“Don’t point that at me,” she said and rose to her feet. “We have more food than ever now. Your way, we’d be nibbling on crumbs and still hungry. Now we feast.”
“Now hundreds of people know we exist!” Longarm said. “We are the Dust Face Ghosts. We slink through shadow. We are unseen, a mere whisper in the night. If you ever pull any of your tricks again, Halfsmile, I will ram this spear into your gut.”
Koyee ate the rest of her meal sullenly, glaring at Longarm. The young woman, in turn, sat with her back to them, eating hunched over.
I can’t stay here forever, Koyee thought with a sigh. I didn’t leave Oshy to live in a graveyard.
She had been visiting Minlao Palace every turn of her hourglass, but had moved up only several slots. The elders still would not see her; it would take another moon’s turn, Koyee guessed. Her eyes burned. Oshy needed her help, and she was stuck here among graves and ghosts, living as a filthy thief.
“But what can we do, Eelani?” she whispered. “Should we go home?”
Her invisible friend tugged her hair, and Koyee blew out her breath. No, she could not go home, not after all this. Not without aid. And besides, what awaited her back in Oshy? An empty house. An empty life. No more father or brother. Nothing but sadness and fire burning in the west.
“Halfsmile?” Whisper tugged her tunic, her eyes huge in her thin face. “Halfsmile, can you tell me a story before bed?”
Koyee nodded. “I’ll tell you the best story, the one about the sun and moon.”
The child smiled and lowered her eyes. Her true name was Layli, she had whispered once, but no Dust Face Ghost had a true name anymore. She spoke in but a whisper, too timid to let the others hear. “I like that story.”
Koyee laid the girl to bed under her tombstone, the one shaped like a seashell, and told her the stories of the olden days—the stories her father would tell. In these tales, the sun rose and fell, daylight followed night, and Timandrians and Elorians were one people. Many scoffed at these stories—Longarm had when first hearing them—but Koyee liked telling them. Perhaps they were only myths, but Koyee liked to imagine a world like that, a world not divided across the dusk, a world where no sunlit demons could murder a man.
When Whisper fell asleep, Koyee lay down beside her, closed her eyes, and let dreams fill her.
Life in the city continued, a life of grime, ghosts, and graves.
Every turn of her hourglass, Koyee returned to the palace, glared at the guards, waved her ribbon, and demanded to enter. Every turn she was cast away, and she returned to the marketplace to steal, to hide, to survive. She became quicker, sneakier, able to cut a purse like a true ghost, to snatch food from a thousand carts, to scuttle over walls and vault across roofs and disappear into a crowd.
“I have become Halfsmile,” she whispered to her shoulder spirit in the solitude of her grave. “This is who I am now, no longer a fisherman’s daughter, but a ghost in the night. I can barely remember the woman I was. I can barely remember Koyee Mai.”
It took the woman with the fish to remind her.
Koyee had spent a moon’s turn with the Dust Face Ghosts, and her knees were scraped and her hair black with dirt when they came across the old woman. She hobbled down the road, leaning on a cane, a shawl framing her wrinkly face. She carried a basket, within it a single fish.
If you could call it a fish, Koyee thought, watching from the roof. It seemed barely larger than a minnow and old too; Koyee could smell it from here. The old woman wore rags, and dirt caked her bare feet. She was only a frail thing, worse off than the scrawniest of thieves.
Koyee looked across the street, seeking her fellow ghosts. The twins stood in an alley, weapons raised. The younger boy, Earwig, knelt behind a barrel. Whisper, the smallest of the bunch, crouched behind a cart, clutching a doll to her chest. Upon another roof, Longarm stood supervising the raid with hard eyes.
The old woman kept hobbling down the street, paused to cough, then continued, every step a struggle.
There was nothing to steal here. Koyee looked across the street to the other roof. She met Longarm’s gaze and shook her head.
The one-armed woman stared back, the moon above her. Her eyes blazed. She raised her hand, looked down at the twins, and nodded.
The two boys, the warriors of the gang, lumbered into the alley and raised their clubs.
The old woman only smiled and kept limping forward.
One of the twins trudged forward and shoved the old woman. When she fell, the second twin grabbed her basket and yanked it free.
