Moth (5 page)

"Look, the man is a snake," Torin said. "I don't doubt that. But preaching hatred is one thing. What you're talking about is
murder
. Even Ferius isn't capable of that."

She raised her eyebrows and gestured at the pyre. "Well, it looks like he's about to murder somebody right now."

Ferius was parading around the pyre, lamp held high. The villagers crowded around him, fists raised, shouting with every offense Ferius announced.

"For the sin of plague that slithered through our town, a venomous snake biting man, woman, and child, I decree this creature guilty." The crowd roared, and Ferius spoke louder. "For the rot that creeps across our gardens, for the drought that dries our farms, and for the pestilence of crows that eat our seeds, I decree this creature . . . guilty!"

The villagers shook their fists, faces red as they shouted for blood. The Elorian stood watching the crowd, tied to the pyre, and finally Torin saw emotion in those oversized eyes.

He saw fear.

Ferius leaped about as if possessed. He was a short man, shorter than Torin, but in his fervor he seemed even larger than the lumbering Hem.

"And for the murder of Yana," the monk cried, "I find this creature guilty. Guilty!"

"Burn him!" shouted the crowd.

Ferius raised his lamp and smiled thinly. "As a monk of the Sailith Order, I condemn this Elorian to—"

Torin had heard enough. He stomped forward and drew his sword.

"Ferius!" he shouted. "Enough of this farce."

The monk froze and turned to face him, his thin smile stretching. Torin stood before the robed man, blade raised. His heart pounded. His knees trembled. He had often clashed with Ferius, but he'd never stood up to him like this, sword in hand.

"And thus Torin the Gardener steps forth," said the monk. "He who grows green things pities the dweller of barren lands. How amusing." Ferius returned his eyes to the crowd. "It seems some among us love the bringer of death and pestilence."

Torin shook with rage. He was tempted to grab Ferius and shake him. He forced himself to speak calmly.

"Ferius, by what right do you judge this man? You do not govern this village—"

"
Man
?" Ferius said, eyebrows rising. "You call this creature a
man
?"

The crowed jeered.

"You know what I mean," Torin said. "He might be an Elorian. He might be our enemy. But you don't know he's the Elorian who killed Yana."

Ferius laughed. He spread his arms wide. "Behold the innocence of youth! Our young gardener believes himself a judge of our enemy. He believes in pitying the cruel. He believes in loving the demons." Ferius's voice rose to a hoarse cry. "But the Sailith Order knows no pity for evil. The Sailith Order will burn all those who seek to destroy us."

Torin gritted his teeth. He stepped closer to Ferius, grabbed the man's robes, and leaned close. He hissed his words between clenched teeth.

"Damn it, Ferius, do you want to start a war? If you kill this Elorian, his people will want vengeance. They will kill more of our people." He shook his head. "Let the poor creature crawl back into the darkness, and let this bloodshed end. Enough have died."

Ferius stood very still and stared at Torin. His skin was sallow, and his eyes were blue beads, so far set they made Ferius look like a wooden doll. When Ferius licked his small teeth, his tongue looked like a fleshy worm emerging from a burrow.

"Innocent child," Ferius said in a low voice, too low for the crowd to hear. "Still you don't see. Bloodshed is exactly what we need."

Torin froze, staring into those pale eyes, and what he saw frightened him as much as all Eloria. He saw madness. He saw bloodlust. And Torin understood.

Bailey was right. He craves chaos. Chaos gives him power.

Torin needed to stop this. He wished Lord Kerof were strong enough to stand here with him, but if the elderly mayor couldn't loosen Ferius's grip on this village, Torin himself would have to. He turned toward the crowd, ready to expose Ferius as a warmonger, when a low voice spoke behind.

The accent was thick. The voice sounded metallic, inhuman, the voice of another world, a sound like water in a deep well or rain upon stones. It spoke only one word, but it gave the word the gravity of an epic tale.

"Friend."

Torin turned to see the Elorian regarding him. The prisoner's face was scarred, his mouth bloody, and his scalp burnt. He spoke again, staring at Torin with soft eyes.

"Friend."

Torin's eyes dampened. This creature had perhaps slain several villagers, maybe even Yana too, but now he pleaded for peace. How could Torin let him die?

