The Girl Who Drank the Moon (15 page)

The mountain rumbled. The volcano, she knew, was hiccupping in its sleep. This was normal for volcanoes, Luna knew—they are restless sleepers—and this restlessness was usually not a problem. Unless it was. The volcano seemed more restless than usual lately—getting worse by the day. Her grandmother told her not to worry about it, which just made Luna worry more.

“LUNA!” Glerk's voice echoed off the slope of the crater. It bounced off the sky. Luna shaded her eyes and looked down the slope. Glerk was alone. He waved three of his arms in greeting and Luna waved back.
Grandmama isn't with him,
she realized with a clench in her heart.
She couldn't possibly still be sleeping,
she thought, her worry tying knots in her stomach.
Not this late.
But even at this far distance, she could see a blur of anxiety swirling around Glerk's head like a cloud.

Luna headed back to her house at a run.

Xan was still in bed. Past noon. Sleeping like the dead. Luna woke her up, feeling tears stinging in her eyes.
Is she sick?
Luna wondered.

“My goodness, child,” Xan murmured. “Why on earth are you rousting me at this insane hour? Some of us are trying to sleep.” And Xan turned onto her side and went back to sleep.

She didn't get up for another hour. She assured Luna this was perfectly normal.

“Of course it is, Grandmama,” Luna said, not looking her grandmother in the eye. “Everything is perfectly normal.” And grandmother and granddaughter faced one another with thin, brittle smiles. Each lie they told fell from their lips and scattered on the ground, tinkling and glittering like broken glass.

L
ater that day, when her grandmother announced that she would like to be alone and left for the workshop, Luna pulled her journal from her satchel and paged through it, looking at the drawings she had done while she was dreaming. She always found she did her best work when she had no memory of what she had done. It was annoying, actually.

She had drawn a picture of a stone tower—one that she had drawn before—with high walls and an observatory pointing at the sky. She had drawn a paper bird flying out of the westernmost window. Another thing she had drawn before. She also had drawn a baby surrounded by ancient, gnarled trees. She had drawn the full moon, beaming promises to the earth.

And she had drawn a map. Two of them, actually. On two pages.

Luna flipped back and forth, stared at her handiwork.

Each map was intricate and detailed, showing topography and trails and hidden dangers. A geyser here. A mud pot there. A sinkhole that could swallow a herd of goats and still groan for more.

The first map was a precise rendering of the landscape and trails that led to the Free Cities. Luna could see each landform, each divot in the trail, each stream and clearing and waterfall. She could even see the downed trees from their recent journey.

The other map was another part of the forest altogether. The trail began at her tree house in one corner, and it followed the slope of the mountain as it tumbled toward the north.

Where she had never been.

She had drawn a trail—all twists and turns and clearly identified landmarks. Places to make camp. Which streams had good water, and which needed to be avoided.

There was a circle of trees. And in the center of it, she had written the word “baby.”

There was a town behind a high wall.

And in the town, a Tower.

And next to the Tower, the words, “She is here, she is here, she is here.”

Very slowly, Luna pulled the notebook close, and pressed these words next to her heart.

24.

In Which Antain Presents a Solution

Antain stood outside of his uncle's study for nearly an hour before working up the courage to knock. He took several deep breaths, mouthed paragraphs in front of his reflection in the pane of glass, attempted an argument with a spoon. He paced, he sweated, he swore under his breath. He mopped his brow with the cloth that Ethyne had embroidered—his name surrounded by a series of skillful knots. His wife was a magician with a needle and thread. He loved her so much, he thought he'd die of it.

“Hope,” she had told him, tracing the many scars on his face tenderly with her small, clever fingers, “is those first tiny buds that form at the very end of winter. How dry they look! How dead! And how cold they are in our fingers! But not for long. They grow big, then sticky, then swollen, and then the whole world is green.”

And it was with the image of his dear wife in his mind—her rosy cheeks, her hair as red as poppies, her belly swollen to bursting under the dress she had made herself—that he finally knocked on the door.

“Ah!” his uncle's voice boomed from inside. “The shuffler has decided to cease his shuffling and announce his presence.”

“I'm sorry, Uncle—” Antain stammered.

“ENOUGH WITH YOUR APOLOGIES, BOY,” roared Grand Elder Gherland. “Open the door and be done with it!”

The
boy
stung a bit. Antain had not been a boy for several years now. He was a successful artisan, a keen businessman, and a married man, devoted to his wife.
Boy
was a word that no longer fit.

He stumbled into the study and bowed low before his uncle, as he always did. When he stood, he could see his uncle look upon his face and flinch. This was nothing new. Antain's scars continued to shock people. He was used to it.

“Thank you for seeing me, Uncle,” he said.

“I don't believe I have a choice, Nephew,” Grand Elder Gherland said, rolling his eyes to avoid looking at the young man's face. “Family is family, after all.”

Antain suspected that this wasn't entirely true, but he didn't mention it.

“In any case—”

The Grand Elder stood. “In any case nothing, Nephew. I have waited at this desk for close to an eternity, anticipating your arrival, but now the time has come for me to meet with the Council. You do remember the Council, don't you?”

“Oh, yes, Uncle,” Antain said, his face suddenly bright. “That is the reason I am here. I wish to address the Council. As a former member. Right now, if I may.”

