“Look at us, Eelani,” she whispered.
For the first time in moons, no grime covered her and she could see her pale skin. Her hair flowed smooth, tangle free, and milky white. She had chosen a gown of black silk, fitted but not revealing, its fabric embroidered with silver fish; it reminded her of the river at home. She had cleaned her katana too and hung it across her back; its hilt peered over her shoulder, wrapped in blue silk.
“If not for the scars across my face, I’d think myself almost presentable.” She bit her lip and raised her eyebrows. “You still look the same, Eelani.” She blew out her breath, flapping her lips. “I guess we’ll have to wear this disguise for a while. We’ll have to be a yezyana just until we have enough money. I promise you: We will not forget our home.”
She stepped downstairs, made her way through clouds of green smoke, and found Nukari mixing purple drinks at a bar. When he saw her, his face split into a grin that showed all his teeth—a crescent moon grin.
“My polished gem,” he said and caressed her cheek—the scarred cheek. “My flawed jewel.”
She glared at him. “My name is Koyee Mai.”
He shook his head. “Koyee is the name of a fisherman’s daughter from a backwater.” He sniffed. “The name still stinks of fish. You will now be Madori Mai, a maiden of the Green Geode. Go, there, stand on that stage. Play your flute for our dear patrons. Play well and you shall have a warm bed, a warm meal, and safety.”
“And coins,” she reminded him. “Thirty copper coins every hourglass turn.”
He stared at her blankly for a heartbeat, then smiled again and nodded. “And coins. Go, my Madori Mai. Play your beautiful music, my beautiful gem.”
She rolled her eyes. But she played her flute. Green smoke flowed around her, men lay drooling as they inhaled the spice, and the other yezyani performed around her. Koyee closed her eyes as she played, pretending that she still stood on her old street corner, the bluefeathers coming and going and the old fortune teller snoring. Strangely, even in her silks, she missed that old place.
A long time later, when she laid down her flute and stepped off her stage, the other yezyani came rushing toward her. They touched her face, ran their hands through her hair, and caressed her gown.
“Madori Mai! Madori Mai!” they said. “Where are you from? Where did you learn how to play? Such pretty hair. Such purple eyes! Madori Mai, where did you get your sword?”
Nukari came trundling toward them, scowling, and waved them aside.
“Back, back, little devils!” he said. “Give my Madori her rest. She is weary. Back onto your stages, silly things! Move your little backsides. Dance and play for our patrons.”
Still waving them back, he led Koyee upstairs and along the hallway.
“You made me proud, my Madori,” he said and placed a copper coin in her palm. “Here is your reward.”
She tilted her head. “Nukari! You said thirty coppers.”
He smiled. “You have earned thirty! I kept twenty-nine to pay for your gown. But when you play again, all thirty coppers will be yours. Now come! Here is your chamber for the night.”
He all but shoved her into a small room; it was barely six feet wide. A bed lay against a wall, taking up half the room. Koyee was so weary—she had not slept in so long—that she didn’t even care. This chamber was no larger than a closet, but it was better than Bluefeather Corner in the dregs. And it was safe.
“Nukari, I will eat before bed,” she said. “Can you bring—”
She turned around just in time to see Nukari leave, closing the door behind him. A key twisted in the lock. Koyee grabbed the knob and twisted. The door was sealed.
“That sneaky snake!” she said. “Eelani, can you believe him? I knew you shouldn’t have trusted him. You…”
A yawn interrupted her words. It flowed across her body from fingertips to toes, stretching her like a silk scarf in the wind. Weariness tugged her eyelids.
“We’ll show him after we rest for a bit,” she mumbled, climbed into her bed, and fell asleep at once. She dreamed of green smoke, snaggletooth grins, and slamming doors.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
THE DRUMS OF WAR
Bailey Berin stood upon the Watchtower, gripping the battlements.
“That stupid, stupid boy!” she said, eyes stinging. She gave her braids two vigorous tugs. “If he weren’t already marching to his death, I’d kill him.”
