Chapter 13
We reached the house of the Moon shortly before sunset. All day we’d ridden steadily upward, the verdant park of Genna’s lands fading into wilder territory as we climbed, oaks exchanged for mountain pine and birch trees arranged like marble pillars to line the road.
The Mountain’s shadow at dusk lay over a precisely circular crater lake. A thin waterfall sliced the Mountain’s conical side like a sash and fed the pool, where a palace was built on stone pilings that seemed to not just reflect but emit the fading daylight.
For the past half hour our path had been traced by small gray owls, the first birds I’d seen in the Summerlands besides Awi—little night spirits, who carried secrets to the Moon and inspiration to her poets and dreamers—but I was still surprised to find that our arrival had been anticipated.
In the center of the stone causeway that led to the palace stood a goddess with a hooded black robe nearly concealing her body and white face.
Lixnea had come to greet us herself.
Taran dismounted and helped me down, and Marit slowed his chariot to a halt as the Moon approached.
“What are you doing here?” The goddess’s voice was husky and not at all pleased to see us. She had the appearance of an ancient crone: thin, wrinkled skin draped over fine bones that hinted at former beauty, but her posture was confident and upright.
Marit blinked, taken aback, but Taran did not let his smile falter.
“Is that how the cult of the Moon greets her guests?”
“The last time you were here, I chased you out with a broom. This greeting is kinder than you deserve. Again—what are you doing here, Taran ab Genna?”
“I thought all were welcome to celebrate the darkest night here,” Taran countered. “And that the Moon would not turn away an envoy of the Peace-Queen or her old friend, the sea.”
Lixnea sighed and put her palms on her hips, considering the three of us.
After a moment, she approached Marit and cupped his face between her two wrinkled hands, turning it back and forth.
The sea god was startled but bore her inspection with good humor, batting stormy eyes at the old goddess as though attempting to project a lack of threat.
Maybe he’d looked different before Taran killed him.
“Don’t make innocent eyes at me, Marit,” Lixnea said with one lifted eyebrow. “We used to lure ships to their doom together, you know. I do welcome Marit Waverider to my home, even though it is small and fragile.”
His smile was guileless and pleased, but he immediately lost his focus when a splash below the causeway drew his attention away.
I hadn’t noticed them when we arrived, but there were shapes moving under the still water of the lake: water nymphs, watching the scene from below the surface.
Marit wandered to the lakeshore but carefully stopped before the water’s edge to see the immortals swim, hands folded behind his back.
“Will I regret inviting him in?” Lixnea asked Taran in a lower voice, watching the unsteady sea god.
“I’ll keep an eye on him,” Taran promised.
The Moon scoffed. “I did not invite you in yet. I didn’t think you were still running the Peace-Queen’s errands, Stoneborn.”
Taran blanked his face. “Would it matter if I were here on Genna’s behalf instead of my own? I’m equally delightful, either way.”
“I’m familiar with what you consider delightful,” Lixnea grumbled. “You strong-arm me into acceding to the Peace-Queen’s demands, then make off with my blessings, steal my treasures, and debauch my priestesses.”
Lixnea wasn’t watching Taran’s face as she delivered this judgment, but I was. A pained moment of surprise flitted across his features, quickly smoothed away.
How strange it had to be for him, to be informed of who he was. Did he really not know?
But Taran recovered and put his prettiest smile on.
“Forget Genna’s demands. What if I were just here to enjoy a lovely evening with a lovelier lady? Would you welcome me back?”
“Are you flirting with me now? I was the midwife at your birth.”
“It would be very unfair to forbid flirting with anyone older than me, as that’s everyone. But if you prefer, I could brood soulfully instead.”
I would have folded in Lixnea’s position, but she was made of stronger stuff than me.
“I meant it before, Taran ab Genna. You’ve worn out your welcome here.”
I jolted when Taran turned to put a hand on my lower back.
“I’d be on my best behavior. I have no need to debauch your priestesses, as I’ve brought my own along.”
“Your priestess?” Lixnea said, eyebrows climbing.
I tried to smile, but I probably made a face like I’d just bitten into an unripe persimmon. Lixnea looked me up and down, now studying me with a gaze that seemed to slip beneath my skin to peer at my mind and soul.
