Mercedes Lackey - Wintermoon
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WinterMoon
Selected praise for
MERCEDES LACKEY
“Lackey has created an intelligent, self-possessed heroine.”
—Publishers Weekly on The Fairy Godmother
“Wry and scintillating take on the Cinderella story…Lackey’s tale resonates with charm as magical as
the fairy-tale realm she portrays.”
—BookPage on The Fairy Godmother
Selected praise for
TANITH LEE
“Lee’s prose is a waking dream, filled with tropical sensualities.”
—Booklist
“Tanith Lee is an elegant, ironic stylist—one of our very best authors.”
—Locus
Selected praise for
C.E. MURPHY
“A swift pace, a good mystery, a likable protagonist, magic, danger—Urban Shaman has them in
spades.”
—Jim Butcher, author of the best-selling series The Dresden Files
MERCEDES LACKEY
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is the author of the Heralds of Valdemar series, the Five Hundred Kingdoms series, plus several other
series and stand-alone books. She has collaborated with such luminaries as Marion Zimmer Bradley,
Anne McCaffrey and Andre Norton. She lives in Oklahoma with her husband, Larry Dixon, and far too
many birds. Her next Five Hundred Kingdoms title, One Good Knight, will be available March 2006
from LUNA Books.
TANITH LEE
was born in 1947, in England. Unable to read until she was almost eight, she began to write at the age of
nine. To date she has published almost seventy novels, ten short-story collections and well over 200
short stories. Lee has also written for BBC Radio and TV. Her work has won several awards, and has
been translated into more than twenty languages. She is married to the writer/artist John Kaiine. Readers
can find more information about Lee at www.TanithLee.com or www.daughterofthenight.com.
C.E. MURPHY
holds an utterly impractical degree in English and history. At age six, Catie submitted several poems to
an elementary school publication. The teacher producing it chose (inevitably) the one Catie thought was
the worst of the three, but he also stopped her in the hall one day and said two words that made an
indelible impression: “Keep writing.” It was sound advice, and she’s pretty much never looked back.
She lives in Alaska with her husband Ted, roommate Shaun and a number of pets. More information
about Catie and her writing can be found at www.cemurphy.net.
Winter Moon
NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING AUTHOR
MERCEDES LACKEY
WORLD FANTASY AWARD WINNER TANITH LEE
AND C.E. MURPHY
www.LUNA-Books.com
First edition November 2005
WINTER MOON
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ISBN 1-55254-379-X
The publisher acknowledges the copyright holders of the individual works as follows:
MOONTIDE
Copyright © 2005 by Mercedes Lackey
THE HEART OF THE MOON
Copyright © 2005 by Tanith Lee
BANSHEE CRIES
Copyright © 2005 by Catherine Murphy
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or
in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented,
including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is
forbidden without the written permission of the editorial office, Worldwide Library, 233 Broadway,
New York, NY 10279 U.S.A.
All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation
whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any
individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.
This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
® and TM are trademarks of Harlequin Books S.A., used under license. Trademarks indicated with ®
are registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office, the Canadian Trade Marks Office and
in other countries.
www.LUNA-Books.com
CONTENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
MOONTIDE
Mercedes Lackey
THE HEART OF THE MOON
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Chapter 9
Chapter 10
COMING NEXT MONTH
MOONTIDE
Mercedes Lackey
Dedicated to my fellow “Lunatics” at www.LUNA-Books.com, without whom I would be a great deal
less sane
Dear Reader,
The world I created for the Five Hundred Kingdoms stories is a place where fairy tales can come true—
which is not always a good thing. But it is important to remember that most people living in this world
go about their lives blissfully unaware of the force that I call “The Tradition” and its blind drive to send
certain lives down predestined paths. As long as their lives are not touched by The Tradition, as long as
they do not find themselves replicating the story of some tale, song, or myth, most people go about their
business never even guessing that such a force exists.
Such are the characters in this story, “Moontide.” There is no mention of The Tradition, nor of Fairy
Godmothers. These folks have magic, indeed, but it is small magic for the most part. Do not
underestimate the small magics, however. A great deal can be done with a very little magic at the right
time and place. And even more can be done with a heart full of courage, and someone you can trust at
your side.
