Lowen had decided long ago that making love to a satyr was a perilous business. The helmet of horns curled tightly against Nicanor’s skull made even the simple act of running her hands through his long hair problematic. His monstrously large hooves could easily take a gouge out of her shins, and he had the densely muscled strength to crush her beneath him like a paper doll, but she had loved him for a full year and a day and trusted him like no other.

  Nicanor shifted on their bed of moss, pulling her closer to him. She relaxed into the cradle of his arm, breathing in his deep, wildwood scent. Dewy perspiration was caught amongst the fine hairs of his chest, glinting across his skin in the violet dark.

  “You are quiet tonight, my love,” he said. “Does something worry you?”

  Lowen traced a finger across the soft down of his stomach. “I am anxious not to be missed, but I have no desire to leave.” It was not a complete lie, but the complete truth remained caught at the back of her throat like a sticky barb. She swallowed it back down.

  “I understand.”

  Aikana hung in the sky above them, dappling the forest with lavender-edged shadows. Lowen should have been celebrating the Changing of the Moons with her people but she was here with her lover, sheltered beneath the fronds of a willow tree on the mossy banks of the Weeping River. The water rushed over stones and boulders, still swollen with the last snowmelt. Leaves rustled in a fragrant spring breeze and somewhere far overhead, a family of wood pigeons called to each other across the treetops.

  “I wish we could stay here forever,” she said.

  Perhaps they would turn to stone, locked in each other’s arms until the end of time like one of Grandmother’s stories. The forest would creep around them, covering their bodies with moss and winding tender, searching roots through their hair, and she would never have to reveal the secret burning in her chest like a hot coal.

  “It will get cold later. Then the prospect won’t be so tempting.”

  “You’ll keep me warm.”

  He bent to kiss her, cupping her chin in one large hand and bringing her face to his. Lowen pulled away too soon. She sat back and studied his face, half-hidden in night shadows.

  “How does this end?”

  “What do you mean?” He reached for her again but she didn’t respond.

  “I mean, how does this end for us? Will we meet like this for the rest of our lives, in secret and always at night?”

  Nicanor looked as if he wanted to laugh but saw the look on her face and stopped himself. “It’s not as if I can wander into Kree and call on you. Your mother is Chieftain of the Wild Scrat. I imagine if I knocked on your door, she would greet me with a spear through the chest.”

  “She wouldn’t kill you on sight. The Scrat aren’t murderers. We are friendly with the satyr; we have an alliance.”

  “Yes, an alliance only upheld if no laws are broken.”

  They sat and looked at each other in silence beneath the creaking limbs of the willow tree. They had never disagreed before. This was as close as they had come to even raising their voices.

  “I hate the laws,” Lowen finally said, careful to keep her tone level. The hot coal was twisting in her chest, threatening to jump right from her throat and speak its horrible truth. “I hate our people for making them. Why shouldn’t a Scrat be with a satyr if that is their wish? If I could understand why, perhaps the laws would be easier to follow.”

  “I don’t truly understand why, either, but it has always been this way and likely always will. If we were to stop being so careful, we would be punished. We’d never be allowed to see each other again. Why would you risk that?”

  Lowen knew she should open her mouth and let her hot, hard little truth fly from it. It hung unvoiced between them, waiting only for her to give it life. She could feel the words forming on her tongue. Then she lowered her gaze and shut her mouth and the words drifted away like smoke spiralling into the ether.

  “Lowen?”

  “We should run away together,” she said suddenly.

  “You know that’s impossible.”

  “Surely any obstacle is surmountable if you want something badly enough?”

  “How would I move about the world beyond these lands? Satyr are feared in all four corners of Joria. I would be hunted like an animal.”

  “I’ve heard of satyr using glamour magicks to disguise themselves,” Lowen argued. “If we could only find a witch willing to—”

  “Why should I change my appearance? I shouldn’t have to wear a disguise to protect myself from the hatred of others.”

  “No, you shouldn’t have to. But we can’t change the minds of every ignorant person in the world. What we can change are our own futures if we only find the courage.”

  “It’s not a question of courage, it’s a question of pride.”

  “Sod your pride.” Lowen pushed herself to her feet and cast about for her discarded clothes, pulling them on quickly before turning back to face him. He looked shocked, alarmed by her temper.

  “Don’t you want to be with me?” she asked.

  Nicanor stood and opened his arms to her. She shook her head.

  “Of course, I want to be with you,” he said. “But this situation is very complicated. I don’t think it can be solved by simply running away.”

  Lowen stepped away from him. The hot coal was in her mouth now, burning like acid as it finally forced the terrifying truth past her lips.