“Stop it!” Koyee shouted.
Rage exploded through her. Stealing food from wealthy, well-fed merchants was one thing. Knocking down a frail old woman, however … Koyee leaped from the roof and landed on the road.
“Stand back!” she said to the twins.
Taller and wider than her, the boys raised their clubs and grunted.
“Halfsmile, back away!” rose Longarm’s voice from above.
Koyee turned toward the fallen old woman. When she knelt by her, the twins grabbed Koyee’s arms.
She wrenched herself free, shoved them back, and drew her sword. She pointed the blade at them.
“Back!” she said and sliced the air. “Stand back or I’ll cut you. Whisper!” She gestured for the little girl to approach. “Help the grandmama stand. Give her back her basket and fish, and give her some mushrooms from your pocket. We’ll find food elsewhere.”
She swung her blade again, holding the twins back as Whisper ran forward. Terror filled the girl’s eyes, but she obeyed, helping the old woman rise.
“Back!” Koyee said, spinning to stop the other Dust Face Ghosts from approaching. The thieves surrounded her now, staring with cold eyes, their weapons raised. “I’m stopping this raid. Back off now or I’ll cut you all.”
She panted, spinning from side to side. She did not recognize this part of herself. Koyee had never felt such fury; perhaps it was fear and hunger that fueled her anger.
A shadow leaped down.
Longarm landed before her, spear in hand, and growled.
Not removing her eyes from her foe, Koyee said, “Whisper! Take the grandmama to safety. Go.”
From the corner of her eye, she saw the young girl lead the elderly woman away. Koyee remained in place, pointing her blade at Longarm.
The leader of the Dust Face Ghosts was perhaps missing one arm, but the rest of her body was tall, strong, and lithe. She was the oldest among them, even older than Koyee, and the cruelest.
“You have been causing too much trouble, Halfsmile,” she said and spat at Koyee’s feet. “You cost us a fish.”
Koyee raised her sword higher. “The old woman needed it more than us.”
“I don’t care.” Longarm stepped closer. “You do not lead this group of survivors, girl. You do not make these choices. You serve me. Now go after that crone, bring me her fish, and I might forgive you.”
Koyee stared at the young woman for a moment longer. The two glared at each other silently.
Finally Koyee broke the stare.
With a grunt, she sheathed her sword and walked down the street, approaching the old woman. She felt the other Dust Face Ghosts watching from behind.
The elderly woman recoiled at the sight of Koyee and her sword. Blood trailed down her leg.
“Please, my child, don’t hurt me,” she whispered. “I have nothing of value, please.”
Koyee reached into her pocket, took out seven copper coins, three plump chanterelles, and a sausage—all the money and food she had. She placed them into the woman’s basket, keeping only a single coin.
“Now you do, Grandmama,” she said. “These are yours. Go and may the moonlight bless you.”
She escorted the elder out the alley and into a wide, crowded street, then turned to look back. Her eyes fell upon the Dust Face Ghosts. Whisper had run back to join them; she now hid behind Earwig’s legs. They all stared at her, eyes wide, silent, awaiting her next move.
Koyee sighed.
“This is not our life, Eelani,” she said softly. “This is not our home. This is not who we are. We’ve been alone, just you and I, for a long time. We can survive on our own again.”
She gave the Dust Face Ghosts a last nod. She met Whisper’s eyes, smiled, and raised her hand in farewell.
She turned and left them behind.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
A COUNCIL OF KINGS
Ceranor the First, King of Arden, stared outside his tower and his frown deepened. He could not remember the last time the frown had left his face; men liked to joke that should he ever smile, mirrors would shatter and babes would die of fright. Yet Ceranor had never found much reason to smile. He had been a soldier, a savior, a usurper, and now a king; his was a life of worry.
“But my shoulders are still broad,” he said, staring out the window at the city of Kingswall. “And my mind is still as sharp as my blade. I will survive this fire too.”
Despite twenty years of sitting upon his throne, he was still a soldier at heart. A good soldier always fought. A good soldier never fled.
