Holding an oar in one hand, she tried to touch his hair again.
Ferius struck her.
His hand slammed into her cheek, and she whimpered and cowered. The babe Okado woke and wept.
“You made me!” Ferius screamed, tears flowing, voice shaking. “You bedded a sunlit demon! You gave birth to a freak. This is your fault. All your fault.”
She wept and Ferius grabbed the oar from her. His arms shook as he steered the boat to the riverbanks. He climbed out, still wet and shivering in the cold, and glared at his mother, at a woman he hated.
“The people of Eloria call me a freak,” he said. “You will suffer. Your lands will burn.” He screamed hoarsely. “I will travel to sunlight … and I will return with the fire to burn you all.”
He turned away.
He ran along the riverbank, heading toward the dusk.
“Ferius!” his mother cried behind him, still sitting in the boat. “Ferius, please!”
He ignored her. He ran as fast as he could, barely able to see through his tears. He ran past the village. He ran out of shadow. He ran into the dusk, a land of glimmering lights like a thousand lamps.
He ran until he emerged into the blinding, searing, all-consuming light of endless day.
He kept running.
He ran through sunlight that burned his skin and blazed in his eyes. He ran through landscapes of swaying colors, of growing things, of life everywhere—sprouting from the earth, flying in the sky, scurrying away from his boots. He ran through dreamscapes of fantasy—past towering creatures with thin brown bodies and feathery green hair, over rugs of emerald fur that spread across hills and valleys, and under a sky of blue emptiness with no star or moon.
And everywhere … everywhere the sun.
“God of light,” he whispered, lying in the green, staring up at the great yellow eye. “My lord of heat and unforgiving justice.”
It burned his eyes. It burned his skin. And Ferius lay, laughing, worshiping the inferno above, the eternal flame of Timandra.
The river flowed here too, not silver under moonlight, but blue under the blaze of that fiery sky lord. Ferius caught fish. He ate raw flesh. He laughed and drank and ran onward, moving ever away from darkness.
When the monks found him, their robes yellow like the sun, he was a frail, mad thing, a miserable wretch that lay tattered on the riverbanks, laughing and feasting upon the animals he caught. His skin was peeling, his bones jutting, but still he laughed and worshiped his lord.
“Child of sunlight,” the monks said, kneeling around him. “Share our wine and bread.”
He blinked at them and laughed again, for they looked like him. Their skin was darker, their frames taller, but they had his eyes. The small eyes of sunlit lands.
“I am Timandrian,” he whispered between chafed lips.
The men nodded. “You are a child of light. Sailith will bless you.”
They gave him food they called bread—a round thing like a mushroom, soft and filling and buttery.
“Who is Sailith?” he asked between mouthfuls, sitting on the riverbank.
The men in yellow robes smiled. “Sailith is light. Sailith is fire. Sailith is the dominion of daylight and the fall of night.”
Ferius bolted upright. He leaped to his feet and snarled. “The night will burn. The savages of darkness will drown in light.”
The monks looked at one another, then back to him, and their smiles vanished. They nodded. “The darkness will burn. Join us, child of sunlight. Join our temple … and help us fight the evil in the east.”
I will not help you, Ferius thought, crushing the bread in his fist. He looked back toward the east, seeking the distant land of shadows, but it lay too far to see. The bread crumbled, and he drove his fingernails into his palms. I will lead you.
* * * * *
And he led them. Through light. Into darkness. To endless flame.
Twenty-five years ago, you found me starving on the riverbank, Sailith, he thought, inhaling the smoke. You gave me life. And now I give you fire.
He stood on the stairs outside Pahmey’s library, gazing down upon the mountain of burning corpses. The blood of Eloria still coated his hands. He raised them high and shouted for his people to hear.
“Behold the light of Sailith! Behold the fire of the sun.” He inhaled deeply, savoring the smell of burning flesh. “The day is victorious.”
