Lunelocked: Book 3 in the Lunation series

CHAPTER 1

The stinging, slapping sensation of her hands hitting the bluestone path with, the full force of her bodyweight behind them, was one Princess Marama had never experienced before. She leapt from the ground, her pain eclipsed by a blazing anger — also a sensation she had never previously experienced.

‘How dare you lay a hand on me? I am of the royal blood! I will not be denied my birth-given right to re-enter this castle!’ As she spoke, she tried once again to pass the guard that who stood between her and the entrance to the tunnel that led to the castle. The castle was her home; she had never been outside the walls before — and she had no intention of staying outside them.

Impassively, the guard again extended his arm to halt her passage, and she found herself sprawling on the ground a second time. This time, she saw stars. Her head had ploughed right into the hardened leather gauntlet that encircled his forearm.

‘Does Vikrant know I am here?’ She spluttered, eventually, this time rising much more slowly. The guard did not reply.

‘VIKRANT!’ Marama yelled, but for the first time she could ever recall, her lifelong guardian and teacher did not answer her summons. Not game to attempt to pass the guard a third time, she tried calling Vikrant again, repeatedly bellowing his name until she began to grow hoarse. She began to feel a little foolish, just her, the guard, the tunnel, and not another soul in sight. She may as well have been an insect, for all the attention the guard paid her.

And then a horrible realisation began to dawn. Was she being evicted from the castle in order to undertake an initiation journey? Now that her uncle had abdicated, was she next in line for the throne? It couldn’t be! Nothing in her upbringing had prepared her for this — the throne or the initiation journey.

‘I won’t do it!’ Marama yelled, sending her voice echoing down the tunnel. ‘I don’t want to be the queen! You know I desire to take the vows of poverty, and join the Darcon priesthood. How dare you force this upon me?’

No answer.

‘VIKRANT! Do you hear me? I defy you!’

Once again, nothing. Feeling more than a little ridiculous, Marama turned her back on the tunnel, and surveyed the path behind her. It meandered off along the cliff-edge, towards a town she had heard of — Quira — but never seen. She had never planned to see it, for Kral’s sake! The sight of all that open land was terrifying She longed for the stone security of the castle walls, and her attendants, the Darcons.

‘Vikrant!’ Sshe turned back; pleaded with the black maw of the tunnel, ignoring the guard. Her voice was softer now, wheedling. ‘At least give me some spare clothes, a horse, some money! How am I supposed to survive? What will I eat? Where will I sleep?’

Marama knew about money, though she had never handled it herself. She thought she would probably need it if she really were to attempt this crazy initiation journey. And it was really crazy — one year, alone and unaided, exploring the kingdom that she would now one day rule. Damn Raul for abdicating. Damn him. She thought she would throttle her uncle if she could only get her hands on him. Perhaps she should seek him out, try and convince him to come back and take up the rulership now that her father was dead, as had always been intended. But where could he be?

Resisting the temptation to just sit outside the tunnel and attempt a hunger fast until the Darcons relented and let her back in, Marama supposed her only choice, at this point, was to make her way to Quira. Kerria’s capital city was a two-day walk from the castle — she had perused the maps, and she knew that there was little else between here and the castle except the forest. Quira was her connection to the rest of the country — all of the roads passed through it. From there she could pursue her uncle — though how she could possibly finance that search, she did not know.

Marama took first one step, and then another, feeling as though she were pulling herself out of a jar of honey. Each step was easier as she imaged the strands of honey stretching and stretching, until they became so thin, they fell away. She did not look back to the tunnel. In her mind she repeated the calming exercises taught to her by the Darcons, chanting her favourite mantra over and over again, supressing panic as the full implication of her new future hit home. Now she would never lead the Darcons at prayer, or carry out the god Kral’s will for the people. Her future as a Darcon priestess had been obliterated.

The bluestone path was wide enough for a wagon, and soon enough, she passed one. The driver doffed his hat and mumbled a polite greeting. Marama simply nodded. The wagoneer was not to know the terror inspired by his social nicety. Marama had never spoken to anyone except the Darcons, her father King Baron, and her uncle. The prospect of speaking to another was a fearful one.

But soon enough she passed another wagon; this one stopped by the roadside, the driver munching a slice of bread. This time she managed to croak a greeting in return, and even contemplated trying to hide in the wagon and sneak back into the castle. She soon discarded the idea, realising that there was no hope of staying at the castle if she did succeed in getting that far. She had a feeling the Darcons would simply turn her out again.

After an hour or so, the strange spiky plants that covered the tip of the peninsula gave way to forests. The view to the right was ocean as far as the eye could see — a view she was familiar with, given the castle was surrounded by water on three sides. But the forest, well, that was another thing. She had never seen a forest, and the crowded treescape inspired both fear and fascination. She supposed she would have to become better acquainted with it that night, as she dared not sleep right by the road. Though she grew increasingly tired, Marama delayed leaving the path until twilight thickened around her, and she had no choice.

Stepping into the forest, Marama realised that delaying the inevitable had been unwise. It was much darker in the forest than it had been out on the path. Peering into the murky gloom, she eventually found her eyes adjusted, and her ears caught the happy buzz of a bee. Relief washed over her.

