Daughter of Moth (The Moth Saga, Book 4) (21 page)

He rode through the field, his
banner raised high. Soldiers stood at attention at his sides,
creating a path between them. Serin rode through this sea of steel.
Men pounded their fists against their chests, chanting for their
cause.

"Radian rises! Radian
rises!"

When he reached his fortress,
his guards pulled down the drawbridge, then saluted as Serin rode
past them and through the gates. Past the walls, a vast courtyard
awaited him, full of more soldiers. In great pits dug into the earth,
collared slaves toiled, their backs lashed, their ankles chained.
They were raising siege machines—catapults to hurl boulders,
trebuchets to fire flaming barrels, and battering rams to swing on
chains. In one pit, deeper than the rest, men stirred mixtures in
great pots, creating the secret, flammable powder stolen from the
night. The Elorians were weak, maggoty creatures, but they had
invented cannons of fire, and Serin licked his lips hungrily to
imagine turning their own weapon upon them.

"Greenmoat, you fool,"
he whispered as he rode between the pits. "Do you think I care a
wit or jot for Arden, that cesspool you call a kingdom? Arden will be
a wasteland when I'm done with it. Your only worth to me is the land
to your east. You are a road to the night, nothing more, Greenmoat."
He clenched his fist. "Your bones will pave that road."

Past the slave pits, he reached
a second layer of walls, these ones even taller. A dozen towers rose
along them like teeth from a stone jaw, topped with archers. The
banners of Radianism draped the walls, displaying the triumph of the
sun over the moon, the triumph of Timandrian blood—pure and hot and
red—over the Elorian vermin, the subhuman creatures who spawned in
the shadows. He rode through more gates here, across another
courtyard, and toward his keep—the center of his domain. The
building rose taller than any palace in Timandra, even taller than
the palace of Serin's king in the south. Its towers scraped the sky,
blades of stone. The King of Mageria perhaps wore the crown, but
he—Lord Tirus Serin—ruled from the kingdom's greatest castle,
commanding the greatest armies in all Mageria, perhaps all the world.

He dismounted his horse outside
the gates of his hall, letting his stable boys lead the beast away.
Servants bowed and guards stood at attention as he walked forth. He
walked under an archway and entered his throne room—a vast hall
lined with red columns, their gilded capitals shaped as sunbursts. A
mosaic spread across the floor, depicting a battle of thousands, the
soldiers of sunlight slaying the demons of the night. The mosaic was
designed so that, as Serin walked toward his throne, his boots spared
the Timandrian soldiers but stomped upon the faces of the twisted
Elorians. He climbed the stairs onto his dais and sat down upon the
throne, his banners hanging around him, framing him with their might.
His soldiers stood across the hall, spears in hands, armor bright.

Serin clutched the armrests,
leaned forward, and barked, "Bring them in!"

He had been waiting for this
moment all turn, and he sucked in breath with delight and hunger as
his guards stepped forward, dragging the chained prisoners.

Truly, these Elorians were
pathetic beings, he thought, his nostrils flaring as he smelled their
blood.

"Look at them!" Serin
said, pointing at the chained wretches. "They are worms. They
are subhuman."

The Elorians could barely stand;
the guards had to hold them upright. Whips had torn into their flesh,
and bruises surrounded their freakish, oversized eyes. They reminded
Serin of naked moles. He had caught these creatures—seven in
total—traveling into Mageria to peddle their silk.

"We will cleanse Timandra
of their filth!" Serin cried, rising to his feet. "The
lands of sunlight will be purified of shadows. We will allow no
creatures of darkness to crawl upon our land."

The Elorians tried to beg in
their language. One fell to his knees, bowing. Serin sneered.

Pathetic,
he thought.
Groveling
insects.

Across the hall, the guards
laughed. One soldier lashed a whip, knocking the bowing Elorian down,
incurring more laughter.

Serin too laughed. "Bring
in the dogs!" he shouted, voice echoing across the hall. "They
are hungry. Let my pets feed!"

Growls sounded followed by mad
barks. Guards stepped forth, leading chained dogs larger than men,
creatures twisted and augmented with dark magic. The beasts howled,
smelling the blood, hungry for meat. At a nod from Serin, the guards
released the animals.