She stared east into the dusk, a land of barren trees, orange light, and shadows fading into the night. Jaw clenched, she spun around, marched across the tower top, and stared westward at the fields and pastures of Fairwool-by-Night. What she saw there scared her more than all the shadows of Eloria.
“Where has my village gone?” she whispered, her knuckles white as she clutched a merlon.
Five hundred people used to dwell here—tradesmen, shepherds, and farmers, working and living among fields, gardens, and swards. Looking down now, Bailey could no longer see grass or fields. She saw nothing but the might and wrath of Timandra. For two months the forces had been mustering here, and now they covered the land like a tapestry of hatred.
North of the river, the hosts of Arden spread, warriors of the raven. Tens of thousands marshaled here, standing in rows and rows, clad in breastplates and helmets. Archers, swordsmen, and pikemen all gathered around their lords. Their banners thudded in the wind, showing black ravens upon golden fields. The king stood at their lead upon a white courser, his armor pale and his sword bright in the sunlight. A thousand other horsemen stood behind him, each beast bedecked in steel and gold and black wool. Along the mile-wide river, the fleet of Arden swayed, a hundred ships bearing more soldiers, more weapons, and enough food to feed the hosts for a year.
When Bailey looked south of the Sern, she saw the troops of another kingdom. Naya mustered there, her neighbor to the south. Its warriors wore tiger skins and hoods. Each man clutched two spears and wore a necklace of teeth. Elephants trumpeted among them, their tusks ringed with gold, archers upon their backs. Hundreds of tigers stood leashed, clawing the air, their trainers clutching whips. Burly, bare-chested men beat war drums, each as large as a wagon wheel, and howled for victory against the devils of the dark. Naya’s banners too fluttered, hiding and revealing a tiger upon a black field.
“All across Timandra, the other kingdoms rally too,” Bailey whispered, hands trembling around the battlements. “I left my village as spring bloomed, trying to stop a war. Now autumn covers the land, and the armies of daylight muster.”
She looked north toward the distant forests, and she could imagine the warriors of Verilon among the pines, their warriors clad in furs, sitting astride bears and wielding great hammers. Farther north, the seafarers of Orida, warriors of the orca, would be sailing their galleys toward the shadows, their helmets horned and their beards golden. Far in the south, the desert warriors of Eseer would be moving east, riding camels and brandishing their curved blades, chanting for the victory of the sun.
“The day rises,” Bailey said and shuddered. “The night will burn.”
She scanned the armies below, seeking him. Somewhere down there among the multitudes, Torin—that foolish, winky-eyed boy—stood in armor, ready to invade with his king. Bailey couldn’t even see him in the crowd, and she ground her teeth. A sigh rolled through her.
For a decade now, she had looked after the boy. Ten years ago he had come into her home a frightened orphan, a year younger than her and barely taller than her shoulders. She had pitied him then, begged her grandfather to take him in, and since then he’d been as a younger brother to her. And now … now he wanted to leave her, to march to war?
“You can’t take care of yourself, Torin,” she said down to the army. “I know you think you can. I know you think that, at eighteen, you’re a man and a soldier, but you’re not. You can’t do these things.”
Tears stung her eyes. She had always driven him hard, pushing him to swim faster, to climb higher, to run farther. And now he tho
ught he could run alone. She couldn’t let him do that.
Finally she saw him below, and her throat tightened. He sat astride a horse not far from the king. She barely recognized him, for a helmet hid his shock of dark hair. A checkered cloak of black and gold billowed behind him. He wore a breastplate, and more armor bedecked his horse. He looked like some knight, but Bailey knew he was only her Torin, only the gardener.
“You’re not a soldier, Winky,” she said down to him. “You are still too slow. Your bad eye still hampers your sword’s aim. You are still my babyface, and I have to look after you.”
She rubbed her stinging eyes with her fists, took a deep breath, and nodded. She knew what she had to do. It burned down her throat, shook her fingers, and blazed in her lungs, but she knew it had to be done. With a deep breath, she left the tower top and raced downstairs.
