Format: E-Galley, 352 pages
Release Date: November 13, 2018
Publisher: DAW/Penguin
Source: Publisher
Genre: Fantasy / Historical
A Rising Moon is the second installment in author Stephen Leigh's Sunpath historical fantasy series. Set in a magic-infused alternate first-century
Britain, the Sunpath series follows the adventures and legacy of a
Boudica-like figure who may be her nation’s only hope for salvation. While A Fading Sun was Voada's story, A Rising Moon is her daughter Orla Paorach's. If you haven't read the first book in this series, I shall spoiler free summarize.
Orla
Paorach’s life was overturned for the first time when her mother Voada
was beaten senseless, and Orla was taken by Bakir, a minor Mundoan army
officer, as his second wife. Now her world is shattered a second time:
Bakir has died in battle, and so has her mother, now known as the Mad
Draoi of the Cateni. Orla flees northward to Onglse, the island
home of the draoi that is the center of the Cateni rebellion against the
Mundoa.
She becomes quickly embroiled in battle as well as deceptions
from both sides of the conflict, as everyone expects that she’s come
take up her mother’s mantle. Those who knew her mother offer their help,
but can she trust any of them? Can she avoid becoming the Mad Draoi
herself, lost in the magic her mother once tried to wield? It's apparent that this story takes place several years after Voada's and that Orla is looked down upon because of who her mother was, and what she nearly accomplished against Commander Altan's army.
But, Orla has something her mother never had. Youth, while lacking Voada's desire for revenge against the people who wronged her family. Once Orla gets to Onglise, it is her mothers former anamacha (a collection of dead draoi) that finds her and sends her off on her own journey that will be quiet different from her mothers. With Orla, she also finds a different sort of love. A love from someone who she shares commonality with; Sorcha. The two women formed a bond after the experiences that Orla faced by the Mundoan's and their wives.
One of the constants of this series has been the author's desire to pit two characters against each other. In the previous installment, it was Voada against Commander Savas who ended up on the winning side. But, Voada and Savas relationship wasn't always antagonistic, and that's where Orla stands as well. If she can convince her apparent enemy that senseless fighting and killing and unnecessary bloodshed should stop, then maybe she will be in a better position that her mother was. Orla's experiences are totally the opposite of her mother's. She really doesn't hate anyone, except she does have issues with same of the people that Voada did. But, she has someone with her to take care of her, and make sure that she doesn't lose herself.
I am curious as to where this series goes from here. This book could in many ways be considered a standalone. But, we shall see.
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The Acolyte
Often enough, Orla wondered why she’d ever bothered to come to Onglse.
The
opportunity to go to the island home of the draoi was the culmination
of an impossible dream, a path she’d been destined to take from the
moment back in Pencraig when she’d realized that-like her mother
Voada-she could see the ghosts of the dead. The soldiers’ wives in the
Mundoan army encampments had spoken of how Voada was an awful monster,
how she’d been trained on Onglse before she’d taken on (or stolen,
depending on who was telling the story) the title of ceanndraoi, joining
with Ceannˆrd Maol Iosa to lead the rebellion against the Mundoa.
Together, Voada and Maol had laid waste to the Mundoan settlements south
of the River Meadham.
The
camp wives had hated Voada-even those, like Azru, who had some sympathy
for the Cateni. They hated that she had killed so many of their
husbands and sons. In turn, most of them also hated Orla simply for
being Voada’s daughter. Still, like all the Cateni attempts to throw off
the yoke of Mundoan rule south of the River Meadham, Voada’s war was
ultimately a blood-drenched failure.
It
had been close to a year since Orla and Sorcha had crossed the River
Meadham into Albann Brˆghad. Orla’s eighteenth birthday had passed
unremarked. Orla had heard the tales of Ceanndraoi Voada whispered
everywhere: in stories, in poems, in songs. She’d listened to the
wondrous, contradictory, and still-growing legend of her mother hands
upon hands of times, from hand upon hands of mouths, in every clan house
she’d visited. Orla was hardly able to reconcile the fierce, vengeful,
and merciless Voada they described with the woman she’d once called
Mother.
