The Five Daughters of the Moon Read online

  We turn a corner. Rafa and Mufu dash through the tall grass, all arched backs and slim limbs. But suddenly they halt, one forepaw in the air. Then I catch a glimpse of the peacock corrals and swan pens in the valley below.

  “Go on, silly dogs,” Merile says to Rafa and Mufu. To me she says, “The wings of the pedigree birds have been clipped.”

  As Rafa and Mufu run down the hill, toward the corrals and pens, I think of the poor birds. Of course I know where the soul beads come from and that the gagargis must practice their art somewhere. And yet . . . I shiver as I glance over my shoulder. Though the gagargi’s brick house with its massive round towers looms at the far end of the island, the shadow stretches longer than it should, almost far enough to touch me, though that’s impossible. And I’m not imagining it. “I don’t like this place.”

  Merile tilts her head sideways, and the black ringlets bounce with the movement. Out of my four sisters, she’s the only one who takes my worries seriously. But as she’s grown, as I’ve grown, even she has changed. Maybe soon she, too, will report my words to Nurse Nookes or, even worse, directly to Mama.

  “Why . . .” But before Merile can say whatever she was about to say, what I didn’t want to hear anyway, the barking of dogs, shrieking of birds, and flapping of broken wings distracts her. And me, too.

  Merile grins, not old enough to be above mischief after all. She glances at the corrals, to catch a glimpse of dog tails and raised heads, clipped wingtips and curved necks. “I should call them back.”

  But she doesn’t.

  We stroll along the long side of the pavilion. Only the dirty glass separates us from the audience gathered in a semicircle to listen to the gagargi speak. We pass the guards, the audience, even the gagargi. The glass muffles his voice, for which I’m happy. His words are poison.

  The machine looks as massive as ever. Merile runs her fingers against the pavilion’s wall, parting the thick, green moss to reveal the glass underneath. She rubs her thumb and forefinger together. Her white glove is ruined. “Elise’s governess, she told her that this used to be a greenhouse. She says every gagargi has his own area of interest. Specialty of one sort or another.”

  As we turn another corner, I think of the machine, less threatening now that the glass stands between us. Is the machine Gagargi Prataslav’s specialty? Or does he do something else, too, here on this island that no one in her right mind would want to visit?

  “What is he doing now?” Merile wonders aloud. She tiptoes closer to the pavilion’s wall. I follow her through a bush of lupines, and so we both hover as close as we dare, squinting through the panes.

  Engineer Alanov stands but meters away from us, his back against the wall. Before him is a sturdy table, on it a polished wooden box. He inserts a key into the heavy iron lock. As he props open the box, an amber glow lights up his weasel face.

  “What is that?” I ask, even as the engineer lifts from the box a bead the size of my fist. He turns around swiftly and marches to the machine.

  “It can’t. It can’t be . . .” Merile whispers. “Mama would never allow that!”

  The engineer opens a hatch in the machine and lowers the bead in solemnly and carefully. He steps back, head bent down and arms crossed behind his back like a country gagargi retreating from the altar. A heartbeat later, the machine screeches, a high-pitched sound from an unoiled throat. The insect legs burst into a gallop. The pistons and wheels and cogs—I think that’s what they’re called—join the movement.

  I shriek back, stumbling on the lupine stems. I cling to Merile’s arm before I notice what I’m doing. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice our guards staring at us.

  “The machine . . .” Merile’s mouth hangs slack. She looks around for her dogs, then at me. It’s almost as if she’s seeking someone to comfort her. But that can’t be. She’s eleven already! “The machine has come to life.”

  I’ve seen things come to life before. But these things have been small and insignificant, toys created for our entertainment or novelty items meant to buy Mama’s favor. Nothing this big. Or threatening. Merile and I really should go. But I don’t dare to say a word for fear of alerting the guards. For that would lead to them reporting to Mama.

  Behind the glass, Engineer Alanov inserts holed cards into the machine. He licks his fingers at regular intervals, presses each sheet down with great care. The machine looks hungry even after he finishes. I know for sure, no matter how many beads and sheets he’ll feed the machine, it can never be fully satisfied.