‘Hello, friend, you are out late!’ She she called out, speaking the words in her mind only. She felt the bee’s surprise, and then its wonder at this human who could speak it’s language. For her part, Marama realised this bee was quite different — it was not connected to a hive: she could not sense the usual collective presence that a conversation with the bees at the castle entailed. There, she had understood that speaking with one bee was the same as speaking to them all. The bees at the castle had been her only friends as a child, when the Darcons had little time for her. She had never told the Darcons about her ability to converse with the tiny insects, though she did suspect it was not a typical skill. It had been a great solace to her. The bees at the castle had called her ‘bee-friend’.

‘What are you doing here, sister? Are you well?’ The bee replied, politely.

‘I seek shelter for the night. Will I be safe here?’ Marama asked.

‘It is quite safe here,’ the bee said. ‘It is a lonely spot. If you are fearful I can watch over you while you sleep, and warn you if another draws near.’

‘You are very kind.,’ Marama took her cloak and laid it between the roots of one of the trees.

‘And you are the strangest thing I have seen, a human who talks to bees, and sleeps in the forest!’ The bee settled on a low branch nearby.

‘My circumstances are indeed strange!’ Marama thought, sleepily, as she lay down on the cloak. She was so tired from the walk that her empty stomach seemed inconsequential, and secure under the watchful eye of the bee, she fell asleep.

She awoke at dawn, cold and stiff. The grumbling of her stomach now refused to be ignored. She opened her eyes, to see not one bee, but many.

‘Greetings, sister,’ one of the bees buzzed. ‘I have told some of the others, who also wish to see this bee-talking human.’

‘But you are not from the same hive?’ Marama asked.

‘No.’ The bees were puzzled. ‘We do not know this word, "hive".’

Marama’s stomach gave a particularly loud grumble, audible to the bees. She could not suppress the thought that followed: ‘I’m so hungry!’

‘We will feed you,’ The bees responded, and though she protested at them sharing their minute food supply, the tiny forest bees began to deposit nectar on her lips. Shamed by their generosity, Marama thanked them profusely, though their efforts had in fact done little to satisfy her hunger.

‘Do not worry, sister,’ the bees said. The trees are in flower, and we have time to collect more before the winter comes.’

Profoundly grateful, Marama made her way back to the path, and some of the bees stayed with her for a time, keeping her company. They were thinner and smaller than the bees she knew at the castle, but just as merry. Their company made her journey seem less awful.

Still, before long the forest thinned, and the bees had to leave her. The stands of woodland gave way to crops, and in the distance, Marama could see Quira.

She soon shared the road with plenty of foot and horse traffic. They all stared at her, and it took Marama a moment to realise that her red robe was rather different to the silk suits worn by everyone she encountered. Even the language she spoke was a little different; Marama spoke the high tongue, but thankfully she had had some exposure to the common tongue through the guards and some of the castle domestics, whose strange speech she had striven to understand as a child, so she could understand what they were saying.

Marama was famished and exhausted by the time she reached Quira that afternoon. She found the stone houses to be quite similar to the castle, just much smaller, so the buildings were not so overwhelming. But the people were. There were just so many of them! She found her way to the town square, where a market was underway, and goggled at the even greater number of people she saw there. It must have been a spice market, for the aroma was intoxicating, though she could see food on display as well. She tried to ignore her hunger as she watched the citizens buy food and other goods. What was she going to do? How would she feed herself? And, where would she sleep that night? She fancied the cobbled streets would be even harder than the forest floor.

She noticed a young child, unkempt and odoriferous, carefully help himself to a tray of cakes, and then steal away. Nobody seemed to notice. Desperately hungry, Marama decided to do the same. Maybe with some food in her stomach, she would be better able to think of what to do next.

She waited until the merchant seemed distracted, and sidled up to the stall. She picked up two cakes, pretending to examine them, but put only one back, secreting the other in her sleeve. The sticky cake stuck to the side of her arm unpleasantly, but she was exultant. She had food! Now to find a quiet place to eat it. She almost couldn’t stop herself from eating it then and there, she was so hungry. As she stepped away from the stall, a hand fell upon her shoulder, encasing it in a very firm grip.

‘Aren’t you going to pay for that, young lady?’

Marama turned to meet the gaze of a woman, whip-thin, stern, and very strong.

‘I have no money,’ Marama replied in the high tongue, and the woman started — probably at both the language spoken and the yellow eyes she found staring up at her. The merchant turned his attention their way, and the woman handed him a coin for the cake. She did not release Marama’s shoulder, but steered her away from the stall, encouraging her to eat her ill-gained fare as they walked through the market.

‘Now tell me, miss, where have you come from, and where are you going?’ the woman asked her, in what Marama took to be her best attempt at the high tongue. They had reached the other side of the town square and were in the relative peace and quiet of the botanical gardens.

‘I am not permitted to say where I am from,’ Marama replied. ‘And I do not know where I am going. I have been told I must now make my own way in the world.’

The woman’s eyes narrowed.

‘Perhaps you had best come with me and I will find you some gainful employment. Can you sew, at least? Surely you must know how to do that.’

Marama did know how to use a needle and thread, and the woman was satisfied to hear this.

‘I am Suen,’ she said. ‘And I will call you Mehreen, which means unknown. Come with me.’

Relieved to be taken under somebody’s wing, Marama followed her obediently and did not protest at being given domestic duties once they reached the woman’s home. Actually, she found she rather liked making