Her mother
was now famous, if not universally beloved, while Orla was a burnished
copper mirror reflecting a warped image of that maternal fame. The
northern Cateni passed her carefully from clan ˆrd to clan ˆrd,
pretending to be pleased to meet the famous Voada’s daughter but heaving
a sigh of relief when they sent her on her way again, as if they’d
somehow escaped contagion or attack.
For
nearly half a year, Orla and Sorcha passed from village to village,
always hearing the words, “Oh, you must go on to Onglse. You need to
speak with Ceanndraoi Greum. He’ll be able to help you. We wish we
could, but we can’t.” What exactly Ceanndraoi Greum could help her with
was never quite voiced.
When
she and Sorcha finally reached Onglse, the Isle of the Draoi,
Ceanndraoi Greum made little effort to mask his feelings toward Orla.
The Red-Hand, as Greum was also known, remembered Orla’s mother all too
well, and that was the problem. Yes, he had helped train Voada, and he
had commanded the forces defending Onglse when Commander Savas of the
Mundoa had attacked the island.
But
Voada had stolen away Greum’s military chief, Ceannˆrd Maol Iosa, when
she abandoned Onglse to organize the rebellion in the south. And it was
Greum’s title of ceanndraoi that Voada had claimed as well.
Greum
was obviously less than happy to find that Voada’s daughter had arrived
on the island asking for training. His voice was a deep, rich baritone
that lent authority to his words, and he leaned on a wooden staff he
always carried for support, as his leg had never quite healed from a
wound he’d taken in the battle for Onglse.
“You
say you can see the taibhsean, the ghosts of the dead, and I’ll accept
that,” Ceanndraoi Greum declared when she was presented to him at Bˆn
Cill, the sacred temple set at the center of Onglse. Greum Red-Hand had
the build of a warrior, with dark hair now well-laced with gray, a long
braid down his back, and a thick, oiled beard. His eyebrows, like fat
caterpillars perched on the ledge of his brow, were already more white
than dark, though the eyes beneath them were the black of a moonless
night. As ceanndraoi, he wore an outer cloak of deep red, sewn at the
hems with silver threads in a knotted pattern. Orla immediately saw why
he was called “Red-Hand”-not for the blood he’d shed in battle, but
because the hands emerging from the sleeves of his lŽine were mottled
with orange-red splotches, as if the Goddess Elia had splashed pigment
on them as he was born. An older woman draoi, whom he introduced as
Ceiteag, stood alongside him. The woman stared at Orla with an intensity
that unnerved her.
“Given
your lineage,” Greum continued, glaring at Orla, “I’ve no reason to
doubt your word. But seeing taibhse doesn’t make you a draoi, only a
potential menach-a cleric of Elia.” Greum bowed his head slightly as he
spoke the goddess’ name.
“She
sees the anamacha as well,” Ceiteag broke in. “Go on, girl-point to the
Ceanndraoi’s anamacha or to mine. I know you see them, even if your
friend is entirely blind to them.”
Greum
scowled as Orla pointed to Greum’s right side, where a ghostly figure
stood, its head flickering as several visages came and vanished, the
faces of dozens of the former draoi caught within it. “Draoi Ceiteag is
correct; I can see the anamacha too, not just the taibhse,” Orla told
Greum. “I know now that back in my old home of Pencraig, both my mother
and I saw Leagsaidh Moonshadow’s anamacha, and we all know what my
mother became when she bonded with the Moonshadow.”
Greum’s
scowl deepened at the mention, irritation knitting together bushy
eyebrows. “And where is the Moonshadow’s anamacha now?” he scoffed.
