Dark Moon Defender (Twelve Houses) (39 page)

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Authors: Sharon Shinn

BOOK: Dark Moon Defender (Twelve Houses)
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He nodded with some semblance of graciousness. “You are kin. We are merely determining who wields the best sword. Shall we say the fight ends at first blood or at the killing thrust—that is not driven home, of course?”
 
 
Tayse was not going to be happy to learn that she had essentially goaded this intemperate young man into challenging her to a duel, and he would be even less happy when she told him she would not be able to explain why. But he wouldn’t be afraid for her. He would stand on the sidelines and watch her, silent, unalarmed, knowing full well that she could defend herself. Afterward, win or lose, he would calmly tell her what she had done wrong, where she needed to improve her technique, what moves she might try next time she found herself facing a similar opponent.
 
 
She was not entirely certain she would be able to defeat Torrin, but she absolutely had to discover if she could.
 
 
“Oh, let us fight to the pretend death,” she said to him now, smiling. “I think neither of us will be satisfied with anything less.”
 
 
CHAPTER 18
 
 
ONCE she was back at Lumanen, Ellynor found it almost impossible to breathe.
 
 
Partly because, after the open streets of Neft, the high, walled compound seemed too small, too closed in, too inescapable. The forest pressed in too hungrily, and even though most of the trees had lost their leaves by now, their thick, tangled branches were too dense to allow enough air to sift through to the convent.
 
 
Partly because there was not enough room in her chest for breath. Everything else was crowded out by fear.
 
 
How could she have done it? How could she have kissed Justin there in the streets of Neft—not just once, an accident, a momentary spell of lunacy—but a second night? For hours? Her body pressed against his, delighting in his shape and bulk, her bones already memorizing the specific size and weight of his hands against her back. Her mind a dizzy, incoherent whirl. Her heart a skipping child, overcome with laughter.
 
 
Great Mother, she had allowed him to think he could love her, and now he could die.
 
 
She had not been able to keep away, that second night. Had not been able to make herself lie motionless in bed, listening to Astira and Lia quietly breathing, knowing that Justin waited for her outside by the gate.
Don’t go don’t go don’t go don’t go,
she had told herself, over and over again, and yet there she was. Rising to her feet. Slipping on her shoes. Creeping from the room, down the stairs, past the guard.
 
 
Out into the chill, enchanted night.
 
 
She could never see him again. She had to cut the connection now, avoid him for the rest of her life. He could not fall in love with her, not now, not truly. He could not believe he had a chance to win her. He would not understand when she tried to explain— he would laugh—he would claim he was good enough, fast enough, cruel enough, to best her brother in a duel. But no one had ever beaten Torrin. And instead of kissing her in the dark, Justin would be lying dead at Ellynor’s feet.
 
 
Or standing over Torrin’s lifeless body, a bloody sword in his hand. Ellynor could not bring herself to decide which was worse. She only knew that both outcomes were unendurable.
 
 
How could she have let things go so far? How could she have been so stupid, so selfish, so reckless, so abandoned? How could it matter what
she
wanted? Weighed against the possibility of Justin’s death, her desire for him was a light thing, paltry, unimportant.
 
 
But, oh, sweet Mother, if he was standing before her now, she would want to kiss him again.
 
 
This was why women were not allowed to roam the world without supervision. Because when they did, they made terrible mistakes. Because they had no judgment. Because they were incapable of choosing wisely when it came to love.
 
 
Well. She was back in the convent now. Safe behind those white walls, that let in no air and very little light. Justin could not come to her here. She just had to make sure she never left again.
 
 
 
 
THE first week back passed in something of a blur. The other novices were whispering, half excited and half afraid, because the Lestra’s fierce brother had returned to the convent, his wife and about twenty soldiers in tow, but Ellynor couldn’t bring herself to care. It was not like she ever saw them, anyway. The Gisseltess soldiers kept mostly to the barracks, while the marlord and his wife rarely strayed from the suite of rooms reserved for the Lestra’s most exalted guests. And Ellynor had plenty of other more important things to think about. Whether she was working in the kitchen, singing in the nightly rituals as the moon swelled back to full, or simply walking the grounds, trying to breathe, she spent her time thinking. About what she should do next.
 
 
She and Rosurie had been here more than a year now. How long did their families intend them to stay? Even though it was clear that the Lestra expected them to reside here for the rest of their lives, she was sure her father had a different idea. When would he come for her? Was there any way to get a message to him?
 
 
Would Rosurie be willing to go?
 
 
Despite her own preoccupations, it had not escaped Ellynor’s attention that Rosurie had been very quiet lately. When Ellynor had returned to the room they shared, Rosurie had greeted her listlessly and failed to supply any gossip about events that had transpired during her absence. Over the next few days, her normally vivacious cousin had been almost taciturn, clearly lost in thought. Rosurie had never been one to keep her own counsel for long, so Ellynor bided her time, certain that the other girl would confide in her soon. But as the week slipped by, her cousin became even quieter.
 
 
“Is Rosurie sick?” Astira whispered to Ellynor at dinner one night. “She’s hardly said a word all day.”
 
 
“I’ve been wondering that myself,” Ellynor whispered back. “I’ll see if I can get her to talk to me tonight.”
 
