Amber Moon (Moon Trilogy, Part II)
Chapter Two
When violet and diamond meet the prophecy has begun…
Mirie woke up with a scream. She scrambled out of the bed looking for enemies and found a black and white cat that also scrambled away under a piece of furniture. She quickly scanned the room and found…no one. There were no threats to her. There wasn’t anyone else there.
It was a distinguished room. The curtains were embroidered silk. The rug was hand-woven and older than written history. The bed had ebony wood posters and rails. The bedspread, which was now on the floor, was some kind of shimmering black material that looked as soft as down. The windows were open and a soft breeze was being pulled in by a huge overhead fan. Everything was antique or high end or expensive. It was like being inside a movie set, about as diametrically opposed from her small studio apartment as it could get.
Curiously, Mirie went to the window and looked outside. It was daylight with the sun coming up in the east. There was a forest beyond the window that stretched out endlessly. Wherever she was she had been out of it for over twelve hours, perhaps closer to twenty-four. It had been early afternoon when Jack and she had surveilled the elf prince.
Memory came back with an immediacy that would have brought her to her knees if she hadn’t been hanging on the window ledge. Her hand went to her chest and found nothing there. Under a silk night gown that was the same violet color as her eyes and the witch blade, her chest was whole and unmarked. Mirie grimaced and pinched her arm viciously.
The pain and almost immediate bruising informed her that she wasn’t walking in a dream world induced by sorcery. The world she stood in was real.
Her pale hair spilled over her shoulders, unbraided. Her arms were bared by the spaghetti straps of the night gown. Her toes peeped nonchalantly from the bottom of the gown. She felt good. Normal even. She felt as though she had never been shot.
Glancing around the room Mirie saw the cat peek out from underneath a chair in the corner. Its gold eyes sparkled at her in a way that reminded her of Anarion. What are you? Huldufolk. Thank the Gods.
On a table near the door was a pile of clothing. It was hers. The jeans, jacket, panties and socks were cleaned, ironed, and neatly folded, waiting for her. The boots were polished and sitting on the floor underneath the table. A new t-shirt with tags still attached sat in another pile.
Mirie stared. Understanding came. She had been shot through the t-shirt. Presumably the t-shirt and the bra had been history and unsalvageable. Had someone felt a little uncomfortable providing her with a new brassiere? Her shoulders squared. Lying next to the piles of clothing was her witch blade.
Curiouser and curiouser. She checked her leather coat and found the pockets emptied. Some of the gear a Committee agent typically carried was missing. The sat-phone was gone. The locater was absent. The compact digital camera and PDA were gone as well. Did they know that no one else could use the witch blade but her?
Dressing while the cat watched from under the chair, Mirie settled her mind. If they had wanted her dead, then she wouldn’t have woken up. She certainly wouldn’t have woken up healed. For sure, the elves wanted answers from her.
She finished lacing her boots and stuck the witch blade into her waist band. The knife magically compacted itself into a dagger size. Braiding her hair with deft hands, she looked around and took account of her situation.
Then she tucked her braided hair under itself to hold it in place and tried the door. It opened to a long hallway with similar decorative qualities. Everything was luxurious and well appointed. Surfaces gleamed as if polished a minute before. Perhaps a talking candlestick and clock would come dancing up to her, taking the time to break into a Broadway equivalent occasion.
Behind her, the cat yowled plaintively and did a drive by with its tail streaming upward, leaning into her leg but not really touching it. Then it trotted off to the left, pausing at the head of the stairway there. It looked over its shoulder at Mirie and meowed as if asking a question. Then it trotted downstairs.
“Okay,” Mirie answered. She followed the cat. Downstairs opened up into a wide expanse of windows and halls. The sun seemed to shine into every window no matter what its position was in accordance to the four directions. The floor was made of a substance that seemed to glow substantially. It looked like marble with a million veins of gold.
Mirie suddenly had an idea of where she was located and it wasn’t in Kansas with a dog that answered to the name of a 70s/80s band. Anarion and his band of merry bodyguards had brought her over to the Elfish court, a land located in another dimension, another plane of existence. The human world was mostly ignorant of it, but the worlds outside their world were numerous and varied. The Elfish court called theirs the Light Land. It was the elves’ home realm and she was smack dab in the middle of it.
