Mistress of the Night Page 2

  With every shake, the wolf’s russet pelt grew shorter, except at its head where a mane of red hair billowed free. Canine features flattened and smoothed as limbs grew long—and human. The change took only moments.

  Feena rose up on two feet, naked except for the chain she wore. Out of reflex, she put a hand to her throat checking to see that the medallion hanging from the chain had survived her journey. It had, of course. Battered and scratched, the disk of silver that bore Selûne’s symbol of bright eyes and seven stars seemed able to survive anything even a werewolf could throw at it.

  She hoped it would survive what she was going to face in Yhaunn.

  “It’s been a busy month, High Moonmistress,” she said, rehearsing the excuse one more time as she reached for her bundle. “I couldn’t come any sooner. Two of the village women were pregnant, then one had a difficult birth and the baby was sickly—I had to watch over him, Mother Dhauna.”

  The strap around the bundle had slipped tight. She picked at it in frustration until it opened and her clothes spilled out onto the ground: light sandals, a simple blue skirt of homespun wool, and a blouse of linen dyed yellow with yarrow. Feena shook the dirt out of the skirt and pulled it on.

  “What was wrong with him? A twisted leg, Mother Dhauna—and jaundiced, too, the poor little thing!” She bit a corner of her lip as she cinched the drawstring of the skirt tight around her waist. Was the excuse too much? “Maybe just the twisted leg,” she muttered.

  “There’s nothing twisted about your legs, missus, not from where I’m standing!”

  Feena snatched up her blouse and spun around. At the edge of the clearing, two men emerged from the trees. One carried a short sword, the other a heavy club. Neither looked particularly honest. Both wore unpleasant leers.

  “See, Stag, I told you I heard a jingling like silver! I’m never wrong about that!” said the man with the club.

  He pointed his weapon at her—specifically at her chain and medallion. Feena twitched her blouse up to cover both the medallion and herself.

  “Oh, now don’t do that, missus,” Stag said as he slid forward. The other man circled to her far side. “Drik and I were just enjoying the scenery. Pretty clearing this, isn’t it? Favorite stop for travelers. Not sure why you’d want to take your clothes off, but I’m not complaining.”

  Feena cursed herself. The bandits had come from downwind—she’d missed their scent entirely—and she’d been too caught up in practicing her excuses to notice their approach.

  “Stay back,” she warned them, taking a step back herself to keep both men in view.

  Stag chuckled, “Don’t be frightened, red bird. We’ll take what we want and if you behave yourself, you won’t get—”

  Feena’s toes found the straps of one of her sandals. With a snap of her leg, she sent her footwear flashing at Stag’s face. The bandit’s sword swooped to swat it aside, but Feena was already spinning around, shifting her balance and driving her other foot hard into Drik’s belly. His breath whooshed out of him and he staggered back, doubled over. Feena stepped clear, thrust her arms into the sleeves of her blouse, and jerked it on.

  “—hurt?” she asked Stag. “Is that what you were trying to say?”

  The swordsman growled, a pitiful sound, and charged at her. Feena met his charge with a rush of her own, throwing herself down at the last moment to knock his legs out from under him. Stag fell flat on his face and went skidding along the ground. Feena rose to confront Drik. The bandit looked pained, but he was upright again. He swung his club at her.

  Feena ducked under his swing and grabbed his opposite shoulder, twisting him around with the force of his own blow. His arm came around again and she plucked the club out of his hand and drove it sharply into his already tender belly. When he doubled over, she brought it down hard against the back of his head. Drik sprawled bonelessly across the ground.

  “Nice moves, missus,” Stag said. He was back on his feet, his face streaked comically with dirt and grass stains. His sword, however, was held low and menacing. “Got any more?”

  “Yes,” said Feena. The fingers of her left hand touched her medallion while the fingers of her right stabbed at Stag. “Bright Lady of Night, stay his hand!”

  Like moonlight itself, the cool power of Selûne flooded through her, drawn by her faith and shaped by her prayer. Feena felt rather than saw the magic that reached out and wrapped around the bandit—freezing him in place. Feena walked up to him and stared into his startled eyes. She hefted Drik’s club. Stag’s eyes turned frightened and pleading. Feena shrugged.

