She laughed, holding her hands out to her sides. She was naked as the moon. “What do I have that I can leave with you? But if it is mine to give, ask and I will give it.”
Jax found his mouth was dry. “First I would ask for a touch of your hand.”
“One hand clasps another, and I grant you your request.” She reached out to him, her hand smooth and strong. At first it seemed cool, then marvelously warm. Gooseflesh ran all up and down Jax’s arms.
“Second, I would beg a kiss,” he said.
“One mouth tastes another, and I grant you your request.” She leaned in close to him. Her breath was sweet, her lips firm as fruit. The kiss pulled the breath out of Jax, and for the first time in his life, his mouth curved into the beginning of a smile.
“And what is the third thing?” the moon asked. Her eyes were dark and wise, her smile was full and knowing.
“Your name,” Jax breathed. “That I might call you by it.”
“One body . . .” the moon began, stepping forward eagerly. Then she paused. “Only my name?” she asked, sliding her hand around his waist.
Jax nodded.
She leaned close and spoke warmly against his ear, “
And Jax brought out the black iron box, closing the lid and catching her name inside.
“Now I have your name,” he said firmly. “So I have mastery over you. And I say you must stay with me forever, so I can be happy.”
And so it was. The box was no longer cold in his hand. It was warm, and inside he could feel her name, fluttering like a moth against a windowpane.
Perhaps Jax had been too slow in closing the box. Perhaps he fumbled with the clasp. Or perhaps he was simply unlucky in all things. But in the end he only managed to catch a piece of the moon’s name, not the thing entire.
So Jax could keep her for a while, but she always slips away from him. Out from his broken mansion, back to our world. But still, he has a piece of her name, and so she always must return.
Hespe looked around at us, smiling. “And that is why the moon is always changing. And that is where Jax keeps her when she is not in our sky. He caught her and he keeps her still. But whether or not he is happy is only for him to know.”
There was a long moment of silence.
“That,” Dedan said, “is one hell of a story.”
Hespe looked down, and though the firelight made it difficult to tell, I would have bet a penny she was blushing. Hard Hespe, who I wouldn’t have guessed had a drop of blushing in her. “It took me a long time to remember all of it,” she said, “My mother used to tell it to me when I was a little girl. Every night, always the same. Said she learned it from her mother.”
“Well you’ll need to make sure you tell your daughters, too,” Dedan said. “A story like that is too good to let fall by the roadside.”
Hespe smiled.
Unfortunately, that peaceful evening was like the lull that comes in the center of a storm. The next day Hespe made a comment that sent Dedan off in a huff, and for two hours they could barely look at each other without hissing like angry cats.
Dedan tried to convince everyone we should give up our search and instead sign up as caravan guards, hoping the bandits would attack us. Marten said that made as much sense as trying to find a bear trap by putting your foot in it. Marten was right, but that didn’t keep Dedan and the tracker from snapping at each other over the next couple days.
Two days later, Hespe gave a surprisingly girlish shriek of alarm while bathing. We ran to her assistance, expecting bandits, and instead found Tempi naked, knee-deep in the stream. Hespe stood half-dressed and dripping wet on the shore. Marten thought it was hilarious. Hespe did not. And the only thing that kept Dedan from flying into a rage and attacking Tempi was the fact that he couldn’t figure out how to attack a naked man without looking in his direction or actually touching him.
The day after that, the weather grew foggy and damp, souring everyone’s mood and slowing our search even further.
Then it began to rain.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-NINE
Losing the Light
The last four days had been endlessly overcast and raining. At first the trees had given us some shelter, but we soon discovered that the leaves overhead merely held the rain, and the slightest stir of wind sent down showers of heavy drops that had been gathering for hours. This meant that whether or not it was currently raining, we were constantly dripped upon and damp.
Stories after supper had stopped. Marten caught a cold, and as it worsened he grew sullen and sarcastic. And two days ago the bread had gotten wet. This might sound like a small thing, but if you’ve ever tried to eat a piece of wet bread after a day of walking in the rain, you know what sort of mood it puts you in.
Dedan had grown truly unmanageable. He balked and complained at the simplest of tasks. The last time he had gone into town for supplies, he had bought a bottle of dreg instead of potatoes, butter, and bowstrings. Hespe left him behind at Crosson and he didn’t get back to camp until nearly midnight, stinking drunk and singing loud enough to make the dead cover their ears.
I didn’t bother telling him off. Sharp as my trouper’s tongue was, he was obviously immune to it. Instead I waited until he passed out, poured the remaining dreg on the fire, and left the bottle sitting in the coals for him to see. After that, he stopped his constant derogatory muttering about me and settled into chilly silence. While the quiet was nice, I knew it was a bad sign.
Given everyone’s rising temper, I’d decided each of us would search for trail sign on our own. This was partly because walking in someone’s footsteps over wet turf was a sure way to tear up the ground and leave a trail. But the other reason is that I knew if I sent Dedan and Hespe out together, their eventual argument would alert any bandit within ten miles.
I came back to camp dripping wet and miserable. It turns out the boots I’d bought in Severen didn’t have a lick of waterproofing, so they drank rainwater like sponges. In the evening I could dry them out using the heat of the fire and a little careful sympathy. But as soon as I took three steps they were soaked through again. So on top of everything my feet had been cold and damp for days.
It was our twenty-ninth day in the Eld, and when I came over the tiny ridge that hid our latest camp, I saw Dedan and Hespe sitting on opposite sides of the fire, ignoring each other. Hespe was oiling her sword. Dedan was idly jabbing the ground in front of him with a pointed stick.
I wasn’t in much mood for conversation myself. Hoping the silence held, I went wordlessly to the fire.
Except there was no fire.
“What happened to the fire?” I asked stupidly. What had happened was rather obvious. It had been left to burn down to charred sticks and damp ashes.
“It’s not my turn to get wood,” Hespe said pointedly.
Dedan poked at the dirt with his stick. I noticed the beginnings of a bruise high on his cheek.
All I wanted in the world was a little something hot to eat and ten minutes with dry feet. It wouldn’t make me happy, but it would bring me closer to happy than I’d been all day. “I’m surprised the two of you can piss without help,” I spat.
Dedan glared up at me. “Just what do you mean by that?”
“When Alveron asked me to do this job for him, he implied I would have adults helping me, not a handful of