  “Come.” Merile tugs my hand, and I’m overjoyed to obey her. My sister leads me down a path toward the shore. Rafa and Mufu appear from amidst thistles, run to us, bounce next to us, tongues lolling out from between tiny, sharp teeth. The guards tail us from a distance.

  I can’t speak for as long as I hear the awful machine shrieking. Merile and I walk down a hill, toward the ocean. It might rain soon. If it does, we need to return. But . . .

  “I don’t want to go back,” I say as we halt on the rocks polished smooth by wave after wave. From this side of the island, I can see home, but this does little to comfort me. Strange as it is, it’s the presence of the magpie, the same one I saw earlier, that gives me the courage to speak. “The machine . . . it looked so hungry.”

  Merile squats before me and places her palms on my shoulders. Dove beads glitter around her neck, against her brown skin. They remind me of the amber bead the engineer fed to the machine. Which animal’s soul was that one?

  “My dear sister, you have nothing to be afraid of.”

  But I have. The machine looked so terribly, terribly hungry. The gagargi’s gaze was so dark. He has plans for me, I know that for sure.

  Everyone knows that without a name a soul can’t anchor to the body, and I still have to wait two more months for my name. The gagargi, I’m sure of it now, he wants to feed me to the machine. That’s what his cruel smile meant.

  “What is it?” Merile asks, brushing my cheek as I blink away tears.

  The magpie studies me, head cocked to the side. The two guards pretend they don’t see me crying, though no doubt they took note of that. I’m once more ashamed of myself, my fears that I know are more than that. But how can I voice them without sounding ridiculous? How do I tell my sister without alarming her? I don’t want her to run and report to Nurse Nookes.

  I whisper, “What if I lose my soul before my name day?”

  Merile glances over my shoulder at the guards. They stand with their backs straight, rifles leaning against their shoulders. Dust doesn’t stain their midnight blue uniforms, nor does it mar their black boots. My sister flicks her finger at them, and they take ten steps back, just enough to give us privacy but still be able to protect us from whomever might want to hurt us. Though even they can’t protect me against the gagargi, not when his words turn people to stone.

  “A secret,” Merile says. “If you tell me what name you’ve chosen, I will keep it a secret.”

  What she is proposing is . . . My heart gallops like a three-legged wild pony. Nurse Nookes would definitely chastise me if she heard of this. And Mama wouldn’t approve, for it’s still two more months until the ceremony. I really should wait.

  “I can’t . . .” It would be so very wrong. And yet, and yet I have known for months already what I want to be called when I finally turn six.

  “I told my name to Sibilia. And she told hers to Elise. Who told hers to Celestia,” Merile reveals. She squats farther down and takes hold of my hands. Her fingers are so warm, even through the stained satin. “And nothing bad happened.”

  The sea breeze is getting colder, heavy with the rain to come. I shiver as I stare up the hill, at the pavilion, and through the glass at the machine. I can hear it rumbling, puffing steam. I can’t see Mama, my sisters, or anyone else in the audience. But the machine can see me. And it still looks hungry.

  “Alina,” I whisper in Merile’s ear, and it feels to me as if I were somehow, impossibly, sealing my fate. “My n
ame will be Alina.”

  Behind us, the machine screams a protest. But it can’t have my soul. My soul is now anchored to my body.

  Chapter 2: Merile

  Smell. I could smell everyone present in the grand hall even with my eyes closed. The favored nobles with their perfumes and colognes, bergamot oils with a hint of lavender and amber undertones. The servants carrying refreshments, sparkling white wine and bite-size sweet pastries in more sorts than I care to count. The omnipresent stink of horse sweat and gunpowder that ever clings to the high-ranking soldiers. And then . . . then there’s the sharp, thorny scent of the gagargi that always confuses both me and my dear companions.

  “Tonight is an important night.” Gagargi Prataslav reaches toward the sky beyond the grand hall’s glass ceiling. Dressed in his ceremonial black robes, he looks taller and more powerful than I’ve seen him ever before. For a moment, I think he might really manage to touch the clouds that hide the Moon. Then he slowly folds his fingers into a fist, lowers his hand before him. Though I know what’s to come, my skin goes to goose bumps. It’s five years since I got my name, but it’s a day that one can never forget. “The Moon shines benevolently upon us.”

