chapter three
PULLING OPEN THE HEAVY WOODEN door to Llyr’s workshop, I breathe in the familiar scent of leather and fire. Llyr is busy working on one of his blades, and his long white hair—tied with a leather strap at the nape of his neck—slides from side to side on his broad back as he works.
“Morning, La?na,” he says without turning around, never failing to recognize me.
Falling into the main stance of a property—hands clasped before me, gaze low—I wait for him to turn so I can greet him.
A moment later, he sets down the knife he was working on, turning his tall frame—still lean and muscular in spite of his age—toward me. “La?na, my dear,” he says with a wink. “Have you got another story for me?”
“Maybe . . .” I sign, and despite the nagging feeling in the pit of my stomach, the corners of my mouth lift beneath the veil.
After Em and I learned how to write, we started creating stories for each other with happy endings—hoping if we just wrote enough, it would one day come true for us as well.
I’ll never forget the sheer horror I felt realizing my latest story for Em had fallen out of my pocket during an errand to Llyr’s workshop, leaving it behind for him to find.
To my surprise, the old man loved it so much that I kept writing him stories even after Em and I had long stopped believing in fairy tales and happy endings for ourselves.
Those late nights whispering stories under our blankets feel like a lifetime ago.
Shrugging off the cold, I hang my felt cloak over a nearby stool for it to dry. Stepping closer to the forge, I allow its heat to thaw my frozen body.
Llyr gestures toward the cluttered kitchen at the back of the room.
“Help yourself to a cup of warm milk if you’d like.
” He glances out the window at the large, steady drizzle still falling from the sky.
“It’s supposed to be spring, but I swear it’s getting colder outside by the day,” he grumbles as he adds another log to the fire.
Grateful for something to occupy my hands, I scurry toward the small kitchen to prepare myself a cup.
Perching on the end of one of his two chairs, I let the warmth of the mug seep into my icy fingers, lifting my veil just enough to take a sip of the warm milk.
I set my cup down, balancing it on the worn armrest, praying it won’t spill. “You’ve been away.”
He nods but doesn’t elaborate.
I take another sip of the milk, cherishing the slight sweetness coating my tongue, while listening to the rhythmic rasp of the whetstone against steel as Llyr sharpens one of his blades. When he says no more, I decide I might as well tell him why I’m here.
“I have information to sell,” I sign once I have his attention.
His chin dips slightly. “I will see what I can do. What have you picked up this time? Affairs? Politics? I can assure you, Mrs. Almen was not pleased to discover her husband’s mistress.” He lets out a low chuckle.
I snort. He should have considered the consequences before having her on his lap all evening.
“It’s about the”—I spell out the strange word again—“m-o-o-n-b-o-r-n. Do you know—”
I startle as the knife and whetstone clatter to the floor, and my hands freeze mid-sentence.
“What I know is that to know of such things leads to certain death.” His voice is eerily calm.
Despite my better judgment, I lift my gaze to meet his. My stomach sinks. Llyr, whom I’ve never known to be anything other than stoic and calm, looks . . . shaken.
“The interesting question is, Why do you know anything about them at all?” There is an edge to his voice that has not been there before. “This is not information people discuss at social gatherings.”
Chewing my lip, I stare at the worn wooden floor, tracing its cracks in a futile attempt to avoid further attention.
“It is dangerous territory, La?na,” he warns when I don’t answer. “There is little use in earning enough iron to buy your freedom only to get yourself killed.”
My head snaps up. He knows?
“You thought I was not aware?” He scoffs. “Consider yourself lucky it’s me you’re asking. If anyone finds out, it will be you on the pyre next time.”
His solemn face makes my stomach churn. It’s one thing to hear the threat from Em—I’ve known her to exaggerate the smallest of things—but to have Llyr say it . . .
“But what are they?” I sign. Dangerous as it may be, I have so many questions, and I want—no, need—to know more. “Why are they called moonborn? What is a moon?”
Llyr shakes his head, his mouth a thin, tight line.
“And what about the tall shadow that follows the minister around?” I pause, trying to recall the sign Em used. “The . . . umbra?”
Llyr stares at me, his face draining of color with a terror that chills me to the bone, and just like Em, his gaze darts around as if to make sure there’s no one nearby.
He blinks, his expression now cut from stone.
Turning his back on me, he strides toward his workbench. His broad back blocks my view, but I hear a drawer opening and closing. Facing me once more, the rough wood of the bench creaks softly as he leans back.