“Lost again, as it was for so long before it found your mam. I don’t see
the Moonshadow’s anamacha or any other standing alongside you, girl. Do
you think I need another menach or another servant to clean the temple?
What use are you and your unsighted friend to me or to Onglse?”
Sorcha,
who had been Orla’s constant companion since they’d fled the Mundoan
army encampment, took a sudden step back at the ceanndraoi’s evident
rage, as if afraid the man might strike them or cast a spell. Since
their arrival on Onglse, Sorcha had become increasingly reluctant to
speak out and more reserved, despite being the older of the two. Orla
forced herself to stand erect, lifting her chin and staring silently at
Greum, her lips pressed together tightly.
“Here’s
what I will do,” Greum spat at last. “It’s two moons until the next
solstice. You and your friend may stay until then. I’ll have Menach
Moire see if you’ve any potential at all, and if you don’t, you’ll both
be asked to leave.”
Ceiteag touched the arm of his robe. “Ceanndraoi, perhaps I should-”
“No,” Greum said loudly before Ceiteag could finish. “Not you, Ceiteag. Menach Moire will be in charge of the girl’s training.”
And with that he stalked away with a swirl of his red cloak. With a final glance back toward Orla, Ceiteag followed him.
—
—
Orla
had little contact with Ceanndraoi Greum after that first day, though
his red-clad presence was often in the periphery of her vision and the
sound of his brass-tipped staff on the templeÕs tiled floors in her
ears. Menach Moire undertook teaching Orla the duties and
responsibilities of a menach. Sorcha, unable to see the taibhse at all,
was taken on as a lowly temple servant-mostly, Orla suspected, because
Orla had insisted that if Sorcha were sent away, Orla would go with her.
That was what little power she had from being Voada’s daughter. No one wanted her, but no one wanted to cast her away either.
Menach
Moire was one of the staff members always hovering around Greum-nearly
all of them women, Orla noted. She had a thin face and body that
reminded Orla of a human-sized weasel, and her darker complexion along
with the shape of her cheeks and nose made Orla wonder if she wasn’t
part Mundoan. The woman treated Orla and especially Sorcha with a cold
disdain that Orla suspected was simply a reflection of Greum’s attitude.
Menach Moire was both menach and draoi, though the acolytes whispered
that her anamacha was extremely weak and that she could barely control
it. She was never referred to as “Draoi Moire,” and she refused to give
any draoi training to Orla.
“If
an anamacha comes to you, then Ceanndraoi Greum may change his mind,”
she told Orla when questioned. “Until then, young woman, be content with
your lot in life. You should be grateful that you’re suffered to be
here at Bˆn Cill at all, after what your mother did to us.”
She
waved a gaunt, wrinkled hand that was meant to encompass all of the
temple grounds and Onglse itself. She’d kept Orla at her side the entire
day, something that Orla was certain made the woman as irritable as it
made Orla. “Most of the draoi here would tell you that your mother
couldn’t handle the Moonshadow’s power and that it eventually drove her
mad. She wasted Elia’s gift. It’s my task to see that you don’t do the
same. Now tell me again the three ways to direct a taibhse to the
sun-path that will lead them on to Tirnanog.”
With
a barely suppressed sigh, Orla recited back to Moire the lesson she’d
been given-one she knew from experience-stroking between her fingertips
the silver oak leaf pendant that was her only legacy from her mother.
She saw Moire’s gaze following her fingers’ movements, though the woman
said nothing.
There
had been taibhse enough in the army encampments Orla had endured after
Bakir had taken her forcibly from her parents to be his wife. The Mundoa
permitted no worship of the Goddess Elia in their camps, but there were
Cateni wives among the men who still clung to the old beliefs and who
celebrated on the solstices cautiously, silently, and in private. When
it became apparent that Orla could not only see the ghosts of the Cateni
dead but could direct them toward the afterlife that was Tirnanog, Orla
became their unspoken and untrained menach.