Grand Elder Gherland was taken quite aback. “You . . .” he stammered. “You wish to
what
?” Ordinary citizens did
not
address the Council. It wasn't
done
.

“If that's all right, Uncle.”

“I—” the Grand Elder began.

“I know it is a bit unorthodox, Uncle, and I do understand if it puts you in an uncomfortable position. It has been . . . ever so many years since I wore the robes. I would like, at long last, to address the Council and both explain myself and thank them for giving me a place at their table. I never did, and I feel that it is a thing I owe.”

This was a lie. Antain swallowed. And smiled.

His uncle seemed to soften. The Grand Elder steepled his fingers together and pressed them to his bulbous lips. He looked Antain square in the eye. “Tradition be damned,” he said. “The Council will be ever so pleased to see you.”

The Grand Elder rose and embraced his wayward nephew and, beaming, led him into the hall. As they approached the grand foyer of the house, a silent servant opened the door, and both uncle and nephew walked into the waning light.

And Antain felt that tiny, sticky bud of hope bloom suddenly in his chest.

T
he Council, as Gherland had predicted, seemed more than happy to see Antain, and used his presence to raise their glasses to his celebrated craftsmanship and fine business sense, as well as his prodigious luck to have wedded the kindest and cleverest girl in the Protectorate. They hadn't been invited to the wedding—and wouldn't have come if they had been—but the way they patted his back and rubbed his shoulders, they seemed like a chortling chaw of benevolent uncles. They couldn't be more proud, and they told him so.

“Good lad, good lad.” The Councilmen gurgled and grunted and guffawed. They passed around sweets, almost unheard-­of in the Protectorate. They poured wine and ale and feasted on cured meats and aged cheeses and crumbly cakes, heavy with butter and cream. Antain pocketed much of what he was given to present later to his beloved wife.

As servants began clearing away the platters and jugs and goblets, Antain cleared his throat. “Gentlemen,” he said, as the Council took their seats, “I have come here with an ulterior motive. Forgive me, please. Particularly you, Uncle. I have been, I admit, less than forthcoming in regard to my intentions.”

The room went colder and colder. The Council started giving Antain's scars, which until then they had pretended to ignore, a hard, almost disgusted, look. Antain steeled his courage and persevered. He thought of the baby growing and moving in his wife's swollen belly. He thought of the madwoman in the Tower. Who was to say that he, too, would not go mad, if forced to relinquish his baby—
his baby
—to the Robes? Who was to say that his beloved Ethyne would not? He could scarcely bear to be parted from her for an hour, but the madwoman had been locked in the Tower for years.
Years.
He would surely die.

“Pray,” the Grand Elder said, slitting his eyes like a snake, “continue, boy.”

Once again, attempting not to allow the
boy
to have its intended sting, Antain went on.

“As you know,” he said, trying his best to turn his guts and spine into the hardest and densest of wood. He had no need to destroy. He was here to build. “As you know, my beloved Ethyne is expecting a child—”

“Splendid,” the Elders said, brightening as one. “How very, very splendid.”

“And,” Antain continued, willing his voice not to shake, “our child is to arrive just after the turning of the year. There are no others expected between then and the Day of Sacrifice. Our child—our dear child—will be the youngest in the Protectorate.”

And the happy guffaws stopped suddenly, like a smothered flame. Two elders cleared their throats.

“Hard luck,” Elder Guinnot said in his thin, reedy voice.

“Indeed,” Antain agreed. “But it does not have to be. I believe I have found a way to stop this horror. I believe I know the way to end the tyranny of the Witch forever.”

Grand Elder Gherland's face darkened. “Do not trouble yourself with fantasies, boy,” he growled. “Surely you do not think—”

“I saw the Witch,” Antain said. He had been holding on to this information for ever so long. And now it was bursting inside of him.

“Impossible!” Gherland sputtered. The other Elders stared at the young man with unhinged jaws, like a council of snakes.

“Not at all. I saw her. I followed the procession. I know it wasn't allowed, and I am sorry for it. But I did it anyway. I followed and I waited with the sacrificial child, and
I saw the Witch
.”

“You saw nothing of the kind!” Gherland shouted, standing up. There was not a witch. There had never been a witch. The Elders all knew it. They all rose to their feet, accusation in their faces.

“I saw her waiting in the shadows. I saw her hover over the babe, clucking hungrily. I saw the glittering of her wicked eyes. She saw me and transformed herself into a bird. She cried out in pain as she did so.
She cried out in pain,
gentlemen.”

“Lunacy,” one of the Elders said. “This is lunacy.”

“It is not. The Witch exists. Of course she does. We've all known that. But what we did not know is that she is
aged
. She feels pain. And not only that, we know where she is.”

Antain pulled the madwoman's map from the mouth of his satchel. He laid it on the table, tracing a trail with his fingers.

“The forest, of course, is dangerous.” The Elders stared at the map, the color draining from their faces. Antain caught his uncle's eye and held it.

I see what you are doing, boy,
Gherland's gaze seemed to say.

Antain gazed back.
This is how I change the world, Uncle. Watch me.

Aloud, Antain said, “The Road is the most direct route across the forest, and certainly the safest, given its width and breadth and clarity. However, there are several other routes of safe passage, as well—albeit somewhat convoluted and tricky.”

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.”