Daughter of the Mystic Moon
Read the first chapter!
Myribell
Meetings
"Who says I'm alone?" Shaylea, the princess of Myribell, asked, shooting a quick glance up at the trees above her. She sat comfortably on a jeweled leather saddle atop a large deep bay horse.
Unconcerned, the man ignored her question. "Why did you call this meeting, Your Highness?" he hissed.
"I may have need of your services," she replied. "I want to know if your price remains the same?"
"After all these years? Of course not!" He scoffed. "It's higher!"
"How much?"
"Twenty percent, or more, depending on the need," he smiled slyly. His scarred hand rested on the hilt of his poniard.
"That much? I'm not sure you're worth it."
"Oh, I am. You know I am." The cockiness in his voice sickened her. At that moment, she had no choice but to agree with him.
He could see the contempt flash in her eyes. Princess Shay, atop her stallion, dressed in shades of royal purple, luxurious fabrics, black leather riding boots, and no doubt carrying at least one dagger under that sweeping cloak. She was the most dangerous sort of princess—selfish and spoiled, dishonest and disloyal, the only heir to the throne and well aware of the king's good health.
Her streaming blond hair and perfect, fair skin could not hide her selfish heart. Rumors swirled around her since childhood. The citizens whispered that young Princess Shay cavorted with the meanest boys and wanted nothing to do with proper courtiers. As a teen, she took any opportunity to escape her escort's gaze and find a way to cause trouble for whatever unfortunate soul crossed her path. Many innocent passersby ended up in prison for not immediately recognizing the princess and bowing formally with their eyes downcast. Guilty over the death of her mother, her father looked the other way. Ten years after the dark wizard last met her, there she sat, in her late twenties and deceptively beautiful, just glaring at him.
"Well, Princess, do you have a job for me or not? It's quite risky business to be here, even under cover of darkness."
"Risky for you only, but I am aware. I may have a task for you. For now," she smirked, "I just wanted assurance that you will still come when I beckon." She deftly maneuvered the braided reins, swung her horse back toward the town, and took off into the darkness.
The grim wizard admired how she sat on her steed, yet scoffed again. "Sadistic; but what a horsewoman." He adjusted his cloak so that his scarred hands were free of the fabric, and he clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth twice. An obedient chestnut stallion stepped out from the shadows. He swung himself up and rode in the opposite direction of town toward the caverns of Mount Pilkin.
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On a sunny morning in Myribell, a light breeze brought just a touch of the coming autumn into the air. Late summer was a beautiful time within the walls of town. The farmers' market teemed with people selling brightly colored vegetables, hand-woven fabrics, and cured meats and cheeses. Vendors sold fresh flowers on every corner. Under the protection of their fair-minded king, Liam, people freely exchanged money for goods, and they bartered for what they couldn't easily afford. Six days a week, this was the scene in the center of town.
A young woman with light brown hair and olive-toned skin stopped at a farm stand to sniff the fresh-picked apples. Serena was an average sort of beauty—her height, her build, and her dress could blend into any crowd—but her eyes sparkled, and she was always smiling.
"How are you doing, Harold?" she asked the attendant.
"Fine, lass! The day is better with you here."
Serena blushed a little. "These are wonderful!" She exclaimed as she placed a few apples for herself and her mother in her burlap cloth tote. She handed Harold some money, took an apple back out of the sack and sniffed it. "Just great!" Turning to find her mother, she instead came face-to-face with a tanned stranger. The man gave her a warm smile. "Oh, pardon me." She said and stepped back.
"No, I beg your pardon." He stepped to one side and gestured to let her know she could pass him. As she did, he said, "You made me really want one of those apples."
Serena paused and turned back to face him once more. This time, she really looked at him. His jet-black hair was tied back; his goatee neatly trimmed. Serena tried to read his eyes, but they were under a heavy brow. He was smiling at her with his mouth closed, and his skin told her he spent much of his day outside. His clothes were those of a hard worker—stained and rough at the seams.
"My name is Trevor," he said as he held out his hand.
"I am Serena," she smiled brightly and gave him her hand. He took it and kissed it gently. The action surprised her because she only expected a handshake from a common laborer. Although eyes were friendly, she fought the urge to wipe her hand on her skirt and wondered why his energy felt grimy.
"It's a pleasure to meet you, Serena." His voice was mellow and smooth, and she liked how he said her name.
"And you," she answered. A touch on her shoulder startled her, and she turned around to see her mother standing behind her. Briget looked like an older version of Serena—a little shorter and with a few tendrils of gray mixed into her sandy brown hair—but still very much a natural beauty.
"I was just looking for you," Serena said.
"I found you first," her mother answered. She looked beyond Serena at the tanned stranger behind her. "It's time to go." Briget's gaze was icy, not curious, and Trevor's smile faded briefly. It returned when Serena pivoted on her heel to toss one more smile in his direction.
"Enjoy those apples," he said.
"We will," Serena replied, and she and Briget left the market. As they walked to their little farmstead just beyond the town walls, Briget was thoughtful. She finally broke her silence and asked, "Who was that man you spoke with at the market?"
"I don't know. He said his name was Trevor. He was rather handsome and very polite. I nearly ran right over him!" Serena answered cheerfully.
"Trevor, hm?" Briget mused.
As they walked the rest of the way home in silence, Serena replayed the meeting in her mind and wondered why her mother suddenly seemed so guarded.
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That night, in a small house on a corner near the eastern wall of town, an older man, husband and father of the house, awoke to the sensation of a presence in the room. Startled, he turned to wake his wife, but she was not in the bed beside him.
The presence was menacing. Like a creeping shadow, it overpowered what little light the moon gave through the open window. The air felt charged, as if before a thunderstorm. The man's breathing became labored, his heart straining to beat in his chest. His ears burned and rang. His mouth went dry; he could not call out. In less than a minute, it was over, and his body gave no clue to his cause of death.
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