The fire rose as tall as a temple, searing the air, but Ferius welcomed the heat against his flesh. The sparks and smoke landed on him; he welcomed the pain as gifts from his lord. Thousands of corpses burned below in the square. Soldiers kept streaming in from the streets, shoving wheelbarrows with more bodies and dumping them into the flames. They cheered as every new savage burned. More soldiers kept moving up and down the stairs around Ferius, entering the shadowy halls and emerging with scrolls and books. They tossed these too into the fire, feeding this god of wrath and light and heat, stoking the endless glory. The ancient spells of the night, scrawled upon parchment, crackled and burned among the creatures who wrote them.
“All knowledge of Eloria will fade!” Ferius shouted. “All demons of darkness will burn. I vowed to you, my people, that we would light the night. The night burns!”
His followers surrounded the fire. They stood in the square, the flames painting their faces. They filled the streets. They covered the roofs, chanting for victory. No more darkness covered this city; the light banished all shadows. No more stars shone in the sky; red smoke and white ash covered that canopy now. No more Elorians infested Pahmey; they burned in his flames.
“And you will burn too, Torin the Gardener,” Ferius said softly, words for only himself to hear. As men stepped downstairs around him, carrying more library scrolls to burn, Ferius clenched his fists. “You will not burn in a great fire; you will burn slowly, one inch of your body after another, and you will scream louder than this army.”
He drove his fingernails into his palms, feeling his blood seep and mingle with the demon blood already staining his hands. He bit down so harshly a tooth chipped. Yes, he had seen the boy flee upon the river. The girl Bailey had been with him, the pampered daughter of nobles; Ferius swore that he would slay her grandfather himself, for the highborn of Arden were as demons to him, little better than the creatures of the night.
“And you too fled me, my half-sister,” he whispered, savoring the taste of her name. “Yes … you wore the mask of the Sisterhood, but I know it was you. I will catch you too, Koyee of Eloria. But you I will not burn. No. You I will keep alive.” He licked his lips as if tasting her. “When all other Elorians have burned, you I will keep as my pet. I will place you in a cage, a starved and broken thing, and parade you around the lands of Timandra. I will take you from kingdom to kingdom, from city to village, and let all gaze upon you—the last Elorian of Moth.” He laughed. “They will mock you and pity you, but I will show you no pity.”
The wound in his leg—the one Koyee had given him—flared with pain. Even six months later, Ferius walked with a limp. The pain kept his mind sharp, his passion hot. It would guide him across the night until he found her. She lurked now among the wolves of the southern plains; Ferius knew of those beasts, savages the fallen King Ceranor had been too cowardly to fight. But Ferius was no coward; the Chanku too would burn in his glory.
He looked north toward the hill’s crest. Minlao Palace had fallen; its stub rose like a broken bone, a monument to his victory. He returned his eyes to the crowd and shouted anew.
“Muster your weapons, soldiers of sunlight! Polish armor and sharpen swords. A city has fallen. An empire will burn!”
The soldiers chanted for the sun and raised their swords. Ferius tilted his head back, closed his eyes, and savored the scent of flesh.
CHAPTER TWELVE
THE DAUGHTER OF WOLVES
My father is fallen.
He stood alone in his tent—the wide, towering tent of an alpha, its poles silvered, its leather walls painted with leaping
wolves. He stood with his head lowered, his heart clenched into a tight ball.
I have a half-brother.
Okado closed his eyes. No tears flowed, for he ruled a great pack, a warrior leading many warriors, the strongest of his people. Yet still the pain clawed inside him, dragging the memories through him.
My mother loved a Timandrian. She birthed a demon. Ferius slew my father.
At first, Okado had refused to believe Koyee … but he had seen the truth in her eyes. That truth now tore inside him like a wolf at flesh. If the stars themselves were falling and the sun rising, Okado would not feel as lost.
He could see his father again in the darkness—a wise soldier, his wars over, a fishing rod in his hand instead of a sword. Okado was young again, sitting upon the riverbanks of the Inaro River. The dusk glowed orange, casting the glimmers that brought bass and crayfish to breed and flourish and feed his family. His father sat at his side, showing Okado how to raise a lamp above the water, drawing the fish near.