Below in the city, the fires spread, smoke rose, and rage simmered. Tens of thousands marched along the streets, chanting for war. The commoners—filthy, dressed in tatters, their bellies tight—pounded the air, burned effigies, and stomped upon the flames. Sailith monks led the processions, preaching of the Elorian evil, of the terrors that lurked in the night. With every word, the people howled louder, demanding blood, demanding death to Eloria.
“Yet so easily, this rage can turn,” Ceranor said softly. “This hourglass turn they blame drought, disease, and despair on Eloria. This turn this fire is contained. Next turn it can spread … and come to this palace.”
A high voice, distorted with a yawn, rose behind him.
“Cery! Let’s take a little nap.”
Ceranor turned from the window. Upon his bed, his wife sat crossed-legged. Dressed in an oversized azure tunic, she yawned magnificently, a yawn that raised her arms, splayed out her toes, and twisted her face like clay. When her yawn ended, she grinned at him.
“I’m sleepy,” she said.
Ceranor’s frown, already deep, deepened further. He grumbled. He had married the girl, thirty years his junior, to appease her father—an angry lord with coffers deeper than his own. The girl was a vacuous, silly thing, barely twenty and about as intelligent as a puppy.
“The commoners rage with hunger and fear, Linee,” he told her. “The Sailith temples grow in power; already some say they’re mightier than this palace. And across our borders, our old enemies muster, still dreaming of their revenge.” He sighed. “And you want to take a nap.”
She pouted. “I like naps.”
Ceranor stared at the pretty, flighty young creature, a girl of golden elflocks, freckled skin, and vacant eyes. He shook his head, walked to his table, and lifted a mug of water. He always drank water, never wine. Wine dulled the senses; it was a fool’s drink.
“Another drought or plague, and the commoners will storm this palace,” he said. “If the Sailith grow too strong, they will convert this place into another temple. If our neighbors sense our weakness, they will storm across our land and sack our city. They will invade this chamber too, Linee. Only my wits are holding back the tide. Only this council can save my throne.”
“Our throne,” Linee corrected him. She rose from the bed, flounced toward him, and clung to him. She grinned up at him, her chin pressed against his chest. “It’s my throne too. I’m the queen now. I’m the prettiest queen Arden’s ever known! Nobody would dream of overthrowing me, because I’m beautiful and friendly. The people love me.”
Silently, Ceranor cursed the girl’s father. Sometimes he wondered if the man had truly craved an alliance with the crown, or if he’d simply wished to offload a halfwit. Ceranor knew that many men envied him for his wife, a beautiful young bride for an aging soldier. At fifty years of age, Ceranor’s hair was graying and his brow was creasing, but his wife was young and fair.
Yet Ceranor saw little value in beauty alone. Unlike other kings, he donned no embroidered, dyed robes; he wore the steel plates of a soldier, the same armor he’d worn to the wars twenty years ago. Unlike other kings, he grew no luxurious beard but kept his face clean-shaven. He wore no jewels, no finery, and no gems or gold adorned his sword. Many mocked him, calling him the Soldier King behind his back. Ceranor wouldn’t mind them calling him that to his face.
A soldier is strong, he thought. A soldier always fights on.
He looked down at his wife. She was clinging to his side, grinning like a fool, and trying to tug him back to bed. Her golden locks cascaded around her face, and her eyes gleamed with love for him.
He stroked her hair. “War has never hardened you, my sweet bride. You’ve never known blood, pain, or the horror of battle. I have. I must succeed or your innocence will shatter.”
She blinked at him. “Do you have to go to another boring council?” She pouted. “I don’t want you to leave. Your meetings are always so long and I get so bored here.” She stamped her feet. “Tell those other kings to leave. This isn’t their kingdom.”
Ceranor sighed. “It will be, unless I can turn their armies away from our borders.” He turned back to the window, stared out at the simmering city, and nodded. “We must rally the people, we must appease the Sailith, and we must turn our enemies away. Only one thing can do this, my dearest wife.” He looked at her. “War with Eloria.”
Linee blinked at him. “The Nightside? But it’s oh so dark there. They say they don’t even have butterflies or flowers in the night.” She turned away from him and crossed her arms. “I don’t want you go there. Stay here in the day. It’s nicer here and we can have naps together.”