  “I’m pregnant.”

  She watched Nicanor’s eyes widen, flinched at his deep intake of breath. The forest fell silent as she waited for him to speak. Even the breeze dropped. Lowen studied her lover's face, searching for consolation or support. His expression was dark and distant.

  "Do you have nothing to say to me?" she finally cried.

  Nicanor couldn't even raise his gaze to look at her. Biting back her tears, she tore aside the curtain of willow branches and bolted into the forest.

  ***

  Lowen was able to pass unseen into Krenn. The village was as much a part of the forest as the trees themselves but she could hear the drums and pan flutes before she reached the fires of her home. The entire tribe were swarming in the vast clearing at the village centre, gathered around a pyre built so high Lowen had to shield her eyes against the scorching light.

  “Lowen,” Talwyn called, hurrying to her side. “I’ve been looking for you, I thought you were going to miss the festival.”

  “I’ve never seen such an enormous fire.”

  “Yes, your mother has outdone herself.”

  Talwyn took hold of Lowen’s hands and began dragging her towards a circle of dancing Scrat whirling and leaping around the fire. “Come, even Jenifer is dancing tonight.”

  Lowen searched the ecstatic faces for her sister. It was strange to see Jenifer joining in the celebration of Aikana’s return with such abandon. Her usually serious demeanour had melted away, replaced by a rapture that made her glow in the firelight. Lowen and Talwyn fell into step beside her and she laughed to see them, clapping her hands above her head.

  “Blessed night,” she shouted in greeting above the pounding of the drums.

  “Blessed night,” Lowen shouted back.

  It may have been the Changing of the Moons but Lowen wanted to crawl into bed and pull a blanket over her head. Instead, she concentrated on the drumbeat. The large drums were positioned all around the clearing, each one presided over by a drummer whose hair flew about their heads as they pounded with drumsticks as long as their forearms. Lowen forced herself to move to the rhythm, to lose herself in the soaring melodies of the pan flutes. Her body turned and leapt with her tribe, using muscle memory formed from countless dances and celebrations.

  As they made their way around the fire, another performance was taking place inside the tribe’s revolving circle. Rosen—a young girl of fourteen—was dressed in the raiment of Aikana. Purple skirts floated about her legs like fine mist as she danced with her silver partner, Endel. He wore a light-coloured tunic and breeches embroidered with twisting silver thread to represent the male moon.

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  All eyes were on them as they moved closer together, almost touching before springing apart once more. Glittering Mamai eventually submitted to Aikana, leaping one final time before the flames to land kneeling before her, his head bowed. The Scrat erupted into cheers, holding each other and stamping their feet on the ground in time to the constant drumbeat. This was the culmination of their dance. Aikana had moved beyond Mamai. His influence had passed away and the Changing of the Moons was complete.

  “They danced well,” Jenifer said to Lowen. “Rosen and Endel were a good choice.”

  “They were.”

  The drums and pan flutes fell silent as Kerra, leader of the Wild Scrat, stepped up onto a plinth at the head of the clearing. The rising pyre lit her red hair like a flame against the bruised purple of the night.

  “We gather tonight to welcome Aikana, our Mother Moon,” she began. “Blessed night, my children.”

  “Blessed night,” the Scrat returned as one.

  “In the north, they fear Aikana,” Kerra continued. “They believe she brings destruction and misery. We know better than those Armorian fools.” This was met with cheers from those assembled. “The wheel has turned. Mamai’s time is over and Aikana has bloomed once again. We are the Wild Scrat. We do not fear change, we embrace it. I invite our Scrat daughters to step forward and adorn our most beloved tree with their intentions. Release your hopes and dreams to Aikana and she will guide you to them.”

  As Kerra stepped down from the plinth Jenifer turned back to Lowen. “Have you written an intention?”

  “Of course, I have.”

  “What did you write?”

  “They’re supposed to be kept a secret.”

  On the other side of the fire, women were beginning to crowd beneath the immense oak tree they called the Scrat-Heart. It was gnarled and immeasurably ancient, twisted with its own sleeping magick. Many legends surrounded the tree. Its sap was said to be a cure for infertility and the Scrat used its leaves as a poultice to treat all manner of wounds. In springtime, the Scrat-Heart blossomed with an abundance of curious, pale orange flowers and trailing catkins, unlike any other oak tree in Nymed. The honeyed scent of its blooms filled the lilac night and Lowen lifted her face to the air, inhaling deeply.

