Love, like rain, does not choose on whom it falls. 

— Arkendian proverb

Chapter Twenty-Six

Harric led Idgit and Rag into the larger of the two barns, where he brushed their coats and cleaned their hooves as they munched the last of the oats he'd so fatefully sold Willard in Gallows Ferry. The memory drew a wry snort from him. How much simpler things would be if he'd kept the rings Willard paid with that day, instead of leaving them to Caris. Then in exchange for returning the rings he could have bargained for two apprenticeships and won Caris's regard without revealing a shred of the "trickery" she loathed.

As he piled hay for Molly onto a barrow and wheeled it from the barn into the dying light, he sighed. It was a false dream, of course. The only reason Caris had stayed in Gallows Ferry long enough to re-join with Harric at all was because the rings had changed her feelings for him. And if she hadn't stayed she wouldn't have been there to drag his unconscious self from the wreckage of Bannus's parlor wall.

Plus, he doubted whether tricking Caris by hiding his true nature as a trickster would work out very well in the long run. Such deception was how his mother taught him to seduce and manipulate, so it felt natural to him, but anything she taught him was clearly suspect. He doubted whether normal people customarily lied to each other when courting, and in any case seduction was a short term game and these rings did not appear to be coming off soon.

Better I show my true nature. It doesn't feel natural, but that's because of my mother's poison in my life. I'll win her regard on my terms, so the day we get those rings off she'll find she loves me all the same.

Love! He laughed at himself. What did he know about actual love? –Lust, gain, seduction, manipulation, all came as naturally as walking and breathing, trained and tested to the point they were unconscious habits. But what in the Black Moon was love?

And then it dawned on him that he was just as much a babe in the wilderness when it came to human love as Caris. 

He stopped in the middle of the trail, staring into nothing, astonished he hadn't seen it before. We're misfits, the two of us. She by nature, I by indoctrination, and neither knows if we can overcome it.

But you do feel something, another part of him countered. Yes, he did. But what? Lust? Desire? Protectiveness? Hope? Loneliness? Need? Are any of those love? Are some of them? How did anyone know?

The thought depressed him. Could they be a more hopeless cause? And those moon-blasted rings forced them together.

He looked up into the sky, half expecting to see the constellation of Fate's Web laughing down at him, but the canopy of blue was yet too bright for stars.

Molly's snort snapped him out of his reverie. He saw her ahead through the stately columns of the firecones, and resumed pushing the barrow to her. It wasn't until he'd dumped the hay before her that he realized Holly was nowhere to be seen; she'd pulled her picket and wandered off.

Shit. The ground had been too rocky and root-bound to sink the stake in deep enough, and the filly had pulled it loose. Willard would have a seizure if he knew.

It wasn't hard to guess where she'd gone. Back down to the garden and meadow to graze.

So much for rest. He'd have to walk back down the mountain to find her, and assuming he did find her, he couldn't ride her back up because Willard had forbidden it.

"Moons take you, Holly," he muttered. Everything conspired against him getting back to the tower where he could see how Abellia used her witch-stone.

As he trudged back toward the switchbacks above the garden, he put his hand on the lump of witch-stone in his shirt, and frowned. This was one thing he could not yet share with Caris. But magic was the only thing his mother feared. His only hope of truly banishing her from his life. How ironic that she should teach him not to fear magic, then fear it in his hands!

But it wasn't enough to simply possess the witch-stone; he needed to learn how to use it. But how? Brolli couldn't tell him, as Brolli didn't seem to know anything more than how to use the bottled magic his people made. Abellia feared everything but her own moon's powers, so that was clearly out. But still, he might discover something from Abellia that would gave him a clue about his own.

He stopped at the first switchback over the garden he paused to scan the valley below, and saw Holly grazing peacefully at the far end of the meadow, by the brook. He let out a growling sigh of frustration, and set to descending the trail, each downhill step jarring his injured ribs.

In any case, he could probably count on his mother leaving him alone as long as he remained with Abellia. In the meantime he must learn how to use his stone—if not from Brolli and Abellia, then on his own. That night, while the others slept, he'd slip away and experiment. He had to access its powers before he left Abellia's protection. He had to be ready.

             * * *

Caris descended the tower and searched for Harric in the yard and smaller barn, but could not find him. In the large barn she found only the horses, munching contentedly.

