"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.
Torin wondered if he should approach, seek her, and try to make amends with this kingdom across the dusk.
What would I say to her? How do I fix this? How would I let her know I'm not her enemy?
He didn't know.
He turned back toward the day, leaving the wheelbarrow and the bones behind.
He returned to Timandra, found Bailey upon the hill, and pulled her into an embrace. He stood with her for a long time, his eyes closed, holding her.
CHAPTER FIVE:
KOYEE
She stood upon the Nighttower, the wind billowing her hair, the moon gleaming against her blade. She stared across the plains of darkness—hills and valleys rolling black and lifeless toward the orange horizon, the dusk where the sunlit demons dwelled. She was Koyee Mai, a daughter of the night . . . and a daughter in mourning.
"They killed him, Eelani," she said, holding her father's sword. "They killed my father, then slunk back into the fire. They will kill us all if they can."
Her friend was silent, as she always was. Many claimed that jatashi—shoulder spirits—did not exist. Many taunted Koyee for inventing an invisible friend. But Koyee could feel the warmth on her right shoulder, the soft breath against her cheek, the comforting presence of her friend. She held out her hand, letting Eelani crawl from her shoulder onto her palm, a tingle that raised goose bumps along her arm.
"Timandrians," Koyee said, and the word raised goose bumps over the rest of her. "Demons of sunlight. Murderers. I saw one, Eelani. I saw one with my own eyes."
The doubtful also claimed that Timandrians were myths. They claimed that nothing could possibly live in the sunlit half of the world, that the light would burn all flesh.
"But I know what I saw." Koyee tightened her hand around the hilt of her father's sword. "I saw a sunlit demon. He emerged from the dusk."
She herself had smooth white hair, but the demon had sported a head of dark curls like nightwolf fur. She had milky skin, but the creature had a countenance of bronze. Strangest of all had been his eyes—beady eyes half the size of hers, one green and the other black.
"I stared into his eyes, Eelani, and I saw evil." Cold wind moaned, ruffling her tunic of nightwolf fur. "He will return. He will shed more blood."
Koyee had vowed not to cry, yet she felt her eyes dampen. The pain still pulsed through her, fresh and chilling like ice cut from a frozen river. She looked down from the Nighttower to the border of dusk, the place where stone gave way to twisted brambles. She had gone seeking her father, only to find his blade upon the plains, stained with the foul blood of demons. When she had lifted the sword, she had seen the demon emerge from the light, wheeling his cart of bones.
"My father's bones," she whispered, still smelling the smoky scent. "Eelani, I miss him."
She could see his grave below. For many years, her father had stood here upon this very tower, gazing into the dusk, guarding their village that lay below. Some had not believed there was any threat to guard against. Some had called her father a fool, a fisherman who could not forget his old life as a soldier. Now those people mourned him. He had fallen defending this tower, and Koyee had buried him at its base.
"May your spirit continue to watch over me, Father," she whispered, tasting a salty tear. "Goodbye."
She gazed upon Sheytusung, his katana, now her blade to bear. Smiths had forged this sword in the distant city of Pahmey, a mythical realm of crystal towers. They had folded the curved blade a dozen times, hammering it into an edge that remained sharp through the years. Mottles and lines coiled along the steel like the Inaro River that flowed below. Blue silk wrapped around the hilt, soft and warm in her hand. Twenty winters ago, her father had carried this sword to the great southern war against the Ilari nation; since returning home, he had worn it every day until his last.
"I promise you, Father, I will bear your blad
e proudly. I will protect our people and I will avenge your death." She whispered the old words of her people. "We are the night."
The wind in her hair, she looked south of the Nighttower toward the village that nestled below, hugging the river.
Oshy. My home.
Twenty round clay huts rose around a cobbled square. Docks spread into the river like fingers, holding a dozen boats. Lanterns swung above the water, casting dapples of light. Only a hundred souls dwelled here, for few in Eloria dared live in the light of dusk, that glow forever in their west. Yet where twilight fell the crayfish bred and thrived, and so the village of Oshy thrived too. Boats sailed down the river, bearing the delicacy to distant lands, returning with pottery, silk, and fur.
"But we need no more pottery, silk, and fur," Koyee said to her invisible friend. "We need more swords. We need soldiers. I bear the only blade in our village, and if Timandra attacks again, I cannot defend this village alone. Eelani, we must travel down the river. We must find the distant city of Pahmey, the place where this sword was forged, where brave souls train for war." Her throat tightened. "We must tell them Timandrians are real, and we must return with aid."
Her friend was silent as always, but Koyee felt a warm embrace against her cheek, a breath against her ear, a stroke along her hair. Eelani was agreeing, but the spirit was afraid.
"I'm afraid too," Koyee said. "I fear the light of day. I fear the heat of sunfire. I fear the creatures that dwell there. And I fear being alone."
She lowered her head, letting the wind whip her hair across her eyes, smooth pale strands like silk. Yes, she was alone now. Her brother, her only other family, had left Oshy ten years ago. He had sailed south along the river, dreaming of becoming a shaikin—a warrior for hire. He had been only sixteen, and Koyee had not seen him since.
The years had gone by, and Koyee herself was sixteen now but still unwed. A few young villagers still courted her, but others shunned her, perhaps fearing her scars. Two years ago, she had gone hunting and a feral nightwolf had attacked her, clawing her face. Three lines now marred her countenance. One scar tugged the corner of her mouth, raising her lips into a permanent, crooked smile. The other ran below her eye, and the third crossed her forehead, halving an eyebrow. Koyee didn't care. She saw little value in physical beauty, and she had never desired marriage. She was happier hunting on the starlit plains, even after her injury, than entertaining suitors. And so when men courted her, she turned them back, and when men shunned her, she felt no shame.
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