“I will ask you one more time, La?na,” he says, piercing me with his green eyes.
“Where did you learn of such things?” His voice is tense, devoid of any semblance of his usual relaxed tone.
“Who told you? I need to know.” His voice has turned into a plea.
“I doubt it was at the Coperie house. Although people will talk about almost anything in front of a property, even that has its limits.” He wipes his forehead.
Is he sweating? “It’s obvious that this information holds great value .
. .” I sign. “So, if you don’t know of anyone who’ll pay for it, I am sure I can find someone who does.
” Eyes averted, I steel myself against his disapproval.
The brace may make it impossible for me to lie, but I can skirt the truth.
I startle as he sinks into the chair beside me—I didn't even hear him move. Leaning forward, he buries his face in his broad calloused hands. “Dear Mah, help me.”
His voice is a whisper, the words spoken so softly they are clearly not intended for me to hear. And although his desperate plea makes me wonder who this Mah is, I stay silent.
He removes his hands from his face, and his eyes seek mine. “If anyone hears about this . . .” He lets out a heavy sigh filled with resignation, and I wisely decide not to tell him that Emma already knows. The Father willing, she’ll keep her mouth shut.
“I’ll pay,” he says, his voice a mix of desperation and determination.
“You?” I frown. “You never pay me for information. You tell me who will pay the most for it, and . . .” My hands stop.
He's never offered to pay before—he’s always been the middleman, pointing me toward buyers.
Why would he suddenly want this for himself?
Unless . . . “It was never about who would pay the most, was it? It was who you thought should have it.” I glare at him.
Has he been using me to play his own game?
Not that it matters, as long as I earn enough iron to buy my freedom in the end.
“Relax, La?na.” He lifts his hands in surrender. “You can trust me. Now, why don’t you tell me the whole story?” He gives me an encouraging nod to get me started.
Determined not to let him trick me into saying anything before we have an agreement, I keep my hands still.
Llyr throws his head back, a low growl escaping his throat.
He sits back up. “Name your price.”
“Freedom,” I insist, although it’s a preposterous request.
He leans forward in his chair, resting his elbows on his knees. He doesn’t dismiss my request right away, and the silly little spark of hope that refuses to die flares up inside of me. I watch each rise and fall of his breath as he stares at his boots for a long time. Could it be . . . ?
He jerks back up so quickly I almost spill my milk. “Deal,” he says.
My heart skips. “You mean it?”
He nods. “Now tell me the entire story.” He leans back in his chair. “And for the sake of the gods, remove that veil and use your voice.” He waves toward my veil. “All this signing gives me a headache.”
I blink. Gods? I must have misheard. Then, realizing what he suggested, my cheeks heat.
“Oh, come on now, La?na. I have watched you since you were a toddler. I have heard your voice before. I’ve seen your face . . .” He lifts his bushy white eyebrows.
“But that was before I was property,” I sign. “It’s considered sacrilegious for someone to see the mouth of, or speak directly to—”
He cuts me off. “If you are to be a free person, start practicing.” Resting ankle on knee, he leans back in his chair. “Now, let’s start from the beginning, shall we?” He makes a gesture, signaling for me to pull my veil off.
I hesitate, fingers trembling as I remove the small piece of fabric, feeling vulnerable and exposed without its concealment.
“Satisfied?” A grimace crosses my face at the sound of my voice.
Llyr gives a curt nod, gesturing for me to go on.
As I recount the events, I feel a sense of liberation in finally getting to use my voice. Llyr appears to understand too; his silence is broken only by a look of genuine horror upon learning of my nighttime adventure. Otherwise, he stays silent.
“The minister said it wasn’t human,” I say as I wrap up my story. “That we were all better off without it.” I glance at him for confirmation, to no avail. His face is expressionless. “Was he not right to kill it?”
“No,” he says. “He was not.” His voice is clipped, the words punctuated by a sharp exhale.
He leans forward in his chair again, covering his face with his hands. Whatever I discovered, it does not sit well with him.
“The minister said it was a creature . . .”
His head snaps back up. “The minister does not know what he is talking about.”
I’ve rarely seen him this upset, if ever. No, not upset. Angry. His face may be calm, but there is rage burning in his eyes.
“May the Void devour him whole, that soulless son of a bitch,” he sneers, his voice dripping with contempt.