And she wonders why I spend so long at my councils, he thought. I’m surrounded with raging commoners, a bloodthirsty temple, and hostile neighbors … yet sometimes I think my greatest bane is my wife.
He left her in their chambers to sleep. He stepped onto a spiraling stone staircase, climbed down the palace’s eastern tower, and walked down a columned corridor. When he approached the oaken doors of his banquet hall, he paused and steeled himself.
Behind these doors lurk my greatest enemies, he thought. He had fought his fellow kings in fields, jungles, and snowy mountains, leading armies to clash and burn and bleed. He had never faced them like this, trapped between stone walls, using words rather than blades. Yet now the safety of Arden would be sealed not on the battlefield, but at a simple table.
With a deep breath, Ceranor opened the doors and entered his hall.
Porphyry columns rose in two palisades, their capitals shaped as ravens, the birds of Arden. A vaulted ceiling spread above, painted with scenes of clouds and sunbeams. Marble statues of erstwhile monarchs stood along the walls, gazing upon a round granite table. Upon jeweled, ivory chairs sat his seven fellow kings of Timandra.
With shuffling robes, chinking beads, and creaking armor, they all rose to face him. They stared silently.
Ceranor paused for only a heartbeat, resisting the instinct to draw his sword. He had fought these seven too many times; a couple he had dueled hand-to-hand. Three were fellow kings of fallen Riyona, an empire which had collapsed a thousand years ago, splitting into four. The others governed foreign lands nearly as strange as the night. As their armies mustered, here the Eight Sunlit Kings would duel with words … or his throne would burn.
He approached his seat, the one empty chair, but did not sit. He placed his hands on the table, leaned forward, and spoke in a slow and steady voice.
“Welcome to Arden! Welcome to the kingdom of the raven. It has been many years since all Eight Kings of Sunlight gathered in one hall. I am honored to host our great council. You have crossed great distances to be here, traveling by ships and carriages. Some of you have traveled for two full months. It is my pleasure to—”
“Enough with the pleasantries!” one king blurted out. He slammed hairy fi
sts against the tabletop. “Bring us wine, damn you.”
Ceranor frowned. He stared at the man, if a man he was; the King of Verilon seemed more like a bear, the sigil of his kingdom. Tall and burly, he wore brown furs; beneath them, his arms and neck were nearly as hairy. His beard sprawled out like the roots of an oak, all but hiding his red cheeks. Ceranor remembered how, twenty years ago, this brute had nearly slain him with a hammer; if not for Teramin Greenmoat’s shield, Ceranor would have died that winter in the snow.
“Very well,” he said. The interruption peeved him, but the memory of that swinging hammer chilled his anger. He snapped his fingers, and two servants stepped forward from the shadows. “Pour the kings wine. We shall drink and talk.”
“More the former than the latter,” said the hirsute King of Verilon. He snorted, grabbed a pitcher of wine from a servant, and drank deeply, the red liquid pouring down his beard and robes.
Barbarian, Ceranor thought, disgusted.
When all the kings held goblets of wine, Ceranor cleared his throat and tried again. “My fellow kings, the past few years have been difficult for Timandra. The plague has ripped through our land of Arden; it has felled many in your lands too. Drought has covered the plains, stretching north and south, and—”
One of the kings, a thin and tall man with golden skin, stood up.
“A drought for you, King of Arden, would be a season of rainy blessings for us in Eseer.” He smiled, showing teeth as white as his robes. “What do you know of drought, king of green lands? You should visit the desert; there you would see true hardship and true hardiness.”
Ceranor bit his tongue, cutting off an acrid reply. The people of Eseer, a southern desert land, were even deadlier than the barbarians of snowy Verilon. Their sigil was the scorpion, and their sting was just as deadly. Ceranor thanked Idar that at least Arden didn’t share a border with these sandy warriors.
“Thank you for your invitation,” Ceranor said, forcing himself to speak diplomatically and ignore the barb. “Yet we in Arden, and in the other northern kingdoms, are unaccustomed to dryness and heat, for our lands are lush and blessed.” He couldn’t help but sling a barb of his own.
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