  “It is a pretty clearing, isn’t it?” she said.

  She slammed the club into Stag’s head. Stag went down to join Drik in the dirt. Feena looked down at the bandit, then kicked his unconscious form.

  “Don’t you have any—” she spat, delivering another kick—“respect—”

  A third kick.

  “—for the clergy?”

  Feena snatched up his sword and hurled both it and Drik’s club away into the bushes, then found her sandals and pulled them on. She pushed a stray lock of hair out of her face and turned back toward the road and Yhaunn.

  “Moonmaiden’s grace,” she cursed, “I hate the city!”

  Yhaunn had begun life centuries ago as a cluster of crude cabins caught between the quarry where workers hewed out great slabs of granite and the docks where they shipped them out to cities around the Sea of Fallen Stars. Many great buildings in Selgaunt, Saerloon, Westgate, and Alaghôn—even far off Cimbar in Chessenta and Velprintalar in Aglarond—had been built with Yhauntan stone. By the time the quarry was played out, Yhaunn had become a city in its own right. Its buildings had spilled out of the narrow strip along the bay and right into the old quarry itself, with the city’s wealthier citizens building higher and higher onto the quarry walls until habitations filled the rocky basin.

  In the gathering night, Yhaunn was filled with shadows. Feena stood at the city gates high atop the old quarry cliffs and stared down at the tightly-crowded bowl of the city. Selûne had risen and her silver light fell over Feena’s shoulders, illuminating the streets of Yhaunn but casting darkness between the buildings. Feena’s hand reached for her medallion, but she stopped it and lifted her chin. It’s no different than a forest at night, she told herself. A big stone forest.

  With no trees and a lot of people. She swallowed.

  “Never been to the city before, countrywife?” laughed one of the guards at the gate. “Best keep a tight hand on your purse!”

  Feena glared at him and started down into the city.

  Even among all the buildings, Moonshadow Hall stood out, both from the heights of the city and from street level. The temple of Selûne was a big, round structure that shimmered pale gray in the moonlight, a counterpoint to the full moon rising into the sky. Depicted in tall relief on the temple’s walls were Selûne’s seven Shards, the goddess’ winged servants and warriors. Together with sculpted owls, the Shards stood guard over the many gates that stood along the temple’s outer walls. Only one of the outer gates was real, though. The rest were merely symbols of the true gates that represented the phases of the moon around Moonshadow Hall’s sacred inner courtyard.

  Feena strode up to the main entry gate and the acolyte who stood guard at it. She couldn’t have been more than fourteen years old and the blue and silver robes that she wore fit her awkwardly. A mace, its head etched with a crescent moon, hung from a belt around her thin hips. Feena wondered if she could actually use it. As she approached, the girl glanced at her idly, looked away, then looked back as she realized that the woman in homespun and linen wore the same symbol she did.

  “Welcome to Moonshadow Hall, sister,” the girl said in greeting. She sounded as if she didn’t quite know what to make of the rough woman in front of her, but Feena had to admit that even so she managed to force a pleasant, welcoming note into her voice. “Is this your first visit to the hall?”

  Feena couldn’t suppress a slight twitch.
“No,” she said,

  “it isn’t. But—”

  “Feena?” called a voice from within the gate. “Feena, is that you? By Our Silver Lady, I knew you couldn’t stay away from me forever!”

  A man came bounding out of the temple, a pale blue half-cape flowing behind him, and swept her up in his arms. Feena forced herself to smile and accept his embrace, but she gripped his arms the instant she felt his hands slide toward her bottom.

  She pressed her cheek to his and whispered in his ear, “I wouldn’t like to thump you in front of the girl, Mifano.”

  Mifano kissed her cheek and laughed, his hands moving back to a more brotherly position. His breath smelled of cloves and cinnamon.

  “Ah, Feena, silver flame of the immortal moon—how my heart has missed the blunt impact of your wit.” He turned to the acolyte and said, “Jhezzail, this is Feena. We trained together here when we were younger than you.”