"Harric? What's taking you so long?" she called into the glowing gloom.

She stopped by Rag, in the stable, and fed her a carrot she'd filched from Abellia's larder. Harric had obviously done as he'd been asked, watering and brushing the animals. She checked Rag's hooves and found them cleaned, too.

She sighed, not sure why she was irritated, which made her all the more so. Harric had probably wandered off to get some time alone, but even a horse touched wench like her knew he ought to spend some time with their host before sleep. More importantly, she'd advised Abellia to wait until Harric was present before she introduced Mudruffle to the others. She feared Willard might react badly to Mudruffle's obvious magical nature, and reasoned that since Harric seemed as unintimidated by magic as he was by the old knight's bluster, his presence might soften Willard's reaction.

And yet just yesterday, said a little voice in her conscience, you loudly criticized Harric for that same lack of regard for Willard's opinion.

There it was. She was a hypocrite, and that was irritating. Or maybe she was learning something new about those "gray areas" Harric navigated so smoothly — which was even more aggravating.

She growled, and grabbed a brush to work on Rag's mane.

"Fleeing the oh-so-difficult world of humans?" said a smooth female voice, behind her.

Caris whirled, startled to find a middle-aged lady of the court confronting her from the straw. Tall, proud, the lady glittered with ornaments accenting a gown of green silk. Amber hair piled upon her head in a mass of ringlets and braids in a style Caris had seen in portraits of her mother's courtier days. Her face glowed with ashen paste and perfect circles of rouge rode high on each cheek. At first glance she'd seemed beautiful—once had been, surely—but now only a husk remained; starved eyes, protruding collarbones, and where the neckline of her gown might once have once draped over a swelling of smooth breasts, it now revealed a prow of jutting sternum on a carapace of bone.

"So, you are Harric's latest toy," said the lady, in a voice soft as honey. She pursed her lips critically, eyes roaming Caris's body. The survey halted on the sword at Caris's hip, whereupon she let out a prim little laugh and clapped her hands in delight. "Half-witted, half brute, and mannish to boot. How he baits me! Could he have chosen a more ridiculous boor to vex me with?" Eyes shining, her laughter tinkled beneath the rafters.

Caris barely heard the words. Hairs rose on her neck as her mind flew in circles trying to explain away the obvious.  Rag fidgeted, stomping and eyes showing white at the sight of the apparition that was there but not there in the straw. Caris reached into the panicked mare to calm her pounding heart, and by focusing elsewhere, calm her own.

"Who are you?" Caris said.

"I am the Lady Dimoore," said Harric's mother. Bright, birdlike eyes — Harric's eyes — scrutinized Caris's face. "You're only half here, aren't you. The other half is in that horse." Lady Dimoore's nose wrinkled, sending a fan of tiny cracks through her makeup. "Stupid brutes, horses. They imagine snakes in shadows, lions in puddles. But they can be managed, with training, can't they. Just like you."

"What do you want?" Caris said. "Harric doesn't want you in his life anymore." Her voice sounded thick to her own ears, her words clumsy compared to the lady's clever speech; nevertheless, they struck a nerve in the Lady Dimoore, for her eyes flashed.

"Oh? And you think he wants you?" she snapped. "Let me tell you something, my little brute girl. Only one lady will ever have Harric's heart, and she took it out long ago."

Caris clamped her teeth, wishing she could also clamp her ears. She was no good with words and glances, the sort of weapons ladies used so deftly, always piercing her useless defenses and drawing blood. Another lady, had she said? The words ate at her. Did she mean Lyla? Harric had gone to such lengths to win her in poker and free her, and then again to save her from Bannus. Did he love her? How stupid she'd been not to see it! On the other hand, Lyla was no more a lady than Caris; surely the Lady Dimoore would be just as dismissive of a commoner like Lyla. But if not Lyla, who?

Lady Dimoore's blue-painted lips pressed in a tight, haughty smile, waiting.

Caris blinked in surprise. "You mean, you?"

Her reaction did not please. "Who else, simpleton? Do you know anything about the hearts of men? Do you know anything about your own dull heart?"