 
But first there was the meal to get through, and then the singing. With the moon about three-quarters full, most of them were needed to stand in the courtyard, gathered in the shape of a not-quite-circle, their white robes shimmering with starlight, their voices ethereally high.
 
 
Almost, in the dark, in the cold, her chilled heart warmed by the Black Mother’s presence, Ellynor could breathe.
 
 
Then she remembered everything, and her throat closed up, and for a moment she could not sing.
 
 
For once, she was happy to go inside and up to her room. Rosurie was already in bed, sitting with her back against the wall. She had lit the candle in the window, but the rest of the room was in darkness.
 
 
Moving quietly, Ellynor readied herself for bed and then slipped under her own covers. The single candle was just bright enough to see by; it was like trying to view a landscape by the light of a high full moon. Rosurie was still upright, apparently staring at the opposite wall. Her hands were two small fists laid in her lap.
 
 
Ellynor lay on the mattress, facing the other bed. “Rosurie,” she said in a soft voice. “You’ve been so quiet the past few days. I’m worried about you. Is something wrong?”
 
 
For a moment Rosurie didn’t answer. “I’m just—I’m thinking,” she said tightly.
 
 
“About what?” No answer. “Are you worried about family back home? I got a letter today. You can read it.”
 
 
“No. I mean, yes, of course I’ll read it. But no, I’m not worried.”
 
 
“I’ve been a little homesick lately. Have you?” Ellynor continued, still in that soft voice, inviting confidences. As she talked to sick children in the infirmary, or old women on their deathbeds. “Getting a letter from my mother made me miss them all even more.”
 
 
“I don’t miss them,” Rosurie said in a jerky voice.
 
 
Ellynor shifted on her bed. “
Really?
The harvest feast is already past, and the midwinter feast isn’t that far away. I was thinking about the salt bread and the sweet fried cake—I was thinking about winter ale made with the first snow—”
 
 
“We have plenty to eat here at the convent.”
 
 
“Well, of course we do,” Ellynor said a little blankly. “It’s just that it’s been so long since we had holiday fare—we were gone last winter, too. I miss the customs. I think I took them for granted all those years, and now I wish I was back with the
sebahta
for midwinter.”
 
 
“That’s the problem,” Rosurie said, and her voice held a low note of intensity. “With you—with Astira and Lia—with so many of the girls. We miss our old lives. We want to be back with our families. We don’t know—we don’t realize—we don’t give enough to our new life.” She took a deep breath. “We don’t offer enough to the goddess.”
 
 
Sweet Mother of the midnight skies. “We sing her praises under the moon,” Ellynor said calmly. “We light a candle in every window. We pray six times a day. We wear her moonstones everywhere we go, and pass them out to strangers who want to learn to love her.”
 
 
Rosurie made a sudden sharp gesture. “Those are—those are acts we perform. Duties we observe. Ways to carry out her will. They are important, yes, but they have no deep meaning. They are not
sacrifices
.”
 
 
“Sacrifices?” Ellynor repeated doubtfully.
 
 
Rosurie turned to her, suddenly eager. “Yes! An act of great and personal significance done to honor the Silver Lady. To prove how much we love her.”
 
 
“What kind of act?”
 
 
Rosurie kneaded her hands together. “Something difficult. If it is hard to do, the Pale Mother knows how important it is.”
 
 
“Yes, but—”
 
 
“Shavell cut her arms and legs with a crystal dagger. Did you know that?” When Ellynor shook her head mutely, Rosurie plunged on. “She did. Three years ago. She stood under the half moon after the ritual was sung and dug great wounds all over her body. Then she stayed there, all night, bleeding, her hands raised to the goddess. When they found her the next morning, she was so faint she could not walk under her own power, and so cold they thought she would die by noon. But
she
knew she would not.
She
knew the Pale Mother would keep her safe, because Shavell had sacrificed her body to the goddess. She became a Split Moon Daughter. She bears the scars still—see if you can’t get a glimpse of them sometime. Mostly her robes cover them, though.”
 
 
“Well—Shavell is very devout. All the dedicants are. I hope you’re not thinking of—”
 
 
“It would have to be something different,” Rosurie said, a note of brooding in her voice. “Something unique to me. Darris gave the Lestra her gold—and there was a lot of it, apparently. She comes from a merchant family and she was the only one to inherit her father’s wealth. And she gave it all up to the goddess. But I don’t have any money.”
 
 
Ellynor was trying hard to throttle her alarm, but it galloped around inside her constricted chest like a panicked pony. Rosurie had always been such a passionate girl; why had Ellynor not foreseen this? The Silver Lady loved a fanatic. “I’m sure if you pray hard and give it a lot of thought, something will come to you,” she said, trying to speak soothingly. “But I don’t think that the Silver Lady or the Lestra requires that—”
 
 
“No, of course they don’t
require
it,” Rosurie said. “That’s why it’s so powerful. It’s done of your own free will. You give of yourself to the goddess.”
 
 
“I can see giving money, but blood? Does she really appreciate a gift so extreme?”
 
 
Rosurie was brooding again. “They say that Nadia denounced her little brother as a mystic,” she said in a quiet voice. “That was
her
gift to the goddess. And she had loved her brother very much.”
 
 
Ellynor felt sick. “What happened to Nadia’s brother?”

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