  Feena saw the acolytes’ eyes widen at the introduction, but once again it seemed that the girl managed to hold her composure. She bent slightly and dipped her head.

  “Elder sister,” she murmured formally.

  “Younger sister,” replied Feena, bowing her head in return. As Mifano took her arm and escorted her through the gate, she muttered, “I see my reputation is intact.”

  “You were a … unique novice, Feena. Not many clergy of Selûne are blessed the way that you are.”

  “Not many would consider being a werewolf a blessing,” Feena snorted, “even among Selûne’s clergy. Remember, my mother sent me here to learn how to control that ‘gift’ as much as to be initiated into Selûne’s mysteries.”

  “Not that you needed much initiation, as I recall.”

  “My mother taught me well.”

  Mifano fell silent for a moment, then said quietly, “We were all sorry to hear about your mother’s death. In spite of her choices, she was an example to us all.”

  Feena looked at him out of the corner of her eye. Though he was no older than her own almost thirty years, when he chose to be serious Mifano seemed to age into sudden maturity. Maybe it was because he always played the role of the flirt that he usually seemed younger. Maybe it was because his prematurely silver hair that some claimed was a mark of Selûne’s favor lent him a strange sense of agelessness. Either way, she could in that moment see how the man she remembered as a clownish adolescent could have risen to prominence as a priest.

  “Thank you,” she said. She let the awkward silence drift for a heartbeat longer, then cleared her throat and added, “I hear that you’ve been making a reputation for yourself as well.”

  “I’ve taken on some extra duties at Moonshadow Hall,” Mifano said with mock humility.

  He gave a casual shrug that shifted his half-cape back behind his left shoulder, exposing the sword that rode on his hip. Feena’s eyebrows rose at the sight of the weapon. The hilt that curled out of the scabbard was forged from bright steel, decorated with silver and mother-of-pearl, and marked with a crescent inside the circle of a full moon. Mifano’s smile grew wide.

  “Why, Feena,” he asked suggestively, “are you staring at my sword?”

  “Give it up, Mifano.” She pointed at the sword and asked, “Is that really the Waxing Crescent?”

  He grinned and nodded. Feena whistled. The sword was an artifact of Moonshadow Hall, traditionally given as a symbol of office to the priest or priestess who represented the business of the Hall in the city at large. It was a high honor and one of the most powerful positions within the temple.

  “You have made a reputation for yourself! But I’ve never seen the Waxing Crescent carried outside of ceremonies before.”

  “Why shouldn’t I carry it? It’s a badge of honor and a fine weapon.” He stroked the hilt. “And other than you apparently, women love—”

  Feena wrinkled her nose. “I get the point,” she said as they stepped through another set of doors and into the cloisters around the temple courtyard. “So if you hold the Waxing Crescent, who holds the Waning Crescent?”

  Mifano grimaced and flicked a finger along the open air passage.

  Coming along the cloister toward them was a small cluster of priestesses. In the lead, issuing instructions as she walked, was a tall woman with soft brown hair that fell to her shoulders. On her belt hung the sword that was the twin to Mifano’s: the Waning Crescent, symbol of administrative authority within Moonshadow Hall. She looked up and met Feena’s gaze.

  Feena suppressed a scowl and said, “Well met, Velsinore.”

  Velsinore looked as though she was choking back similar distaste but answered, “Well met, Feena.”

  Velsinore murmured something to two of the three women following her and they scurried away, leaving one to trail in Velsinore’s wake as she paced forward. With every step, the Waning Crescent slapped against Velsinore’s leg and Feena wondered why she even bothered to wear it. Then she saw the look of hostility that passed between Velsinore and Mifano and understood.

  She wears her sword because he wears his, thought Feena. Moonmaiden’s grace, whatever else Dhauna wants me for, I’ve arrived in the middle of a power struggle!

  “I was looking for you earlier,” Velsinore told Mifano. “I had assumed you were out in the city pursuing one of your dalliances in lieu of your duties.”