At the tower’s ground floor lay the village armory—a single rack with a few swords, breastplates, and helmets. Lips pursed, Bailey grabbed her breastplate and strapped it on. It was not as fine as the armor the soldiers outside wore, but it fit her snugly and it would protect her. She grabbed a helmet from a peg, pulled it onto her head, and tightened the strap under her neck; it left her face free and let her braids dangle down her chest. Finally she grabbed her sword, fastened it to her belt, and looked into the tall bronze mirror.
“Well, Bailey old girl,” she said to her reflection. “For a year, you’ve guarded a village. Now you have to guard something a lot more difficult—Babyface Torin.”
She gripped her hilt and left the tower.
While the fields and farms bustled with soldiers, the village square—a small expanse of cobblestones—seemed eerily deserted. A few chickens pecked in a corner, and a dog wandered around Old Maple. As Bailey walked toward her cottage, a lump filled her throat. Fairwool-by-Night had been the only home she’d known throughout her nineteen years.
When will I see this place again?
The lump growing, she reached her cottage, the largest one in the village. White clay filled the space between its timber foundations, and straw covered its roof. Three chimneys of red brick rose from the house, but only one was pumping smoke. Years ago, several people had lived here—her parents, her grandmother, and her uncles. Since the plague, only she, her dear old grandfather, and Torin had lived within these walls.
And now Torin and I are both leaving, she thought, eyes stinging.
She walked through the garden, moving between sunflowers, daisies, lilacs, and a dozen other flowers Torin had planted and nourished. When she stepped into her home, her eyes watered and she could barely take another step.
Her dear old grandpapa sat in an armchair by the fireplace, a book in his hands. He looked up at her with red, watery eyes.
“The fire burns,” he said. “I could not stop it.”
Bailey’s heart twisted. She stepped toward him, leaned down, and kissed his cheek.
“You lead Fairwool-by-Night wisely,” she whispered. “You could not have stopped a king’s command.”
He shook his hoary head. “I let violence flare here. I let those … those monks preach hatred.” His fists clenched and trembled. “And now the armies gather here for war. Bailey … I already lost my children. I do not want to lose my grandchildren too.”
Bailey could not stop her tears from falling. She embraced her grandfather.
“I will look after Torin,” she whispered. “I have to go with him, Grandpapa. You understand, right? You know how he is. He runs too slowly. He cannot climb a tree without falling. He needs me to protect him.” She held the old man’s wrinkly hand. “But I will come back to you, I swear it. We both will. This war will end quickly, and we will sit by the fireplace again, all three of us. You will read us stories like you used to, and we will drink mulled wine, and things will be good again. I promise.”
He reached out a trembling finger and wiped the tears from her cheeks.
“And let him watch over you, Bailey. Yes, maybe he is clumsier and slower than you, but there is wisdom in him, and there is strength too, a strength of his own fashion. In the darkness, don’t let your temper flare. Stay close to Torin and protect him … and let him protect you from the flames inside you.”
She hugged him again and kissed his cheek, and when she left him in the house she could barely breathe.
Vision blurred, she was wandering across the village square when she heard the bickering.
“Give me that, Hem!” said a voice behind her. “Sheep droppings, there’s still a bee on it.”
“There is not! Give it back.”
“Where do you even keep finding these things? By the light! You got your hands and shirt all sticky.”
Groaning, Bailey turned to see Cam and Hem standing under the maple tree. The shorter Cam was holding a honeycomb out of reach; the tall, heavyset Hem was reaching for it and pleading for his treat.
“You two!” Bailey shouted. “Camlin! Hemstad! For pity’s sake, stop fighting like two fussy little girls.”
She marched forward, grabbed the honeycomb from Cam, and tossed it as far as she could; it sailed over the roofs of the houses.
Hem whined and watched it fly away. “I was eating that.” The beefy baker’s boy pouted, his cheeks turning pink.
Cam smirked, leaning on his shepherd’s crook. “Good work, Bailey old girl, I—Ow!”
He winced and mewled as she clutched his ear.
“And you, Camlin Shepherd,” she said, twisting his ear. “Stop torturing the boy and stealing his treats.” With her other hand, she grabbed Hem’s ear too, giving it a good twist. “Come with me, boys, and put on some armor. Don’t you know there’s a war starting?”