Torin turned back toward the villagers and spoke for them all to hear. "The Elorian wants peace! Let us end this conflict. Let us stop the bloodshed now and release him. Let us—"

Before he could complete his sentence, Ferius shrieked. "I sentence the Elorian to death by fire!"

Torin tried to stop him. He grabbed Ferius's cloak and tugged him back. But he was too slow. Laughing maniacally, Ferius tossed his lantern down against the pyre's kindling.

The lantern's oil spilled. The flames raced across the tinder. Torin gasped, doffed his cloak, and tossed it onto the flames. But the fire spread too quickly. Within a few heartbeats, the entire pyre crackled with fire.

The Elorian screamed, struggling against the pole he was tied to.

Torin thrust his sword into the flames, trying to reach the Elorian's ropes and cut him loose. Hands grabbed his shoulders and pulled him back.

Torin spun to see Ferius clutching him. The man sucked in air between his teeth, grinning wildly. He held Torin firmly and whispered into his ear.

"Watch the flames, boy. Watch the glory burn. Feel the heat and see the light of Sailith."

By the time Torin yanked himself free, it was too late. Flames had engulfed the Elorian. The man writhed, burning in the pyre. The heat blasted out and flames cascaded. Torin had to step back from the fire and pat sparks off his clothes.

"Eloria!" the burning man cried out. "Eloria
tay. Koyee Mai! Talandi, Koyee. Yetana alan."

The heat and smoke brought tears to Torin's eyes. He found himself kneeling in the square, watching the flames, hearing the man's dying words, words in a language he did not understand. He turned away, lowered his head, and clutched fistfuls of pebbles. Arms engulfed him, and Torin jerked, sure that Ferius was grabbing him again, but instead he found Bailey embracing him.

"Come farther back, Tor," she said softly, guiding him away from the fire. "Your clothes are singed."

He let Bailey guide him back through the crowd. They left the square, climbed Watchtower Hill, and sat in the grass. The Elorian's screams lasted for a long time . . . and finally the man fell silent.

Torin closed his eyes, and he could still hear that single word echoing through his mind, spoken in Ardish, his own tongue.

Friend.

"He wanted our friendship," Torin said, lying in the grass. "He wanted peace. Now his people will want war."

Bailey leaned against him, held him close, and stroked his hair. They sat silently for a long time.

The flames burned for hours, a pillar rising from Fairwool-by-Night, a beacon Torin was sure could be seen from the Nighttower across the border. When finally the fire died to embers, the Sailith monks reached into the ash with pokers and fished out charred bones. Torin watched from the hill, sickness roiling in his belly.

"What are they doing?" Bailey asked, grimacing.

Torin sighed. "Returning the bones with a message."

He watched as Ferius loaded the remains into a wheelbarrow. A second monk stepped forth, holding a raven on a leash.

"Let the heathens see the raven of Arden!" Ferius announced, tethering the bird to the wheelbarrow of bones. "Let them know that we've had our revenge."

Torin swallowed down an urge to gag. Eight kingdoms comprised Timandra, the sunlit half of the world. Fairwool-by-Night lay within Arden, an ancient realm with a raven banner. Torin himself displayed the raven upon his breastplate. Would Elorians know this symbol? Would they see the raven and would they launch an attack against Fairwool-by-Night . . . or against other settlements in Arden?

"The snake wants to ignite a war," Torin said. "He's not just sending a message from Fairwool-by-Night. He wants the Elorians to hate our entire kingdom." He shook his head. "We have to stop this war, Bailey."

She bit her lip. "Is it too late?"

"I don't know," Torin said, "but I have to do something."

He trudged back downhill. With the fire dead, the crowd was dispersing from the square, the villagers returning to their farms and fields. Licking his teeth, Ferius began rolling the wheelbarrow forward. The bones still smoked inside, smelling of burning meat. When Torin gazed upon them, the bones seemed almost human to him; aside from the skull's larger eye sockets, they could have been the bones of a Timandrian. Tethered to the wheelbarrow, the raven began to pick at the charred remains.

Torin reached out and grabbed the wheelbarrow's handle, pausing its movement.

"I'll return the bones," he said to Ferius. "Go to your temple. Let me do this."

The two men stood clutching the wheelbarrow. They stared at each other over the smoking bones. Ferius's lip curled back in a snarl.