Mercedes Lackey
Lady Reanna watched with interest as Moira na Ferson took her chain-mail shirt, pooled it like glittery
liquid on the bed, and slipped it into a grey velvet bag lined with chamois. It was an exquisitely made
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shirt; the links were tiny, and immensely strong; Moira only wished it was as featherlight as it looked.
“Your father doesn’t know what he’s getting back,” Reanna observed, cupping her round chin with one
deceptively soft hand, and flicking aside a golden curl with the other.
“My father didn’t know what he sent away,” Moira countered, just as her heavy, coiled braid came loose
and dropped down her back for the third time. With a sigh, she repositioned it again, picked up the silver
bodkin that had dropped to the floor, and skewered it in place. “He looked at me and saw a cipher, a
nonentity. He saw what I hoped he would see, because I wanted him to send me far, far away from that
wretched place. Maybe I have my mother’s moon-magic, maybe I’m just good at playacting. He saw a
little bit of uninteresting girl-flesh, not worth keeping, and by getting rid of it he did what I wanted.”
Candle- and firelight glinted on the fine embroidered trim of an indigo-colored gown, and gleamed on
the steel of the bodice knife she slipped into the sheath that the embroidery concealed.
“But to send you here!” Reanna shook her head. “What was he thinking?”
“Exactly nothing, I expect.” Moira hid her leather gauntlets inside a linen chemise, and inserted a pair of
stiletto blades inside the stays of a corset. “I’m sure he fully expected to have a half-dozen male heirs by
now, and wanted only to find somewhere to be rid of me at worst, and to polish me up into a marriage
token at best. He looked about for someone to foist me off on—which would have to be some relation of
my mother’s, since he’s not on speaking terms with most of his House—and picked the one most likely
to turn me into something he could use for an alliance. You have to admit, the Countess has a reputation
for taking troublesome young hoydens and turning out lovely women.” The ironic smile with which she
delivered those last words was not lost on her best friend. Reanna choked, and her pink cheeks turned
pinker.
“Lovely women who use bodkins to put up their hair!” she exclaimed. “Lovely women who—”
“Peace,” Moira cautioned. “Perhaps the moon-magic had a hand in that, too. If it did, well, all to the
good.” An entire matched set of ornate silver bodkins joined the gauntlets in the pack, bundled with
comb, brush, and hand mirror. “There can be only one reason why Father wants me home now. He plans
to wed me to some handpicked suitor. Perhaps it’s for an alliance, perhaps it’s to someone he is
grooming as his successor. In either case, though he knows it not, he is going to find himself thwarted. I
intend to marry no one not of my own choosing.”
Reanna rested her chin on her hands and looked up at Moira with deceptively limpid blue eyes. “I don’t
know how you’ll manage that. You’ll be one young woman in a keep full of your father’s men.”
“And the law in Highclere says that no woman can be wed against her will. Not even the heir to a sea-
keep. And the keep will be mine, whether he likes it or not, for I am the only child.” Moira rolled wool
stockings into balls and stuffed them in odd places in the pack. She was going to miss this cozy room.
The sea-keep was not noted for comfort. “I will admit, I do not know, yet, what I will do when he
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proposes such a match. But the Countess has not taught me in vain. I will think of something.”
“And it will be something clever,” Reanna murmured. “And you will make your father think it was all
his idea.”
Moira tossed her head like a restive horse. “Of course!” she replied. “Am I not one of her Grey Ladies?”
Moira’s midnight-black braid came down again, and she coiled it up automatically, casting a look at
herself in the mirror as she did so. As she was now—without the arts of paint and brush she had learned
from Countess Vrenable—no man would look twice at her. This was a good thing, for a beauty had a
hard time making herself plain and unnoticed, but one who possessed a certain cast of pale features that
might be called “plain” had the potential to be either ignored or to make herself by art into a beauty.
Strange that she and Reanna should have become such fast friends from the very moment she had
entered the gates of Viridian Manor. She, so dark and pale, and Reanna, so golden and rosy—yet
beneath the surface, they were very much two of a kind. Both had been sent here by parents who had no
use for them; daughters who must be dowered were a liability, but girls schooled by Countess Vrenable
had a certain cachet as brides, and often the King could be coaxed into providing an addition to an
otherwise meager dower. Especially when the King himself was using the bride as the bond of an
alliance, which had also been known to happen to girls schooled by the Countess. Both Moira and
Reanna were the same age, and when it came to their interests and skills, unlikely as it might seem, they
were a perfectly matched set.