She began dragging them across the square by the ears. The two younger boys whined and moaned, but they trailed behind, unable to free themselves.
“Bailey!” Hem said. “I—Ow! I know there’s a war, but what are we to do? Owww … stop twisting my ear!”
She kept tugging, dragged them toward the armory, and shoved them inside. She gave Hem a swift kick to the backside when he was too slow to enter.
“Suit up!” she shouted after them. “Armor and swords and helmets. Torin is riding into war, and we’re going with him.”
“But why?” rose Hem’s whine from inside the tower. His head peeked out the doorway. “Why must—”
“Get back in there!” Bailey placed a hand on his face and shoved him back inside. “No talking. Torin needs us. We’re his friends. You know how useless he is in a fight. We had to save his backside the last battle, and we’re going to save it in the next one. Go on, get your swords!”
Clanks, curses, and a whimper rose from the shadows. Finally the boys emerged. Cam, the smallest of the Village Guardians, looked like a child in his father’s armor; his helmet wobbled, and his breastplate hung loose. Hem, meanwhile, couldn’t even fit his helmet on; it sat perched upon his head, and his belly bulged from below his breastplate. Both wore swords and both were muttering curses. Honey still stained Hem’s fingers.
“Bloody heroes you two are,” Bailey said with a sad shake of her head. “Now come on. And walk straight.” She cocked her head as horns blew outside the village. “That’s the signal. The army is moving out. Let’s find Torin before he’s too far ahead.”
They raced through the village, armor clanking and swords swinging on their belts. They emerged between two cottages … and beheld a sea of steel.
The army spread out as far as Bailey could see. Horses walked ahead, bearing lords clad in armor and finery. Banners flew in the wind and silver trumpets blared. Behind the cavalry marched thousands of troops—archers in cloaks of gold and black squares, infantrymen in pale steel, and pikemen bearing pole-arms that rose taller than the village houses. They trampled grass, farms, and Torin’s riverside gardens. Behind them, Bailey could see the masts of warships sailing downriver; the Sern would take them into the night.
Behind a formation of archers and swordsmen, Bailey saw a swarm of Sailith monks
; there must have been hundreds, and Bailey growled. They all wore the same yellow robes, and their hoods hid their faces. They were men of Arden but wouldn’t even raise the raven banner. Instead they held their own standards: yellow sunbursts upon blood-red fields. Countless soldiers were invading Eloria, trained killers, but these robed monks scared Bailey more than the rest combined.
Soldiers fight with blades and arrows, she thought. Sailith monks fight with words. Their weapons are mightier.
“Idar’s beard,” Cam muttered, staring at the army. “There’re about a million soldiers here. Bailey, are you su—”
She grabbed his arm and tugged him along. “Yes! Now come on—quickly. Torin is riding ahead. Hem, you too. Stop fiddling with your belt and follow me.”
As they raced alongside the marching infantry, their swords swinging and their armor clanking, Bailey felt her cheeks flush. They must have made quite a sight—three disheveled youths, their armor forged by a village smith between making forks and spoons. They were only the Village Guard, not true soldiers, but Bailey kept running, dragging the two boys behind her. She was perhaps not a soldier, but she had fought before, and she had slain a man.
I will fight bravely with you, Torin, she swore. I do not believe in this war. But I believe in protecting you.
They ran until they passed the footmen, archers, and pikemen, then ran alongside the horses. The lords of the host rode between them and the river, covered in steel from head to toe. Tunics of black and gold checkers covered them, and swords hung at their sides. The horses were as finely dressed and armored as the riders, noble beasts from stables across Arden.
Finally Bailey spotted Torin ahead. He wore a helmet, but the visor was raised. His cloak fluttered in the wind. He was staring ahead, face blank. Only a few horses away rode the king, Idar’s half-sun upon his breastplate, his helmet shaped as a raven of gold and onyx.
“Winky!” she said, racing forward to run alongside him. “Winky, slow down your horse, or you’re likely to fall off. Do you remember how you fell off the village pony a few years ago?”
Gods & Dragons: 8 Fantasy Novels Page 20