  I stand on the raised stage with my sisters and dear companions, in a crescent arc behind Mama, Gagargi Prataslav, and our youngest sister. The nobles dressed in the shades of the Moon, officers of the imperial army, and servants alike stare at the trio, regardless of why they’re present. Though I can see only my sister’s back, the gray-brown hair held in place with dove pearls and the white, silver-sequined, long-sleeved dress that looks slightly too large even though three different seamstresses took it in on three separate occasions, I can tell she feels more out of place and nervous than I did on my name day. Whatever potion Nurse Nookes tricked her into swallowing isn’t strong enough.

  Mama, regal in her ermine-trimmed gown, smiles in approval as the gagargi uncurls his long, bony fingers. A white bead the size of my fist rests in the cup of his palm. For some reason, at that moment, I think he holds the whole world in his palm, though it’s just the soul he needs for the naming spell. Rafa nudges me, her nose cold and wet through the silk of my dress. Though I’d normally pick my dear companion up and coo at her, I don’t, for this is a solemn ceremony. But Rafa was right to rebuke me for the ridiculous, childish thought. Mama is the Crescent Empress. Everything under the Moon belongs to her. And after her, that same everything will be Celestia’s, for she’s the oldest Daughter of the Moon.

  I fix my attention to my little sister just in time to see the gagargi bend toward her, closer than is necessary. Blackness. Not even one glimmer of silver breaks the blackness of his robes, and so he is akin to a storm cloud or a rogue wave. My heart goes out to my little sister.

  “Honored Daughter of the Moon,” Gagargi Prataslav says, leaning even closer. The hall is only dimly lit—the chandeliers bear egret beads—and in the swan bead’s white glow, what little skin remains visible from under the gagargi’s oiled beard bears the paleness of one who rarely steps outdoors. His thin, colorless lips remain parted as if he were reluctant to continue. Or as if he were displeased by something.

  As the silence stretches on, people in the audience shuffle toward the stage regardless of their rank or lack of it. For this is an important moment not only for my little sister but also for the whole Crescent Empire. Though my little sister is the youngest, she’s fifth in the line of succession. Poor Mama never had sisters.

  Another nudge against my calf. This time it’s Mufu. She’s getting impatient, too—her thin black tail wags like a pendulum of a clock gone mad. Still the gagargi won’t continue. I want to order him to do so, but it’s not my place to say a word. Mama’s pose remains regal. She looks calm from behind, but I can’t help wondering if a flicker of annoyance mars her expression.

  At last, Gagargi Prataslav says, “What name have you chosen for yourself?”

  My little sister—she’s told me her name, but I don’t dare to address her with it yet—glances shyly at Mama. We’re not fully human before our sixth birthday, not before we get our name. Officially get our name. No one is, and this is how it has always been, even for the Daughters of the Moon.

  Mama nods sagely. With her pale hair pinned up, with an ibis-bead crown circling her head, she looks ethereal, dreamy, as if she existed not only here, but also in the world beyond this one. She turns to face my little sister, and the scent of her perfume tickles my nostrils. White roses in bloom. Curious that she still wears her summer perfume.

  “My name is . . .” My little sister shivers. I’ve heard the servants whisper that she chose a bad month to be born. Her name day falls in the second month of autumn—on any other year we would have left for the Winter City already. Maybe the crowd’s anxiety is partially caused by that.

  “Yes, my child?” Mama prompts, gently brushing my sister’s shoulder. As an empress, she would never display impatience of any sort in public, but she must want the ceremony to be over and us on our way to a warmer climate. This city was designed to remain cool during the summer months. It’s autumn already, and come winter, everything here will freeze.

  My little sister crosses her hands over her heart. She whispers shyly, “My name is Alina.”

  From the corner of my eye, I catch Celestia nodding, Elise and Sibilia hastening to follow her example. I do likewise. My dear companions, Rafa and Mufu, nod too. The light brown head goes down as the black head goes up. They’re so silly.