And both had, two years ago, been taken into the especial schooling that made them something more
than the Countess’s fosterlings. Both had been invited to become Grey Ladies.
It sometimes occurred to Moira that the difference between girls fostered with Countess Vrenable and
those fostered elsewhere, was that the other girls went through their lives assuming that no matter what
happened, no matter what terrible thing befell them, there would be a rescue and a rescuer. The Grey
Ladies knew very well that if there was a rescue to be had, they would be doing the rescuing themselves.
There was a great deal to be said for not relying on anyone but yourself.
“You’re not a Grey Lady yet,” Reanna reminded her, from her perch on the bolster of the bed. “That’s
for the Countess to decide.”
A polite cough beside them made them both turn toward the door. “In fact, my dear, the Countess is
about to make that decision right now.”
No one took Countess Vrenable, first cousin to the King, for granted. And it was not only because of her
nearness in blood to the throne. She was not tall, yet she gave the impression of being stately; she was
no beauty, yet she caused the eyes of men to turn away from those who were “mere” beauties. It was
said that there was no skill she had not mastered. She danced with elegance, conversed with wit, sang,
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played, embroidered—had all of the accomplishments any well-born woman could need. And several
more, besides. Her hair was pure white, yet her finely chiseled face was ageless. Some said her hair had
been white for the past thirty years, that it had turned white the day her husband, the Count, died in her
arms.
“You are a little young to be one of my Ladies, child,” the Countess said, in a tone that suggested
otherwise. “However, this move on your father’s part holds…potential.”
The older woman turned with a practiced grace that Moira envied, and began pacing back and forth in
the confined space of the small room she shared with Reanna. “I should tell you a key fact, my dear. I
created the Grey Ladies after my dear husband died, because it was lack of information that caused his
death.”
She paused in her pacing to look at both girls. Reanna blinked, looking puzzled, but too polite to say
anything.
The Countess smiled. “Yes, my children, to most, he died because he threw himself between an assassin
and the King. But the King and I realized even as he was dying that the moment of his death began long
before the knife struck him. We know that if we had had the proper information, the assassin would
never have gotten that far. Assassins, feuds, even wars—all can be averted with the right information at
the right time.” She passed a hand along a fold of her sable gown. “My cousin has kept peace within our
borders and without because he values cunning over force. But it is a never-ending struggle, and in that
struggle, information is the most powerful weapon he has.”
As Reanna’s mouth formed a silent O, the Countess turned to Moira. “Here is the dilemma I face. There
is information that I need to know in, and about, the Sea-Keep of Highclere and its lord. But conflicting
loyalties—”
Moira raised an eyebrow. “My lady, I have not seen my father for more than a handful of days in all my
life. I know well that although my mother loved him, he wedded her only to have her dower, and it was
her desperate attempt to give him the male heir he craved that killed her. He cast me off like an outworn
glove, and now he calls me back when he at last has need of me. I have had more loving kindness from
you in a single day than I have had from him in all my life. If he works against the King, it is my duty to
thwart him.” She met the Countess’s intensely blue eyes with her own pale grey ones. “There are no
conflicting loyalties, my lady. I owe my birth to him—but to you, I owe all that I am now.”
What she did not, and would not say, was a memory held tight within her, of the night her mother had
died, trying to give birth to the male child her father had so desperately wanted. How her mother lay
dying and calling out for him, while he had eyes only for the son born dead. How he had mourned that
half-formed infant the full seven days and had it buried with great ceremony, while his wife went
unattended to her grave but for Moira and a single maidservant. She had never forgiven him for that, and
never would.
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The Countess held herself very still, and her eyes grew dark with sadness. “My dear child, I understand
you. And I am sorry for it.”
Reanna sighed. “Not all of us are blessed with loving parents, my lady,” she said.
The Countess’s lips thinned. “If you had loving parents, child, I would be the last person to remove you
from their care,” she replied briskly, and Moira suddenly understood why she felt she had joined some
sort of sisterhood when she came to foster under the Countess’s care. None of them had been considered
anything other than burdens at worst, and tokens of negotiation at best, by their parents.
Which makes us apt to trust the first hand that offers kindness instead of a blow, she thought. Which
was, of course, a thought born of the Countess’s own training. The Countess taught them all to look for
weaknesses and strengths, and to never accept anything at its face value, even the girls who were not
recruited into the ranks of the Grey Ladies.