The black and white cat meowed at her again, standing at the entrance to a room. Its doors were large and made from a wood that had streaked blonde and black woods. One paw raked the door restlessly.
Mirie joined the cat. “Should I knock?” she enquired politely of the cat. “I should hate to interrupt afternoon tea.”
The cat coughed and it sounded like muffled laughter.
With muzzled determination, Mirie pushed the doors open and found the High Court. Not only that, it was in session.
About fifty elves turned to look at her in unison. The words died away to a startling silence. It was quite disconcerting.
However disconcerting that was, it was more disconcerting that Mirie’s eyes immediately located Anarion and locked on him. His jewel-like eyes glinted at her in a manner that she would have called possessive if she felt like putting an adjective to it.
And more uncomfortably no one moved. They simply looked at her while she looked at Anarion.
The impatient part of Mirie couldn’t help herself. “Do I have something on my face?”
The cat coughed again.
There was a strident voice that said something demandingly. Anarion waved his hand and a wave of magic was tossed in her direction. It rolled over her with a surge of tingles that touched every inch of her skin. It was as if she were being caressed everywhere at the same exact moment. It rolled away just as suddenly. Abruptly she understood the words.
“She doesn’t need to be here,” said a tall elf with green hair. “She is untrustworthy. She works for the Committee.” ‘The Committee’ was said like something a visiting dog had left on the lawn that was brown and stinky.
Another firm voice answered and Mirie looked to the left where there was a throne with a regal elf sitting in it. His consorts sat beside him in lesser thrones.
“Is this a trial?” Mirie asked conversationally.
The regal elf glanced at her and a small smile quirked at his lips. He was an older version of Anarion. The hair was laced with gray and although the features were starting to decline with age he was strikingly beautiful all the same. “Perhaps we should ask her motives,” he suggested.
“His name is Artuntaure,” said the cat beside her in a throaty whisper. “He’s the King of the High Court of the Land of Light.”
Mirie sighed. She should know very well that things weren’t always as they appeared. I.e., a cat that wasn’t really a cat. “You watched me get dressed, you wanker,” she whispered back.
The cat shrugged in a manner befitting all felines and stretched. The form kept on stretching until a petite woman with black and white hair smiled sardonically at Mirie. Jewel toned robes flowed over her form and she stepped forward. “My Lords,” the woman said loudly. “May I present Mirie Baldursdottir, lately of Earth, Security Agent of the Committee, and accomplished expert in three martial art aptitudes.”
A know it all cat that wasn’t really a cat, Mirie thought.
“Baldursdottir,” repeated the King. “A good Icelandic name. Daughter of Baldur, the God of Light. The glorious one.”
Not many people understood the distinction of Icelandic names. Last names were not the same as one’s father but instead given as the son of an individual’s first name or the daughter of an individual. The son of Jon Finnsson would be Ingi Jonsson. Or it would be Anna Jonsdottir. It was a traditional manner of naming.
“There are many of the hidden folk in Iceland,” Artuntaure continued knowingly.
“So who are you?” Mirie said to the cat slash young woman.
“Guardian, lookout, keeper,” she murmured back. “You pick. My name is Asta. And you need to curtsy or bow or something to show a sign of respect to our Lord.”
Mirie looked back at the king. Anarion was still watching her with restless diamond eyes. More of the elves in the room looked at her with silent expectation.
The Committee had included a few classes on etiquette. After all, they dealt with many different races and not all of them were the enemy. Some of them were even allies. Her chin rose to an aristocratic degree, she swept into the room and stopped at a point twenty feet away from the thrones. The distance was enough to be deferential and far enough away that she didn’t present a threat to His Majesty. Her back straight, she performed a low curtsy with a grace that was not all practiced and kept her eyes on the King’s feet. The action was elegant and deliberate, performed as if she bowed to a king on a daily basis. There was a wave of urgent murmurs among the gathered elves.
“Well done,” said Asta admiringly, who had trailed beside her. “A princess couldn’t have done better.” The words were serenely satirical.
With her body bent, she could see that Anarion was smiling. And Mirie was suddenly at the end of her repertoire of Elfish functions. She could have tossed her witch blade in the air and made it change colors as it pierced a half dozen juggling balls, but somehow she didn’t think the elves would be appreciative.
“Rise, daughter of Baldur,” Artuntaure intoned.
“We cannot trust her,” the green haired elf said again. “She was raised among the humans. She has human values. Committee values.”