"Do you feel guilty for killing him, gardener?" the monk asked. "Yes . . . you dueled him, busying his blade, when I brought my fire down upon him. His death is upon you." Ferius licked his chops. "Yes, return him to his filthy kind. And if the creatures attack you, you may call them
friends
as they drive their blades into your flesh."

Ferius clutched the wheelbarrow a moment longer, staring at Torin with unadulterated hatred, then released his grip. Grumbling, Torin shoved the wheelbarrow across the square, wishing it were Ferius who lay charred within.

He wheeled his gruesome charge between the cottages, waving the raven aside whenever it pecked at the bones. Past the village, he headed down a dirt path that led toward the forest; the dusk lay beyond.

"Tor, wait!"

He turned to see Bailey running toward him, her bow bouncing across her back, her two braids swaying. Concern softened her normally mocking brown eyes.

"Go back to the village," he said. "I want to do this alone. Please."

She reached him, grimaced when she saw the bones, and touched Torin's arm.

"Are you sure?" she said. "I can come with you. I can protect you if the Elorians attack. I—"

"No. It's too dangerous. Stay here and protect the village; the people need you." Torin's eyes stung; the damn smoke was still burning them. That last word—
friend
—wouldn't stop echoing. "I need to do this myself."

He left her there upon the path. He wheeled his charge into the forest, walking silently into the shadowy borderlands. For eighteen years in Fairwool-by-Night, he had never dared enter these shadows. Now, within the turn of a standard hourglass, he was entering the darkness a third time.

He pushed his wheelbarrow through the forest. Progress was slow at first; the wheels bounced over rocks, entangled in grass, and sank into mud. After a mile or two, the sun hung low in the sky, and the brush dwindled to a few scattered bushes and brambles. The Sern River gurgled to the south, its waters orange in the twilight.

The raven cawed, perhaps fearing the dark, and beat its wings madly, stretching its tether.

"Calm yourself, friend," Torin said. He reached to undo the tether and the raven bit him. Torin gasped and pulled his finger to his mouth. The blood tasted coppery and sweet, and Torin remembered cutting the Elorian's fingers to send his sword flying.

I took part in killing him,
he thought.
His blood is upon me too.

When he finally managed to undo the tether, the raven took flight, cawing until it vanished over the dark forest. Torin wondered whether it would find the moth he had seen here, the one shaped like the world.

A raven for the kingdom of Arden,
he thought.
A moth with a white wing and black wing, symbol of the world.
He looked at the bones.
And smoking remains like a herald of war.

There were too many signs in this place, and none soothed him. Torin's belly churned and he took a shaky breath. He had a feeling things would not end here.

He drove the wheelbarrow a little farther, finally reaching the place where they'd captured the Elorian. No more plants grew around him. Far ahead, the sky faded from indigo to deep purple and finally to black, and the stars and moon shone. Upon a distant mountain rose the Nighttower, still only a sliver, but Torin felt that it was watching him.

He stopped the wheelbarrow.

"Goodbye, friend," he said softly and turned to leave.

Back in the west, the sun nearly vanished under the horizon; Torin stood at the very edge of night. He took several steps back toward the day, but that feeling of being watched wouldn't leave him.

Ten more steps and he spun around. He stared into the darkness.

Again that feeling tingled his spine. Somebody was watching him; he was sure of it. With a clammy hand, he gripped the hilt of his sword . . . and then he saw her.

The Elorian stood not far away. She peered from behind a boulder, only her head visible. She seemed young, no older than him. Torin wasn't sure how he knew this, or even how he knew she was female—this was only the second Elorian he'd seen. Yet her soft features all spoke of a young, frightened woman. She had long, smooth hair the color of moonlight, and she wore white fur. Three scars, as from the claws of a beast, marred her face; one tugged her lips into a crooked smile, and the others ran across her cheek and eyebrow. Her eyes—large, oval, and lavender—met his gaze.

For a moment, both she and Torin stood frozen, silent, simply staring. Torin wasn't sure how to react, but he dared not break the stare. He wondered if the Elorian girl would attack him, but no malice filled her eyes; he saw fear and wonder in the purple orbs.

Finally, with a swift movement, the young woman disappeared behind the boulder.