“Yours, I suppose, yes,” she said to Taran after a moment. “Very well. Come in. Don’t cause trouble, or I’ll do worse than the broom.”
There was a muffled cheer from beneath the causeway as the goddess relented and gestured for us all to follow her—the other immortals of Lixnea’s domain were either glad for the excitement of company regardless of the perils, or they hadn’t minded Taran’s debauchery on his previous visits.
“What did you do the last time you were here?” I whispered to Taran as we crossed the causeway.
He gave a small, stiff shrug. “If you find out, please let me know.” But he couldn’t have been that concerned about it, because he spread his arms and walked a few steps toward the water, and two immortals with long hair like corded glass climbed onto the shore and threw silver-blue arms around his neck with squeals of excitement.
I turned to Lixnea, because I did not want to see someone else stick her tongue into Taran’s mouth. She was staring out at the trees, eyes searching the branches until they landed on Awi, an incongruous songbird hanging back amid all the watchful owls.
“You can come in too. You’re always welcome here,” Lixnea called in a gentler voice, but Awi didn’t answer, disappearing alone into the darkening forest before everyone else was done kissing Taran hello.
When I once imagined what awaited the fortunate priests called to cross the Gates of Dawn and serve the gods in person, this was what I’d pictured.
As soon as it was fully dark, the Moon’s priests sang gentle lights into hundreds of dangling gilt lanterns that reflected like stars in the water surrounding the palace.
It came alive in the early evening with a rising murmur of voices and music from the residents of the palace and the lake below.
The white stone and pale wood of the palace subtly gleamed around us, archways draped with soft gray curtains and floors warmed by tufted carpets, a dream of luxury and ease.
On most nights, Lixnea rode her silver chariot across the skies to listen to the secret wishes of dreamers and inspire them in turn, but on moonless nights, she rested with her court and rejoiced in the dark evening’s beauty.
All the immortals sat at long, low tables flanked by couches and cushions, and their priests took turns sitting among them and attending to the dinner.
The Moon was the patron of the creative arts—poets, actors, musicians—so we were treated to their performances while dinner was served.
The atmosphere was celebratory as everyone moved smoothly through a service they knew well but still enjoyed after decades.
This was an eternity worth living in—if I’d been a little prettier or more talented at composition, perhaps I would have been taken in by the Moon’s cult instead of the Maiden’s.
I couldn’t regret giving my life to the sick or to the rebellion, but part of me did wish my future had ever looked like infinite nights of wine and poetry.
I could have wanted this, I thought with a wistful throb.
I was served a large river fish steamed whole in clay and plated with tender asparagus spears and tiny peas, which was easily one of the better things I’d ever eaten.
I bolted it down like I had every meal in the past few years before remembering that I’d once possessed the manners not to lick my knife clean.
“You should ask Lixnea’s priests to give you some tips,” Taran murmured into my ear. “For example, you’re supposed to be pouring my wine for me.”
He seemed to expect a smart rejoinder—I’ll ask if they can toss you in the lake while you sleep, Taran—but I’d actually been trying to think of a way to thank him, so I just sipped my own wine and kept my eyes on the stage.
Lixnea had kept the dinner conversation light, but she recognized and named each of her priests who came to the head of the table to bow and perform their most recent works in what seemed to be a deliberate example for Taran.
“Iona’s very talented on the kithara,” Taran told the Moon goddess after the next rotation. “Perhaps she’d be willing to take a turn later.”
Lixnea inclined her head, but Taran didn’t smile until I gravely nodded my agreement, and then it went straight to his eyes, making them sparkle like the lanterns that brought the stars inside. He topped off my wine, then leaned against the cushions with an arm propped behind my shoulders.
There had been an undercurrent of tension behind his frivolous attitude in the City, but here his happiness seemed genuine, if tempered by equally genuine concern for me. He’d never understand why this scene of beauty filled me with regret.
If this was what he’d wanted, he could have asked for it.
If he’d only appeared to us as Genna’s son and insisted that we continue to worship the gods through the war, we would have done it.
We thought the gods had abandoned us; we would have welcomed a little divine intervention.
If the price for freedom from Death’s rule had been an eternity of service, well, I would have given much more than this.
This wasn’t even hard. I would have poured his wine and sung for his guests and even pressed his damn clothes if that was what he’d wanted.