The lady stepped nearer, voice lowered, eyes bright with cruelty. "Let me tell you a story, horse girl. Long before your mother foaled you, a certain Lady Dionis gave birth to a brute like you. Against my clear advice, she kept the creature and set out to raise her as a lady for the court. I told her that the child would cause irreparable harm to the cause of women there, which the queen had labored hard to establish. I told her that by keeping the girl in court she would make us all look like the very half-wits the Brotherhood claimed we were — a living reminder that women must be kept and managed by their men. But Lady Dionis didn't listen. She dressed the little beast in gowns, taught her to dance and speak, and indeed the creature danced well enough and may have liked it for aught I know.

"But when she came of age, she became strange. She fled company. When the queen held her masques and balls or banquets, the girl would slip away, and none could find her.... Of course, I knew where she was. Like any horse in crisis, she fled to her stable."

Recognition hit Caris like a pole in the gut. "Mona..." she breathed.

The lady's eyes flashed with pleasure. "Yes, Mona. Of course you know of her. She was a pretty thing, on the outside. The boys found her exterior quite appealing in her low-cut silken dresses. But like you, she was half-hearted, half-witted within."

"Shut up. I know what happened." Caris knew the tale by heart, a cautionary tale to horse-touched and their mothers. The image of Mona and her fate had haunted her imagination since she was small — eating at her ambitions, cutting her hopes off at the knees — until Mona became a sort of long-lost sister never known and always grieved.

"You know what happened, but do you know why it happened? You see, her mother ignored my advice. That was quite unacceptable. So, with a little encouragement from me, the stable lads began to woo the girl."

"You — ?" Caris's breath choked off in her throat.

The lady smiled. "Predictably, she gave her half-heart to the first who feigned his love. And one night, while the others danced the masque, he tied her in a stall, fitted her head with training bit and bridle, and he and his friends rode her until I brought the dancers down to see her as she truly was, her false dress stripped away."

Caris sobbed. She knew the end. The suicide hangings from the tower. First daughter, then mother. Grief and rage choked her. Memories of the insufferable gowns her own mother forced upon her — of lady lessons and the mocks of would-be wooer — jumbled in her mind with newer struggles of the wedding ring and Harric and feelings she didn't understand.

Her hands raised to her ears, and she fled into Rag. Dimly, she sensed the lady laughing, leaning close.

"Can you imagine the extent of Mona's ruin?" the lady whispered. "You cannot. For you can only half-know anything. But that is how I shall ruin you, if you do not forswear my Harric. I shall ruin you. Cruelly. Publicly. And utterly."

Caris couldn't block out the words. They seemed to enter her mind without recourse to her ears. To her surprise, however, they did not send her over the edge into the blackness she normally experienced when words overwhelmed her. Though she heard every one, she did not curl into a ball. Indeed, she realized with surprise that she was still standing. That her head was not roaring with confusion. That something had changed in her, and though she had no idea what it was, she was not incapacitated.

Instead, she felt anger. And with anger, she could act.

She flung herself from the wall, sword flashing from her side and whistling beneath the lady's startled eyes.

The lady drew back, startled. "I warned you!" she hissed, and faded to air.

Caris replied by thrusting a yard of steel through the space where the eyes had been. "Coward!" she spat. "Stay and face me!" She stalked the barn, muttering curses until she was certain the ghost was gone. Finally, she stopped beside Rag, panting. Rag let out a triumphant whinny, but Caris barely noticed. Staring inward, she marveled at her own stability in the face of torment that would normally have left her rolled up in the straw, and at the revelation about the fabled Mona.

"She killed you," she whispered. "That evil bitch raped and killed you."

Abruptly, she dropped to her knees, and laid her sword before her. "I found your name," she whispered to the blade, and with an old shoeing nail etched MONA in the steel.

Rising, she held the blade before her. A power and freedom moved through her that she'd never felt before, as if the spirit of Mona entered the blade to give it wings, and she knew it was right, and it was purpose, and that she herself was Mona reforged in tempered steel.

"You warn me, Lady Dimoore?" Caris angled the blade so its new name glinted in the dying light. "I warn you. Mona is back. And she knows her killer's name."

*************************************

Thanks for reading!

-- If you liked this chapter, let me know with a comment or vote!

-- And tell a friend! 

-- OR, if something confused or seemed weak, please tell me! That's how I improve! :)

* For JACK OF SOULS news , sign up for the newsletter at stephenmerlino.com