Moontide

that made her shiver.

It was particularly frightening the second night of the second storm, when the wind and waves were crashing against the rocks below with such force that the stones of the keep groaned, and there was enough lightning they hardly needed lanterns. Chess was one game she had not mastered, so she couldn’t really tell what was happening on the board, but her father was grinding his teeth in frustration, and Massid’s eyes had that satisfied glitter as he toyed with his goblet. And then, all in an instant, her father’s face went from angry desperation to utter triumph. He swooped down on the board and moved a piece, slamming it down in front of Massid’s king. “Check and mate!” he shouted.

And for a moment, Massid’s face went black with rage.

Now, that was a phrase that Moira had often heard before, but she had never actually seen it happen, and had often thought it a picturesque fabrication.

Now she knew better.

It wasn’t that his face physically darkened—it was that his whole demeanor changed, and his expression for that instant was so suffused with the bitterest of hatred that it seemed to go black.

It only lasted a moment; it was gone so quickly that if she hadn’t felt that shaken by what she had seen, she might have doubted the expression was there at all. But she had seen it, and it was there, and she knew that if, in that instant, Massid could have gotten away with it, he would have killed her father, and possibly everyone else who had witnessed his defeat.

But by the time her father looked up, Massid was wearing an expression of rueful amusement. “I did not see that coming, my lord,” he said graciously. “A most unorthodox move. I congratulate you.”

Her father was not a gracious winner, but at least he didn’t gloat too long. Massid’s mask slipped a trifle, but he managed to maintain it long enough to excuse himself and retire for the night.

Moira went to bed feeling her insides quivering. If there was such a thing as a spirit of pure ruthlessness—too impersonal to be evil—that spirit dwelled within the Prince of Jendara.

And woe betide whoever crossed him in something he really wanted.

She had seen the face of the enemy. It frightened her in a way she had not expected to be frightened. It was one thing to face the possibility of having to deal with a forced marriage. It was another thing entirely to see what she had seen behind the pleasant mask.

The thought kept her in a restless half sleep that night, and she woke early to the sound that told her another storm was on the way. Her mind was preternaturally clear, and the first thing that came to her was that this storm would probably arrive on or about Midwinter Moon—the longest night of the year, and the highest tide until Midsummer Moon.

Not a good time to be having a winter storm as well. Any ships out at sea on that night would be better off well away from the coast.

In fact, if the waters surged in too high, parts of the keep would have to be temporarily abandoned. That hadn’t happened in decades. Certainly not while Moira had been alive.

But the keep had probably weathered a hundred such storms, and would weather a hundred more. Whatever was in the lowest levels would be taken elsewhere; probably not much, actually, or at least, nothing much worth saving. They’d been dug as hiding places and escape routes, and there was always sea water getting in….

Well, when the storm came, they’d be flooded.

Two days, she thought, listening to the waves outside. Three at the most.

Part of her was still exhausted from the restless night, but the rest of her could not lie still a moment more.

She rose from her bed and dressed herself before Anatha could arrive. There was a tension in the air today, or at least, it felt that way to her.

And yet, when she ascended to the Great Hall, no one else seemed aware of it.

Everyone could read the signs of the impending storm, however, and it didn’t take a sage to figure out that a storm combined with Midwinter Moon meant trouble. Small boats needed to not only be pulled into the sea caves, but winched up above the highest high-water mark. Large boats were manned with skeleton crews and sailed to the nearest safe harbor. The flotsam and jetsam that had collected since the last bad storm down in the lower keep levels was dragged out and sorted through, with anything deemed worth keeping packed properly away, and what was left over taken off to the rubbish pile for the next high tide to wash away farther down the coastline. The sea doors were checked and reinforced, supplies hauled down from storage places above, the heaviest of shutters locked in place over the most vulnerable windows.

With all this activity, Moira did not dare to slip away to the timber room to practice. With every able-bodied person scurrying on or about the keep making preparations, the cook was not bothering to lay out regular meals. Food was left in the Great Hall for people to snatch in passing.

This left her with nothing to do, staying in the Keep Lady’s rooms in order to remain out of the way. Even Anatha was busy somewhere….

She tried to sit at her embroidery, and could not manage to set more than a stitch or two. At length, she rose and began pacing back and forth in front of the window. She had measured the space in steps at least twenty times, when a light tap made her jerk her head toward the door like a startled deer.

“I have been told, in no uncertain terms, that I am in the way, my lady,” said Kedric, pushing the door open with one hand, the other clasping the neck of his lute.

“As am I,” she admitted. “I am too much the lady to be permitted to work with my hands, and not enough of one, it seems, to be allowed to direct the work.”

“Then we should obey Lord Ferson’s directive and stay out from underfoot,” Kedric replied lightly, and shut the door behind him.

His expression went from moderately amused to dead sober, all in an instant.

“Lady Moira, is there anyone among your father’s people who is a magician or a wizard?” he asked urgently.

She started but covered it swiftly. “Why do you ask?” she replied cautiously, wondering if he had some way of detecting the spell on her bracelet and the little message capsules.

“Because I have several times been to the old nursery at night, during calm times and during storm,” he replied. “And during calm nights, when someone walking guard or otherwise outside the keep might take notice, the light from the beacon is where it should be. But on nights of storm, it again comes from the wrong place. If the cause was some freakish reflection, it would not behave in such a manner, and the only way I know of to make such a thing happen is by—” he hesitated “—by magic.”

Should she trust him? That was a good question, and she too hesitated before she answered. She still did not know who he served.

“Lady Moira,” he said, as if reading her thoughts. “You must trust me. I have had word from the King and his cousin concerning you. The Countess Vrenable has identified you as one of her Grey Ladies. I serve the King in a similar capacity. The Countess was not aware of my presence here until after you had left Viridian Manor, or perhaps she would not have been so ready to send you here.” He grimaced. “I know that you have been sending the Countess information using the doves at the top of the cliff. I also know that you have no means of getting information back in return, except by some visitor, and your father has arranged for the road to Highclere to be closed since your arrival.”

She eyed him dubiously. “Then how are you getting word from my mistress and the King?” she demanded.

He laughed mirthlessly, and shrugged his good shoulder. “My lady, I am the king’s wizard. Or one of them, anyway. I am an alchemyst. See here—” He pushed up his sleeve, and tattooed around his wrist was the image of the Serpent of Wisdom, the great snake that eats its own tail, the symbol of the alchemysts. It was the same side of his body as his hunched shoulder, and she wondered—had he always been so crippled, or had that deformity been inflicted upon him in the service of magic? “When I think it safe, I speak to my own master, who also serves the King, in the fire. But since you showed me the moving beacon, I have been extremely careful, because anyone who suspects that I am an alchemyst will know I can do this. If there is another magician about, he will have the