  “My ‘dalliances’ are part of my duties,” Mifano replied. His voice was as smooth as oil. “Or perhaps you’d prefer to see the cupboard bare as donations fall. But I wasn’t dallying. Not outside of Moonshadow Hall at least.”

  He slipped his hand around Feena’s arm. The visiting priestess jerked free and gave Mifano a scowl as Velsinore turned her attention back to her.

  “Mifano met me at the gate and escorted me here,” Feena explained.

  “I’m sure he did,” Velsinore murmured as she looked Feena up and down, examining her country skirt and blouse. Feena flushed. The tall priestess wasn’t dressed quite so fancifully as Mifano—she wore a simple high-collared robe of dove gray. The very simplicity of the robe, however, spoke of sophistication and authority. Feena’s clothes, on the other hand, spoke of dirt, labor, and the country. A long crust of wolf spittle stained her skirt. She must have drooled during her travels. Angry, she wiped at the stain.

  Velsinore’s smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. “So you’ve returned to Moonshadow Hall. Have you given up your mother’s vendetta against the servants of Malar?”

  Feena flushed even deeper and said, “Do you mean ‘have I stopped defending Arch Wood village against the predators of the Beastlord to fight the shadowy minions of Shar because Shar should be the only enemy that really matters to a priestess of Selûne?’ ”

  “When you put it that way,” said Velsinore, “yes.”

  “No.”

  “Ah,” Velsinore said as she folded her hands. “Then why have you come back? I imagine Mifano was too busy flirting with you to ask.”

  Mifano’s eyes narrowed. “I was offering her hospitality.”

  “Which is my responsibility,” said Velsinore. She glanced at Feena. “We have space in the acolyte’s common room, of course. You’re welcome to it.”

  “I don’t think I’ll be staying,” Feena growled—at both of them. “I’m only here because Dhauna Myritar sent for me.”

  Both Mifano and Velsinore stared at her.

  “She sent for you?” asked Velsinore.

  “A prayer carried on the Moonmaiden’s beams,” said Feena. She crossed her arms. “Do you doubt me?”

  Velsinore and Mifano exchanged a glance, then Mifano looked back to Feena and asked, “When?”

  Feena bit her tongue. “Recently,” she said, evading. “Where is she? I’ll talk to her and be on my way.”

  “In her quarters, preparing for the Full Moon Blessing,” Velsinore told her. She seemed to hesitate for a moment, then gestured for the priestess who had remained with her. “Tam, take Feena to the High Moonmistress.”

  Feena froze the younger priestess with a glare an
d said, “I know how to get there.”

  She strode off along the cloister, leaving the startled priestess in her wake. A heartbeat later, rapid footsteps followed her.

  “Feena!” called Mifano. “Wait!”

  “Why?” Feena swung through another door and back into the interior of the temple. The ramp that led up to the second floor and the high priestess’s quarters was just beyond.

  Mifano caught her hand. “You should know,” he said hastily. “Dhauna has … things have changed at Moonshadow Hall. They’re complicated.”

  Feena pulled away. “Things never change,” she said. “They’re always … complicated.”

  Feena raised her hand to knock on the carved wood of the High Moonmistress’s quarters and was suddenly reminded of a precocious fifteen-year-old acolyte summoned before the high priestess of Moonshadow Hall for pummeling a silver-haired boy who had presented her with a collar and leash. She forced the memory aside. Some things did change. She rapped on the wood.

  When there was no immediate response, she knocked again.

  “Mother Dhauna, it’s—”

  The door opened partway before she could finish. A young, dark-haired priestess peered out. She wore a harried expression.

  “Please,” she said quickly, “this isn’t a good time. Can you come back later?”

  Feena blinked. “I’d rather—”

  “Feena?” Dhauna’s voice rose from somewhere inside. “Feena, is that you?”

  The dark-haired woman winced, but Feena raised her voice and called back, “It’s me, Mother Dhauna!”

  “By Our Silver Lady!” The high priestess’s voice was shrill and excited. “Finally! Let her in, Julith! Let her in!”