“And does the Committee’s values differ so radically from ours, Lord Kavin?” the king asked politely, a little ice flowing into his words.
Mirie had brought herself upright and turned slightly to see the tall elf glaring at her. It didn’t matter what the species was; they all seemed to have the same foibles. Lord Kavin wanted power of some kind. He had determined that by excluding Mirie he would gain some kind of upper hand. Probably against Anarion for bringing Mirie to the Light Land and to the Elfish court.
“I know that the Committee has treated me kindly,” Mirie said solemnly. “Their actions have been ever toward protecting Earth and its allies. They have otherworldly allies as well as the Elfish Realm does. The Cat Clan and Seelie Fae Courts count among them.”
“Why pursue the prince, then,” Lord Kavin snarled at her, stepping closer. “Why watch him as if he were a criminal. No laws have been broken in the human world.”
Unless one included shooting me in the chest, Mirie thought imprudently. But the Elfish bodyguards were justified in their actions. She had said she would bury a blade in Anarion’s throat and the elf had taken her at her word.
Mirie turned back to the king. “Our clairvoyants saw the end of the earthly realm. That destruction would have dire consequences on all realms that are connected. And dark magick objects were involved.”
King Artuntaure frowned. “What objects?”
“There are three. The Book of the Black Moon which has already been acquired by the Committee. The Eyes of the Amber Moon is an artifact from the Unseelie court, black arts contained in a relic fashioned to be worn by its owner. It was reputedly lost in the Magick Wars of a millennium ago.” Mirie restrained herself from casting her gaze at Anarion and the decorative piece he wore at his belt.
“Our people call them ‘The Fae Wars,’ the monarch committed quietly. “Their aggression against the Elfish lands was most vicious. Thousands of elves were lost. My own father was one of them.”
“The humans’ written history of those battles is most insufficient,” Mirie said.
“And the third item?” Lord Kavin said loudly. “What is it?”
“The Silver Moon’s Mystery,” Mirie said to the king. “Knowledge of it is sketchy.”
“Why haven’t our seers foretold of this?” demanded Lord Kavin. “Why do we hear of this from this whatever she is? And what does she have to do with Prince Anarion?”
“You forget, Lord Kavin,” Anarion said bluntly. “There have been omens from the seers. Omens for darkness and destruction to come. There is evidence in her favor.”
The king stared at her with his eyes so similar to Anarion’s. One of his consorts was staring at Mirie with pale green eyes. Her brow knitted together in a frown of concentration. She started suddenly and placed tentative fingers on her lord’s arm. Artuntaure leaned toward the woman while Mirie waited.
Murmurs skated around the room behind her, but Mirie didn’t dare look.
Asta whispered, “Nice shooting, Tex. The king doesn’t usually waste more than a minute on things not Elfish.”
“What are you?” Mirie asked Asta out of the side of her mouth. “Not an elf. A changeling? Some sort of shifter we haven’t seen. You’ve got magick flowing all around you. I can see it changing from darkish blue to light greens.”
“You can see my powers,” Asta muttered. She stepped back from Mirie with an expression of disbelief.
“Yes, I see it,” the king murmured to his consort, while his eyes settled on Mirie. “Daughter of Baldur,” he said loudly. Mirie started. “Tell us about your parents.”
“I don’t recall much,” she admitted. “My mother was Huldufolk and she would whisper tales to me at bedtime. She married an Icelandic man who took me as his own daughter. I was named after him in the Icelandic tradition. They died when I was four years old.”
Murdered by other Huldufolk for exposing their secrets to those who would hurt them. Her mother was conspiring with the members of the Committee to help the Huldufolk who were still slaves in the Unseelie court. At least that was what Mirie had been told. She didn’t remember that night very well. There had been blood and screams and she had hid in the bathroom that had a cabinet with a false backboard. Three days later Committee members had pulled her out, half dead and unable to speak for months. She was raised by Halflings in the Committee’s shadow, trained to be one of their agents. Their dogma was for protection of the human race and their allies.
“Is it possible?” Anarion said loudly. His voice held excitement and knowledge. “All this time we’ve searched and she simply comes to us? To me?”
Mirie turned to look at him. His eyes were gleaming pools of lightlessness. They were speaking about her. There was something that was happening that she didn’t know about, something that was important to them.