The Elorians yowled in fear.
Some tried to escape only for the dogs to tear them down. Blood
splattered the mosaic.

"Fantastic," Serin
whispered, leaning forward in his seat, his eyes wide. "I wish
you were here to see this, Lari."

As the dogs fed and guards
cheered, Serin imagined bringing the mongrel—that little wretch
Madori—here for a show. His pets would enjoy her young, supple,
sweet flesh.

"Soon, Madori," Serin
whispered. "Soon it will be your blood spilling across my hall."

The dogs fed and Serin grinned,
inhaled deeply, and licked his lips.

 
 
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN:
AUTUMN MOON

They sat in their chamber, sheets
hanging over the windows, cloaking them in shadows.

"Are you ready?"
Madori whispered.

The others nodded, huddling with
her. They had pushed their beds back against the wall and sat upon
the rug. Madori had prepared the scrolls, drawing Qaelish runes upon
them—prayers to Xen Qae, father of her nation. The parchments now
hung upon the walls. Jitomi had constructed the lanterns, stretching
paper over thin wooden frames. They now floated, candles glowing
within, tethered to the bedposts. Here in their little bedchamber, in
the heart of a sunlit university, they had created a bit of home, an
enclave of the night.

"It's beautiful,"
Neekeya whispered. She reached over and clutched Tam's hand. "Isn't
it, Tam?"

He nodded. "It makes me
want to visit Eloria."

"We
are
visiting Eloria now," Neekeya said and smiled.

Madori looked at the pair, and a
strange chill filled her. She had seen the two hold hands, share
hidden glances, and whisper many times these past few turns. The
prince and the swamp dweller were growing close, and looking at them
now, holding hands and smiling at each other, Madori felt something
cold inside her. Was it jealousy? Did she herself want to hold hands
with Tam, her childhood friend? Or did she feel outcast again—the
half-Elorian, not good enough for the two children of sunlight?

Jitomi spoke at her side,
interrupting her thoughts. "We're ready, Madori."

She turned toward him. He stared
at her, his blue eyes solemn—large, luminous eyes, eyes like hers,
eyes for seeing in the darkness of the night. Jitomi was from Ilar, a
nation in the south of Eloria, far from Qaelin, the great empire of
darkness where Madori's mother had been born. Their cultures were
different—their two nations had fought many wars in the
darkness—and yet here in the daylight, he was the closest thing she
had to a kinsman, to somebody who understood the importance of
darkness, the loneliness here deep in sunlit lands.

She nodded. "I've never
done this magic before, but . . . I'll try." She took a deep
breath and looked at her friends, one by one. "It's the Autumn
Equinox. On this turn thousands of years ago, the great teacher Xen
Qae arrived on the shore of the Elorian mainland, and there he met
his wife, a young fisherman's daughter named Madori. I am named after
her. Together they founded the Qaelish nation whose children spread
across the night. This turn all Qaelish people celebrate their love."

She smiled softly, remembering
the stories her mother would tell her of Xen Qae, the wise
philosopher with the long beard, and his wife, a beautiful woman with
hair like spilling streams of moonlight. As Madori sat here in the
shadows, she felt almost like a full Elorian, a true daughter of
darkness. When she spoke again, she found that even her voice
changed, speaking with just a hint of a Qaelish accent—the accent
her mother spoke with.

"On the Autumn Equinox, we
pray to the moon, for we believe that its light blessed our great
father and mother that turn. It is a time for moonlight."

At
her side, Jitomi spoke softly. "I am from Ilar, an island nation
south of the Elorian mainland, but we too celebrate the Autumn
Equinox. We do not know the teachings of Xen Qae, but for thousands
of years our people have danced under this moonlight. We call this
autumn moon the
Domai
Jatey
,
the Half Light, a milestone between the turn of the seasons. It is
blessed, a light of peace when our warriors may rest and pray."

Madori took a deep breath and
closed her eyes. "Let us pray to the moon."

She looked at the soft light
from the floating lanterns. It glowed a pale silver through the paper
frames. A smile touched her lips as she chose the light, as she
claimed it, and she changed it. She pulled wisps like glowing silk
from the lanterns, weaving them together in the center of the room, a
ball of twine woven from strands of candlelight. The others gasped
but Madori only smiled silently, pulling the light more tightly
together, raising the glowing ball to let it float above them. It
pulsed softly under the ceiling, the size of an orange, a makeshift
moon.