Moire
sniffed when Orla was done. “Adequate,” she said. “But only that. Go on
and eat your supper, if Cook has anything left at this point. You have
the night watch. And this time make certain the watchers don’t find you
asleep.”
Bowing with
relief, Orla left Menach Moire and returned to the acolytes’ dormitory
on the periphery of the temple grounds, where both she and Sorcha slept
when they weren’t expected to be at the temple. Sorcha was there already
on the straw-stuffed bedding next to Orla’s. She was holding a crudely
carved wooden soldier painted in the colors of the Mundoan army and no
longer than her little finger, staring at it cupped in her hands.
“Difficult
day?” Orla asked her, and the woman started at the sound of her voice,
then tentatively smiled up at her, closing her fingers around the
carving.
“It’s that
obvious?” Sorcha’s smile vanished like thin frost under a spring sun,
and she looked up at Orla with eyes shimmering with moisture. When she
blinked, twin tracks slid down the slopes of her cheeks. “This is all I
have left of Erdem and Esra: a silly, stupid toy they used to play with,
and one I hated seeing them with. They wanted to be just like their
father and go into battle. Now I can’t bear to throw it away because
it’s all I have left of them.” Her fingers tightened around the carving,
her knuckles turning white with the pressure. “I miss my children,
Orla. It hurts. I thought…I thought that because Azru promised to watch
over them for me, I wouldn’t grieve about losing them. I thought the
pain would go away in time, but it hasn’t. It still hurts just as much
as it did the day I left them.”
“Sorcha…”
Orla felt her own tears emerge in sympathy. She sank down next to
Sorcha and pulled the woman to her; as she did, Sorcha began to sob,
clutching at Orla’s shoulders. Orla simply held her without speaking,
feeling the woman’s deep sorrow as she stroked Sorcha’s hair and rocked
the woman as she might a child. After several breaths, Sorcha sniffed
loudly and lifted her head. She wiped at her eyes and nose with the back
of her sleeve.
“Sorry,” she said. “Sometimes…sometimes I just start thinking about it, and…” Her voice wavered and broke.
“You don’t have to apologize. I understand.”
Sorcha
gave a short laugh freighted with self-deprecation. “I know you think
that, but you don’t really understand. It’s not your fault-you never had
a child, so…” Her voice trailed off, and one shoulder lifted in a
shrug. “But I love you for the lie,” Sorcha added.
“Then I’ll keep lying to you,” Orla told her. “And you can keep telling me how Onglse is where I’m supposed to be.”
Sorcha placed a hand over Orla’s. “Menach Moire acting the bear again?”
“The
bear, the wolf, the ogre. All of them at once. She hates me, and so
does Ceanndraoi Greum. They’ll be sending me away soon enough.” She
grinned at Sorcha. “And when they do, maybe you and I will just go back
across the Meadham, find Azru, and check up on your children.”
Sorcha’s smile returned for a moment before fading. “If Elia wills it.”
“Even if She doesn’t,” Orla answered. “I don’t care if She wills it or not.”
“Hush,”
Sorcha told her. “You shouldn’t be saying such things, especially here.
Sometimes I think that Menach Moire can use the walls for ears.”
They
both laughed at that. Orla gave Sorcha another hug and stood up. “I
have to be at the temple for night watch in three stripes of the candle.
I’m going to try to get some sleep so Menach Moire doesn’t catch me
dozing again. I didn’t hear the end of that for days. I still haven’t
heard the end of it.”
“Have you eaten?” Sorcha asked her, and Orla shook her head.
“Then
get to your bed and try to sleep,” Sorcha told her. “I’ll go to the
kitchens and see what I can find and bring it back to you. Go on now.”
Orla
smiled, sighed, and did as Sorcha requested. She fell asleep quickly,
and when the evening watch’s acolyte came to wake her, she found that
Sorcha had left a tray of bread, cheese, and an apple on the floor
between their beds.
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