  A ladder was placed against the wide trunk. One by one, the women of the tribe climbed it, holding aloft small rolls of parchment wrapped in purple ribbon. These they carefully tied to the myriad branches. Each intention was a deeply held wish, written in small, neat handwriting with black ink. Lowen had written hers before meeting with Nicanor and now she put a hand in the pocket of her leather tunic, suddenly afraid her sister would try to snatch it away.

  “Surely you’re not embarrassed?” Jenifer said. “What secret could you be keeping?”

  “Lowen has no secrets,” Talwyn said, reappearing with a cup of dark blackberry mead in her hand. “You’re a simple soul, aren’t you? If only we could all be as content as you.”

  Lowen was quite sure the cup of mead was not Talwyn’s first. “Shall we take our turn?” she suggested.

  The three women joined the crowd beneath the Scrat-Heart and waited for an opportunity to climb the ladder. The pan flute players had regrouped beside the tree, their heads tilted skyward as they serenaded the luminous purple moon. Rosen danced between them in her gossamer skirts, beckoning women to step forward with their intentions.

  “I will tell what I wrote,” Jenifer said.

  Lowen smiled at her sister, wishing she could satisfy her curiosity. “I can guess what you wrote. You wish to be elected chieftain when it is time for Mother to present you to the tribe.”

  “I will be elected chieftain. No, I wished to be granted the wisdom to become a great leader. Greater even than Mother.”

  “I’m sure you will be, although your place amongst the Mistresses and Masters of the Hunt will be forfeit. Won’t you find that hard to bear?”

  “I will still hunt. My string-sisters and I are bonded for life. Now, tell me your intention.”

  “I would rather keep it between myself and Aikana.”

  Jenifer’s face darkened. “I’m sure it’s tedious. You probably wished for keener archery skills or to grow an inch or two taller. You would need Aikana’s help with that, you stopped growing when you were twelve.”

  Lowen turned away from her sister, the well-trodden insult gouging like a dagger. Jenifer was the double of their mother with her dark eyes, strong features, and tightly muscled arms built for hoisting a spear. Lowen appeared frail in comparison. She was a full head shorter than her warrior sister with hair that refused to grow beyond her shoulders. The other Scrat wore their flame-red plaits long, teased and threaded with bright beads and vibrantly coloured feathers.

  “You shouldn’t place such value on the ability to puncture forest creatures with a flying stick,” she said.

  “I don’t,” her sister replied. “But you can’t track, either. Can’t even fish without soaking yourself in the river. If all Scrat were like you, we would soon starve to death.”

  “And if all Scrat were like you, we’d be nothing but a collective of hard-hearted butchers.”

  “That’s enough now,” Talwyn said. Her voice was calm but she cast a reproachful glare at Jenifer. “Tonight is not a night for fighting.” She placed a hand on the small of Lowen’s back, gently encouraging her forward. “Take your turn. Deliver your intention.”

  Her fingers shaking slightly, Lowen withdrew the rolled parchment from her pocket. She began to move towards the ladder but was stopped by Jenifer’s hand on her wrist.

  “Wait, you still haven’t told us what you wrote.”

  “Just leave her alone,” Talwyn said. “Lowen’s secrets are hers to keep.”

  “There should be no secrets between sisters,” Jenifer insisted. She tried to grab the parchment, closing her strong hand around Lowen’s smaller one.

  “I beg you, Jenifer,” Lowen pleaded, “let me be.”

  “Just show me your sodding intention.” Jenifer finally ripped the parchment free from Lowen’s fingers and took a long step back, holding it from her reach.

  Lowen was ready to scream at her sister, ready to launch herself at her hateful face and scratch her eyes out if it meant she couldn’t read the haunted truths printed on the parchment. Then a flash of black and white fell from the Scrat-Heart and she held back, relief dousing her like a sluice of cold water.

  The flash landed on Jenifer’s hand, eliciting an angry cry from the warrior as she let the parchment fall to the grass and began swatting at the magpie who had sliced a sizable cut in her thumb with its sharp beak. The bird dodged her blows. It hovered in the air as though taunting her, beating glossy wings in her furious face.

  “Odelin, to me,” Lowen commanded.

  The magpie immediately stopped its assault and flew gracefully to the ground, retrieving the intention in its beak before fluttering up to perch on Lowen’s shoulder.

  “That bird is a menace,” Jenifer growled. “Mother will be hearing about this.” Mustering as much dignity as she could manage, Jenifer turned and marched out of the clearing, bleeding hand held tight to her chest.

  “That was quite the performance,” said a soft voice behind them.

  Lowen turned to see her grandmother, wrapped tightly in a red woollen shawl despite the season’s warmth. Her long, bone-white hair lifted from her shoulders in the evening breeze.