"It's beautiful,"
Neekeya whispered. "I've seen the moon from the daylight before.
It's just a wisp from here like dust in a sunbeam. Is this how the
moon looks in the night?"

Madori shook her head. "The
true moon in the night is many times brighter, many times more
beautiful. But this is the limit of my magic. Perhaps no magic can
capture the true moonlight."

A low humming rose, and at first
Madori thought it was the moonlight emitting the sound. Then she
realized it was Jitomi singing, his voice low, a hum that soon
morphed into words. Madori's eyes watered for she knew that tune. It
was the song "The Journey Home," a song her mother used to
sing, a song known across the lands of night.

Her tears fell and she clasped
Jitomi's hand, and she joined her voice to his. She had never sung
with anyone but her mother, and at first her cheeks burned with
embarrassment, but then she closed her eyes and let the music claim
her. In her mind, she was back in Oshy, the village in the night, the
place where she had spent so many summers in her childhood. She was
singing there again under the true moon. "The Journey Home"
had always been the song of her childhood, but now she understood its
true meaning. It was a song of being in distant lands, of dreaming of
the moonlight, of taking a long path back into darkness.

My
journey home will be long,
she
thought as she sang.
It
will be years before I see the night again. And perhaps the night is
not my true home, for I am half of daylight. And perhaps I have no
true home. But here, now, holding Jitmoi's hand and singing our old
songs, let the darkness be like a home to me. Let me sing to the moon
and dream of the night.

Their song ended, and she leaned
against Jitomi, and he placed an arm around her and kissed her cheek.

Neekeya was blowing her nose
into a handkerchief. "That does it, you two. That does it! When
we graduate as mages, I'm visiting Eloria with you."

Madori laughed. "Only if
you take me to visit Daenor too."

"Of course." Neekeya
grinned. "But I'm not singing any Daenorian songs. My singing
would make your ears fall off."

Madori wiped her tears away, the
joke easing her mood of almost holy yearning. She smiled, hopped
toward her drawer, and began pulling out Elorian foods she had taken
from home and saved for this holiday: jars of chanterelle, matsutake,
and milkcap mushrooms; salted bat wings; crunchy dried lanternfish;
and sweet candies made from the honey of firebees, glowing little
creatures that flew on the northern Qaelish coast. Soon the
companions were laughing as they ate.

I
miss my home in Fairwool-by-Night,
Madori thought, listening to the others laugh about how Professor
Yovan had stepped on his beard last turn.
And
I miss my home in Oshy. My journey is still long, but maybe . . .
maybe despite all the pain and fear, this is a home to me too, and
this is my new family.

Again her eyes dampened. Jitomi
saw and gave her shoulder a squeeze, a small smile on his lips. She
smiled back and reached for a handful
of chanterelles.

"Eat," she said,
handing him one. "A little taste of home."

They
walked through the
forest, hand in hand, an undercover prince and a swamp dweller,
strangers in a strange land.

"Are
you sure you want to do this?" Tam asked softly.

Neekeya
turned to look at him. The forest canopy rustled above, casting
mottles of light upon his sun-bronzed face and brown hair. His eyes
gleamed in the light like amber. His face was kind, his voice soft.
Neekeya couldn't help herself. She leaned toward him and kissed his
lips.

"I'm
sure," she whispered. "I have to do this. I have to let go.
I have to become a new person."

She
hefted her pack across her shoulders. Its contents jingled, a hundred
artifacts her father had given her, claiming them to be magic—little
figurines, rings, coins, seashells, and sundry other items. Neekeya
had been collecting them since her childhood, sure that she owned a
treasure, a magical horde worth more than a palace.

Now—a
grown woman, a mage in training—she understood.

They're
trinkets.
Her eyes
stung.
They're worth
less than a single silver coin.

"I've
been a fool." Her eyes stung. "I believed my father's
stories. I wanted to believe them. I wanted to think I'm powerful,
magical, an owner of great artifacts." She wiped her eyes. "They
were foolish stories told to a foolish girl. We'll find a place here,
a peaceful place under a tree. We'll bury them." She nodded.
"I've come to Teel to learn magic—and I will. Real magic. To do
that, I must let go of the past."