Because someone has to die, and it won’t be her mothers. She would make sure of that.

***

After Aurora and Sofya go to the room they rented upstairs—a simple thing with filthy sheets that stink of rancid, unwashed low folk and simple elves—Blair returns downstairs to give them, and herself, a moment of privacy.

She hasn’t spent this much time alone with Aurora and Sofya since she was a child. It felt good, in a way, to say goodbye like this. Although it breaks her heart. A heart she’s not supposed to have.

But since she made her decision, her mind feels clearer. She is more focused.

She steps out to look up into the night sky, sipping listlessly from some too-sweet, mulled wine, wondering whether the seer might have been purposely vague. About Caryan and Melody coming here. And when. Blair would give it another two days before she tried to get more information. Tried to find out whether something might have changed Caryan’s course of action. Went back to that scrawny seer and dragged her through the dirt until she gave her a better answer.

If Caryan still wants to go to the holy mountain Silas, the only path is right through Calianthe’s murderous forest. Blair hasn’t told her mothers, though—about Silas. She’s been vague about their mission, just mentioning that Caryan wants to find the relics and that they are somewhere around the Emerald Forest.

And if all that bullshit the seer’s brabbled about—about Blair’s fate being linked to Melody’s—is true, well then, something is supposed to happen. Soon.

Or Blair is going to make something happen, because she is fucking running out of time.

Perenilla wants an outcome, soon.

She takes another sip when her ears pick up some peddlers talk. One mentions having seen four people—no doubt elves clad in armor, one swears—stepping out of the magical curtain, coming from the lands of the two moons, and walking straight up to the Emerald Forest.

She turns her head to the two fauns with ram horns that curl down around their faces, and then walks upstairs, ignoring the lingering smell of sex and sweat. The two witches are already asleep, naked, entwined in one bed. Blair opens the drawer of an old, wooden desk and gently takes out a blank sheet of paper, then she heads back downstairs.

She finds one of the fauns still there, leaning against the wall of the inn when she returns. “Greetings. I was wondering—if you could write something for me?” She fumbles for some gold and pulls it out from a purse around her belt, holding it up between them.

The merchant understands. Blair can’t lie, but he can write something for her. The content doesn’t have to be true—it is one way to circumvent having to tell the truth.

“What do you need me to write?” he asks.

“ I went alone. Don’t come looking for me. It is the only way. If you’re reading this, I’m dead. I’m sorry. Thank you for everything. ”

The merchant takes out a feather and some ink and makes quick work of it.

He hands her the letter but holds on to the paper when she reaches for it. “I hope this is not true,” he says in an accent that tells her he’s been living in Akribea for a good while. Tells her that he must be old if he remembers the good life there.

“Why do you care?”

“You remind me of my daughter.”

“My horns?” Blair asks—she has none—and he huffs a laugh .

“No. The fierce determination in your eyes.”

He lets go of the paper at that. She hands the golden coins over to him, but he doesn’t take them.

“Keep it, girl. You need it more than I do.”

“You’re wrong. Where I’m going, I won’t need it anymore, old man,” she drawls. When he still doesn’t reach for the coins, she throws them in front of his hooves in the dirt and goes back inside, stepping up the creaky, old wooden steps.

She leaves the letter open on the wooden desk. Then she kneels in front of her still-sleeping mothers, takes out some silver moonstone dust she got from the blacksmith, places it in her open palm, and blows it into the witches’ faces.

A potion. It will make them sleep for two or three days straight. Blair plans to be long gone by then, in one way or the other.

She quietly sneaks down, paying the innkeeper three solid gold coins and telling him that her two companions got ill, and that she’s setting out to find a healer and some herbs, and that they should not be disturbed.

The tired-looking low elf only nods, and Blair ventures out. The merchant and the gold are gone into the night, and Blair walks down the road alone.