“Tell me about the war, Father,” the child had begged. “Tell me stories of heroes and swords and battles.”
His father had only smiled sadly. “There is no glory in tales of war. There is more honor in a fishing rod than a sword. There is more courage in feeding your family than slaying a man.”
Standing in his tent, a man himself now, Okado grimaced.
“I railed against you, Father.” His fists shook. “I wanted to be a hero too, to ignore your words, to fight my own war—to find that honor in battle. So I left you. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I should have been there with you at the end.”
His sister had shared the news with him hours ago, and Okado had stormed into his tent. How could he ever emerge? He led many now, a fisherman’s son grown into an alpha rider, and his people needed him, but Okado felt that he had less honor than the old man who had died upon the riverbank.
“What do I do now, Father? How do I protect Koyee? How do I protect all those who need me?”
He stared at the tent walls, praying for guidance, missing his father’s wisdom. He was a grown man, and he had a mate of his own, yet now he felt very young, still a child needing the wisdom of men.
A voice spoke softly behind him. “You will lead them to hope. You will be the light to guide them.”
Okado turned around. He saw Suntai there. She stood at the entrance to the tent, holding up a leather flap. The moonlight outlined her white, cascading hair and her tall, slender form. Her eyes gleamed like blue moons. She entered the tent, letting the flap drop behind her, and approached him.
She took his hand and touched his cheek. “I’m here for you, Okado. Through victory, through glory, through darkness and light, through death and hope, I ride by your side. Always. In this life and in the great sky beyond.”
She kissed his lips, and he held her against him, her hair like snow against his cheek.
“Always, my mate,” he said softly and kissed her forehead. “Always we ride together.”
He held her for a long time. They stood in stillness, silence, and warmth.
I’m not wise like you, Father, he thought. I’m not as strong, as noble, as humble. But I will lead them. I will fight for Koyee, for my pack, for all the people of the night.
He held his mate’s hand. She smiled sadly, eyes gleaming. Hand in hand, they left the tent and walked across the crater between their people—the proud riders of Chanku, the last survivors of Pahmey, and the children of sunlight who had joined their cause. Over the horizon, the smoke rose and the flame burned, but here in the shadows, his mate, his sister, and the memory of his father lit his way.
* * * * *
They stood upon Wolfjaw Mountain, the sacred ground where all great decisions of the pack were made. They stood around Suntai: her mate, the brave Okado; her mate’s sister, the young Koyee; and the five Timandrians who had fled their own people, a young queen and four soldiers. All eyes gazed upon her—Suntai, queen of wolves. They stood between the mountain’s jaws of stone. Below across the plains, the rest of her pack waited—thousands of riders upon thousands of wolves, her noble people, all awaiting her decree.
My mate leads us in battle, Suntai thought. Yet I am the alpha female. When swords are sheathed, it is I who lead. And now I must decide.
She took a deep breath, raised her chin, and spoke in a clear voice.
“The enemy will not rest. They saw us across the water; they will seek to burn us too. This I do not doubt. A beast of sunlight roams our land, and one city will not fill its belly. They will crave the Chanku Pack, and they will crave all the lands of night—here in Qaelin and beyond our borders. Under these stars, as Pahmey burns on the horizon, we must choose our path.”
She looked northward. Her clan spread across the first mile of the plains. Beyond them, shadows rolled across the night, leading to a great fire. Pahmey blazed there like a collapsing star fallen onto the earth. They would be mustering there—the creatures from the sunlit half of Moth. These demons were of the Ardish clan, she knew; the same clan as these Timandrians who had joined them, their sigil a black bird they called “raven.” But other sunlit clans crawled elsewhere in Eloria—the Nayans she had fought last year, warriors of the tiger, and many others, a great horde some said was half a million strong.
It was Koyee, the slim youth with a warrior’s eyes, who spoke the thoughts in Suntai’s own heart.
“How can we defeat them?” Koyee gazed toward the distant fire. “The Timandrians are so many and we are few. How can the night stop the day?”