“Ruaora?” Lord Kavin interjected ominously. “Slaughtered by the Halfling, Zyvana. There was the evidence of blood. We all recall the tragedy.”
“Ruaora,” Asta breathed as she took a step toward Mirie. “Promised to the prince five hundred years before your birth.”
Mirie swallowed nervously. “Wrong girl. My mother was Huldufolk. She never told me about my father and she didn’t leave anything that wasn’t destroyed that night they died.”
“Do you know what Huldufolk are, little daughter?” the king asked slyly. “Offshoots of the elves who lived in Iceland a thousand years ago. They went with the Norse over a millennium ago. Does your Committee not educate you well enough?”
“Like many secretive subjects knowledge of the Huldufolk is limited,” Mirie said slowly, glancing at the king again. There were many offshoot species, and some the Committee knew next to nothing about. She tried to absorb the information that was coming to her. “Why would you think that I’m this long missing Ruaora?”
“Ruaora’s nanny was the
Halfling, Zyvana,” Anarion said behind her. He had moved closer. She could feel his breath on her neck. “One day she took the baby child, Ruaora, for a walk in the Gray Forest. It was discovered later that Zyvana wished to hold the child ransom for her Elfish father’s release from the King’s prisons. Zyvana and her father were both party to Elfish political groups that encouraged the overthrow of Artuntaure. Zyvana’s father killed many elves in guerrilla attempts to instigate civil war and was imprisoned accordingly.”
But Zyvana vanished into the Gray Forest. A pool of blood and some of Ruaora’s baby clothing were the only evidence of their passing found.”
Mirie closed her mouth. She could smell Anarion behind her. The same scent that had overwhelmed her on the top of the building, lavender and clover and sunshine. Her stomach clenched in silent recognition. She could almost feel the touch of his sensual lips on the bareness of her shoulder, as if he were stroking his mouth across her unadorned skin. She was unexpectedly lost in the moment.
“There’s no evidence that she is Ruaora,” Lord Kavin suddenly announced loudly, brusquely yanking Mirie out of her reverie. “She doesn’t have the appearance of the Sumrah Clan.” He circled in front of Mirie, glaring at her. His green hair was flying behind him as he shook with mute ire.
Mirie was thinking of her mother. She didn’t remember much about the woman, except that her hair was midnight black while Mirie’s was platinum blonde. Her eyes had been the green of summer grass. She had been short and rounded. She had been Mirie’s opposite and not unkind. Not someone who was holding a child for ransom.
“What happened to Zyvana’s father?” Mirie asked. “Why was the ransom not claimed?”
“He died in the prisons,” King Artuntaure answered solemnly. “Not a week after Ruaora’s disappearance. Even there, rival factions exist that hold their own black justice. He had killed too many elves for cries of prison vengeance to be silenced.”
“And there was no trace of Zyvana or the baby?” Mirie went on.
“Not until now,” Anarion whispered close to her ear.
“Look at her eyes,” the king’s consort said loudly. She had been the one to whisper in Artuntaure’s ear first. “Violet eyes. The color of sun ripened grapes. Unmistakably Sumrah. No other clan has those eyes.”
Lord Kavin hooked Mirie’s arm and twisted her toward him so that he could look into her face.
But Mirie had had enough. There was a ripple of movement from her. One of her long legs shot out while her arms twirled Lord Kavin’s form. A second passed and he was lying on the marble floor with her crouched above him, the witch blade at his throat. The glow from the weapon was as violet bright as a spotlight. She heard the gasps behind her and knew that Anarion was crouched at her back, as if he were protecting her.
Mirie glared into Lord Kavin’s face. “I don’t want you to touch me. I don’t have ‘bitch’ written on my forehead,” she hissed.
The Elfish lord gaped at her, understandably confused at the sudden turn of events. As she perched above him, he got his first clear vision of her face and eyes. His expression changed from confusion to incredulity. “Amycate,” he murmured. “Forgive me, child. I did not believe it could be you.”
Mirie drew the witch blade back from his neck. “Who’s Amycate?”
“Amycate Sumrah, the lady of the duchy of the Midsummer Lands,” King Artuntaure answered. “I gather she is your mother, a lady I am happy to report is still very much alive.”
“Shut the fuck up,” Mirie said, standing up straight as Lord Kavin gathered himself to his feet.
Asta tittered helplessly.