But then her mind added, And it is a very good thing for all of us that milady is truly kind, and truly
cares. Because she had no doubt of that. The Countess cared deeply about her fosterlings, whether they
were Grey Ladies or not.
But it did make her wonder what someone with less scruples could accomplish with the same material to
work on.
“Would that I had a year further training of you, Moira,” the Countess said, frowning just a little. “I am
loath to throw you into what may be a lion’s den with less than a full quiver of arrows.”
“I am thrown there anyway,” Moira replied logically. “My father will have me home, and you cannot
withhold me. I would as soon be of some use.” And then something occurred to her, which made the
corners of her mouth turn up. “But I shall want my reward, my lady.”
“Oh, so?” The Countess did not take affront at this. One fine eyebrow rose; that was all.
“Should I find my father in treason, his estates are confiscated to the Crown, are they not?” she asked.
“Well then, as we both know, your word is as good as the King’s. So should information I lay be the
cause of such a finding, I wish your hand and seal upon it that the Sea-Keep of Highclere, my mother’s
dower, remains with me.”
Slowly, the Countess smiled; it was, Moira thought, a smile that some men might have killed for,
because it was a smile full of warmth and approval. “I have taught you well,” she said at last. “Better
than I had thought. Well enough, my hand and seal on it, and if you can think thus straightly, I believe
you may serve your King.” And she took pen and parchment from the desk and wrote it out. “And you,
Reanna—you may hold this in surety for your friend,” she continued, handing the parchment to Reanna,
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who waved it in the air to dry. “I think it best that you, Moira, not be found with any such thing on your
person.”
Moira and Reanna both nodded. Moira, because she knew that no one would be able to part Reanna
from the paper if Reanna didn’t wish to give it up. Reanna—well, perhaps because Reanna knew that the
Countess would never attempt to take it from her.
“All right, child,” the Countess said then. “I am going to steal you away from your packing long enough
to try and cram a year’s worth of teaching into an afternoon.”
In the end, the Countess took more than an afternoon, and even then, Moira felt as if her head had been
packed too full for her to really think about what she had learned.
The escort that her father had sent had been forced to cool its collective heels until the Countess saw fit
to deliver Moira into their hands. There was not a great deal they could do about that; the Countess
Vrenable outranked the mere Lord of Highclere Sea-Keep. The Countess was not completely without a
heart; she did see that they were properly fed and housed. But she wanted it made exquisitely clear that
affairs would proceed at her pace and convenience, not those of some upstart from the costal provinces.
But there was more here than the Countess establishing her ascendancy, for the lady never did anything
without having at least three reasons behind her action. The Countess was also goading Lord Ferson of
Highclere Sea-Keep, seeing if he could be prodded into rash behavior. Holding on to Moira a day or two
more would be a minor irritation for most fathers, especially since his men had turned up unheralded and
unannounced. In fact, a reasonable man would only think that the Countess was fond of his daughter and
loath to lose her. But an unreasonable man, or a man hovering on the edge of rebellion, might see this as
provocation. And he might then act before he thought.
As a consequence, Moira had more than enough time to pack, and she had some additions, courtesy of
the Countess, to her baggage when she was done.
In the dawn of the fourth day after her father’s men arrived with their summons, she took her leave of
Viridian Manor.
As the eastern sky began to lighten, she mounted a gentle mule amid her escort of guards and the
maidservant they had brought with them. She took the aid offered by the chief of the guardsmen; not that
she needed it, for she could have leaped astride the mule without even touching foot to stirrup had she
chosen to do so—but from this moment on, she would be painting a portrait of a very different Moira
from the one that the Countess had trained. This Moira was quiet, speaking only when spoken to, and in
all ways acting as an ordinary well schooled maiden with no “extra” skills. The rest of her “personality”
would be decided when Moira herself had more information to work with. The reason for her abrupt
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WinterMoonSelectedpraiseforMERCEDESLACKEY“Lackeyhascreatedanintelligent,self-possessedheroine.”—PublishersWeeklyonTheFairyGodmother“WryandscintillatingtakeontheCinderellastory…Lackey’staleresonateswithcharmasmagicalasthefairy-talerealmsheportrays.”—BookPageonTheFairyGodmotherSelectedpraiseforTANITH...
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