  “Alina.” Mama is the first to repeat the name my little sister has chosen. It rolls off her tongue smoothly. No one has a voice as full and pleasant as hers, one that stirs your heart and summons you to obey, no matter what the request may be. “Let her name anchor her soul to her body.”

  “Alina.” Gagargi Prataslav repeats the name, but from his lips, it sounds jagged. I don’t understand why. Nurse Nookes says that only the gagargis and empresses are without fault, devoted as they are to serving the Crescent Empire. “Veneered Moon, hear the name your daughter has chosen.”

  The crowd of favored ones, those who have been chosen to witness the sacred ceremony, stills in anticipation. Even my sisters and I stare fixedly at the gagargi as he lifts the soul bead up once more. He pronounces the sacred spell under his breath and lets the bead drop. As the bead connects with the black stone tiles, the glass cracks. For a moment, there’s nothing but shards.

  Sea after rain. I can smell the swan soul before I see it, the moist scent of the sea after rain. Then a white shape, no bigger than the bead was, forms before Alina, at her feet. Thickening wisps spin into a shape: powerful wings, arched neck, black beak. The swan spreads its wings wide, flaps briskly. Rafa and Mufu shuffle back. They hide in the cover of my voluminous hem. I remember more vividly than is proper how it felt to stand there, feel myself become whole, a person.

  “Honored swan, the sacred messenger of the Moon.” Gagargi Prataslav sails to stand behind Alina, black robes billowing. As the swan regains control of its wings, the gagargi spreads his arms wide and his sleeves brush the floor. His voice, strong as a gale wind, touches every nook and corner of the grand hall. I must be imagining it, but it almost sounds as if it hides a hint of displeasure. But how could it?

  He says, “Bear the name Alina through the clouds and the sky, to the night that blesses us after day. Let the Moon know the name of his daughter. Let the Moon be proud of his child.”

  Alina sways as if she were about to faint. I hear one of my sisters gasping in concern—Elise or Sibilia, I think, but I don’t dare to glance at them. Rafa and Mufu whimper from the depths of my hem as the swan takes to the air. It soars over me and my sisters, circles up, toward the domed ceiling. For a moment, I’m sure the glass panes will hold it back, or that they will soon shatter.

  But the swan’s soul passes through the panes as easily as if nothing had ever held it back. I stare after the bird, the receding white dot. Clouds part before it, close in after. All too soon, it becomes just one more speck of l
ight, a faraway star, and I think . . . Are all the stars swans, messengers of the gagargis? Do they sing to Papa of good and bad, of what has come to pass in the empire he’s bestowed upon his wife to rule?

  “My dear daughter,” Mama congratulates Alina. She pecks a kiss on both her cheeks, but lightly, so that her reddened lips don’t leave marks. I can’t recall the last time she displayed such warmth toward any of us. We see her but an hour a day, for running the empire keeps her occupied from dawn to dusk.

  At last, I dare to steal a glance at my sisters. Celestia, as pale and fair as Mama, beams in ethereal approval. Elise and Sibilia, each fair of skin but merely pale compared to her, whisper to each other. I’m darker of blood, and so is Alina, but only mildly compared to me. There are rumors in the court—I’ve heard them, for people are often careless around those who don’t have a name or have acquired theirs only recently—that Mama’s choices for our seeds are political, that it suited her to pick mine and Alina’s from the Southern Colonies.

  “This gift,” Mama says as she accepts a gold-engraved box from an attendant draped in midnight blue. She holds it up for everyone to see, and light slowly returns to the hall as servants unveil owl-soul lanterns. “It is from General Rasvatan. He sends his fondest regards from the Southern Front.”

  Alina stares at Mama, her big brown eyes round with confusion. It’s as if she’s not really here, but seeing things that exist only in her mind. How can Nurse Nookes’s potion be wearing off already?

  “Poor thing,” Sibilia whispers to Elise as she fidgets with her long sleeves. She insisted they be made of lace so thin as to appear almost translucent, but that may not have been the best call. The fabric seems to itch. “Not to have her seed present at her name ceremony.”