  “Grandmother, I’m so sorry about that. I didn’t mean to wound Jenifer.”

  “No, but she meant to wound you so maybe she got what she deserved.”

  The old woman looked to Talwyn who had been watching the entire spectacle with wide eyes. “Talwyn, my dear. Would you mind hanging Lowen’s intention with your own? It is time we joined the celebrations.”

  Talwyn nodded dumbly, lifting her hand towards Odelin so the bright-eyed bird could drop the roll of parchment into her palm.

  Her grandmother began to move away, one hand on Lowen’s arm, but before they stepped out from under the boughs of the oak tree the old woman turned back.

  “You’d better not read it either, Talwyn. I will know if you do. You may be the Chieftain’s Second, but you will mind me. Do you understand?”

  Talwyn nodded again and started to climb the ladder.

  “Why does Jenifer hate me?” Lowen whispered once they were out of earshot. She was trembling, faintly sickened by a twist of anger and sorrow.

  “Silly child, Jenifer loves you. It is jealousy that makes her actions ugly.”

  Lowen shook her head. “Why would Jenifer be jealous of me? You heard her, I can’t track or hunt. She is skilled at both.”

  “Yes,” Grandmother agreed. “Jenifer works very hard to please your mother. She’s jealous of you because she believes you don’t have to.”

  “She believes Mother favours me? She is very much mistaken. I am no daughter a Scrat mother could be proud of.”

  The old woman stopped. “Lowen, your awful words are hurting my ears.” She lifted her hands to the sides of her head, feigning pain. “You must not talk about yourself like that. Of course, your mother is proud of you. You have a good heart. That is something to be prized in this world. She is harder on Jenifer because she is her heir and will soon, Aikana willing, take on the responsibility of leading our tribe. If only Jenifer could see that. Your mother protects your heart while nurturing Jenifer’s strength. Such a balancing act is no easy task and I know she worries for both of you.”

  “I never wanted to worry her.”

  “Worry is a mother’s constant companion. There is nothing you or I or Aikana herself can do to change that.” She reached for Lowen’s hand and squeezed her fingers tightly. “Jenifer will learn to be kinder. She will have to or she may never make chieftain. Just have patience with her.”

  They reached the feasting tables. The Scrat had been hoarding supplies all year and there was a plethora of food on display. Fruits and vegetables of all sizes and colours were piled in shallow dishes. Sweet, plaited bread infused the night air with a nutty aroma and jugs of ale, mead, and thick, red wine were quickly emptying. Lowen reached for a sticky honey roll and picked off crumbs to feed to Odelin who was still perched on her shoulder.

  Grandmother clapped her hands in delight as she surveyed the tables. She shrugged her shawl from her shoulders, draping it over the branch of an overhanging tree.

  “I desire a drink,” she announced.

  “Let me pour for you, Koth Conwen,” said a young man beside her.

  “Thank you so much, Clem.”

  As Clem bent to retrieve a jug from the back of the table, Lowen was certain she caught her grandmother’s eager gaze alight on his rear end. She looked away in embarrassment but Grandmother only laughed.

  “Allow me my small fancies,” she whispered. “I do no more than look, after all.”

  Clem returned with a cup of wine.

  “Am I too old for mead, young man?” Conwen teased him.

  Clem gaped, flustered. “No, of course not, Koth Conwen. I only thought that—”

  “Calm yourself. The wine is perfectly acceptable.” She waved him away before turning to Lowen and adding, “It is perfectly serviceable, I should have said.” She grimaced before drinking the entire cup in one long swallow.

  “Yet you have still managed to drain your cup.”

  “No wine for you though, dear. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  Lowen blanched as she watched her grandmother’s gaze fall to her stomach. It was flat beneath the tight leather tunic, but she knew she would soon begin to show as the baby inside her grew. Her mouth suddenly felt very dry.

  The old woman lifted silk-soft hands to Lowen’s face, stopping her from speaking and startling Odelin who launched himself up into the shifting dark with an indignant rustle of feathers. She smiled at her, face creasing into familiar, careworn lines, as the music beneath the tree continued to fill the clearing and the fire at its heart roared into the night. Scrat surrounded them on all sides, talking over bowls of food and passing each other drinks as if there were no traitors in their midst. As if their Chieftain’s youngest daughter had not defied their most sacred laws.

  “We must dance!” Conwen announced, grabbing Lowen’s hand and leading her towards the whirling bodies still moving around the pyre.

  Lowen was left to wonder if she simply imagined what had passed between them. The thought should have been a comforting one, but a feeling of dread was settling over her like a damp shroud.