Suntai rested her palm upon her sword’s hilt. “We in Chanku are few. The defenders of Pahmey were few. But others live in the night. The Emperor of Qaelin, they say, commands fifty thousand troops far in the east. And other empires rule in the night. The Ilari nation is mighty; my parents fought their bloodthirsty warriors in the Great Southern War. Leen too is strong; its elders are wise and its soldiers are many, though they have not left their northern isle in many years.” Suntai looked east, south, and north, as if she could see these distant lands from here. “We must seek their aid. All three empires of darkness must join forces: Qaelin, Ilar, and Leen. No more must Elorians fight one another; now is our time to lay aside our grievances and fight the sun as one.”
She looked at Okado and met his gaze. His eyes shone with approval and his lips rose in a rare smile. She saw the love and pride in him, and it warmed her chest. He was strong in battle; she would prove herself just as strong in this council.
Koyee spoke again. “The Ilari are ruthless and cruel. My father fought them too; he spoke of them as of monsters. And the people of Leen? They say they care only for gazing at the stars, counting crystals, and chanting ancient prayers. How will we show them wisdom? How can we unite Elorians—scattered across distant lands, miles of darkness between us?”
“We will unite,” said Suntai, “or we will fall. We will unite as the Timandrians do, different kingdoms and clans fighting as one, or we will perish. We have no choice.” She inhaled through flared nostrils. “We must travel across the night, spreading the news. We must speak of the slaughter in Pahmey. We must make the emperor of Qaelin send his troops west. We must convince Leen and Ilar, our enemies of old, to fight alongside their siblings in darkness. Three quests lie before us, three paths to hope. We must take these three roads, or we will perish in the flame from the west.”
Because I do not crave death in battle, she thought. Because I am not like the riders I lead; they want to die young, to die upon their blades, to die as men and women of honor and strength. But not I. Not Suntai, mate of Okado. I would live to see my barren womb flower. I would die an elder, my grandchildren playing with pups at my feet. She looked toward the northern light then closed her eyes. We must live. We must banish this nemesis of fire. By my sword, my wolf, and the blood of my heart, I will fight for life and darkness.
She opened her eyes and looked at her companions. Her husband, strong and noble, his shoulders broad and his blade sharp. His sister, sho
rt and slim and clad only in silk, yet displaying the same strength as her brother in her eyes. The Timandrians who had joined her pack: a trembling queen with golden locks, a somber youth with mismatched eyes, a warrior woman with braided hair, and two friends—one short and the other wide—with fear in their eyes.
“We are only a few,” Suntai said, “yet we must save the night.”
They stared back at her, some of them frightened, the others strong. It was Okado who spoke first.
“I will lead the pack east.” He gazed down the mountain toward them, thousands of men and women astride wolves. “The crater is no longer safe for them, not with Timandrian hosts so near. If this Ferius demon has slain all in Pahmey, he will seek to slay us next. The Chanku riders are strong and fierce; one of our warriors can defeat ten of them in battle. And yet they outnumber our warriors twenty to one. We cannot stay. I will take the pack east along the Sage’s Road for many turns. We will seek Yintao, our capital; its walls are tall and thick, and its soldiers are many. We will join our wolves to their warriors; together we are strong.”
Suntai nodded. “The pack will head east. We were nomads for many years before we found our crater; we’ve lingered in its shadows for too long, and it has weakened us. You will lead the pack to Yintao. Yet who will travel north and south, seeking aid from other empires of night?”
Koyee stepped forth. Her eyes shone and she raised her chin. She was a decade younger than Suntai, and she stood barely taller than Suntai’s shoulder, but her stance was strong, her face fierce. This one would have made a fine rider, Suntai thought.
“I will travel south,” Koyee said. “Torin and I have a boat—the Water Spider, which we oared when fleeing Pahmey. We both grew up along rivers; we both know the water. We will sail south along the Inaro. It will take us across Qaelin to the southern coast. There we will cross the sea to the Ilari Empire.” She looked back at Okado, and her eyes softened. “I spent many years dreaming of seeing my brother again. Yet now our roads must part.”
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