Daughter of Moth (The Moth Saga, Book 4)

by Daniel Arenson

  "Radian rises!" shouted Lari—the young, golden-haired woman. She saw Jitomi and his sister, pointed at them, and her voice rose even louder. "More creatures of the night walk among us. Nightcrawlers will burn!"

  With that, Lari brought a candle to the hanging effigy. The Elorian of wood and straw caught flame. The demonstrators cheered, cut the burning effigy down, and stomped upon it. Their banners rose higher, and their voices cried out for Radian. Whether Radian was a god, movement, or leader, Jitomi didn't know, but whatever the case, the word meant danger.

  Until now, Jitomi had been fighting the temptation to turn back, to run home to the night. Strangely, now he found himself clenching his fists, squaring his jaw, and marching forward with renewed determination. Nitomi walked at his side, silent for once, her eyes darting.

  Leaving the protestors behind, they finally reached the university gates. Towers flanked a stone archway, its keystone engraved with two crossing scrolls, sigil of Teel. Guards in particolored livery stood at the open doors, their helmets plumed. When Jitomi peered inside, he saw a cobbled cloister, a towering elm tree, and columned halls. Many other applicants already stood within; some were fellow Elorians, hooded and cloaked.

  Teel University... center of learning, wisdom, and magic.

  Jitomi turned toward his sister. She stared at him, her large eyes damp, her lips quivering.

  "It's time to say goodbye," Jitomi said softly and held her hands.

  She nodded and sniffled. "I'll miss you, baby brother. I'll miss you so much. It won't be the same at home without you. Please do well here. Please become a very powerful mage very quickly, then come back to Ilar. I'll think about you every turn. I promise." She unclasped one of her many daggers from the strap across her chest. She handed it to him. The tantō was curved, the hilt wrapped in silk, and the sigil of Ilar—a red flame—was engraved onto the blade. "Take this. It's good steel and it will protect you here. It's the only gift I have to give."

  He took the dagger and slid it into one of his cloak's deep pockets. He was about to turn and leave when Nitomi leaped, wrapped all four limbs around him, and hugged him tightly.

  "Goodbye, brother," she whispered.

  "Goodbye, sister."

  Tears filled his own eyes. He turned to step through the archway, leaving her there—wishing he had more to say, wishing he had more time with her. He felt stiff, awkward, afraid. He dared not look back.

  If I pass these trials, I won't leave this place for four years.

  He entered a cobbled cloister surrounded by columned galleries. Towers soared at all sides, and a great dome—large as a palace—rose ahead. Blinking furiously, struggling to keep his eyes dry, he stared at the elm tree. Its leaves rustled against the blue sky, and Jitomi thought of the stars of his homeland.

  CHAPTER FOUR:

  FRIEND AND FOE

  Head spinning, Madori took a deep breath and stared around at the fabled Teel University.

  She stood in a sprawling cloister surrounded by porticoes. The place seemed large enough for an army to muster in. Many other youths walked around her, all highborn. All were better dressed, better bred, and quite a bit taller than her. Born to an Elorian mother, Madori stood barely five feet tall; women of the night rarely stood taller. Full-blooded Timandrians, children of eternal daylight grown on hearty sunlit fare, dwarfed her. As she moved among the crowd, Madori saw them stare at her, mutter, even point.

  "An Elorian?" one boy whispered, gaping her way.

  His friend shook his head. "Hair's black, skin's tanned. Half-breed, I reckon. I heard of those."

  Madori sneered. She was about to march over to the two boys and clobber them—how dared they talk of her as of some animal!—but her father appeared in her mind. She could hear his damn voice again.

  You will achieve greatness on your terms, not letting others drag you into the mud.

  Madori grumbled. Father invented stupid puns, told jokes only he'd laugh at, and was overall a huge embarrassment, but he was also the wisest person Madori knew. Fists clenched, she walked away from the two slack-jawed boys, heading deeper into the cloister.

  "Country bumpkins, they are," she muttered under her breath. "They'll never pass the trials."

  She kept moving, worming her way through the crowd. She thought she caught glimpses of a wooden stage ahead. Used to being the shortest person around, Madori knew she'd have to step close if she wanted to see any speaker who might appear.

  As she walked, she passed by some of the strangest youths she'd ever seen. Most applicants seemed to be local boys and girls, Magerians in cotton robes, their eyes bright and their hair golden. But many foreigners crowded the courtyard too. Some applicants seemed to be from Arden, Madori's homeland; they wore leggings, tunics, and tall leather boots. Others hailed from all over the daylight realms: jungle dwellers clad in tiger-pelts, their hair flaming red; northern Verilish youths, hulking and wide, wearing bear furs; southern desert children, their skin deep bronze, their tunics white; and even some dwellers of the distant savanna island of Sania, their clothes formed of many beads, elephants embroidered onto their cloaks.

  Diverse as they were, all of them were Timandrians, Madori realized with a sigh. All were children of Timandra, the sunlit half of this broken world men called Moth. The day never ended here; these children had never known darkness. She, Madori, would always be a stranger among them—a girl born to a mother of darkness, an Elorian from across the dusk.

  Her eyes stung. Will I be an outcast here too?

  She was nearing the stage when she saw another group of applicants; these ones huddled close together, clad in robes and hoods. Madori tilted her head, squinted, and stepped closer.

  Her heart burst into a gallop.

  "Elorians," she whispered, a tremble seizing her.

  Madori had seen many Elorians before. Her village was near the border with the night, and her mother often took her into the darkness. Madori had spent many hours admiring the stars and moon, feasting upon mushrooms and glowing lanternfish, and playing with Elorian children under the dark skies. Yet aside from her mother, she had never seen other Elorians in the sunlit half of Moth.

  They were a slender folk, their skin milky white, their hair long and smooth and the color of starlight. Their ears were large, thrusting out, meant for hearing every creak in the deep darkness. Their robes were made of silk, embroidered with dragon motifs. Their most distinguishing feature, however, was their eyes. Those orbs were twice the size of Timandrian eyes, oval and gleaming blue and lavender. Madori herself—though tanned of skin and dark of hair—had those eyes.

  Eyes for seeing in the dark.

  She took a deep breath, sudden hope lifting inside her. Here in the sunlight, she was a curiosity, a girl for others to gape at. She was no more Elorian than Timandrian, but perhaps among the children of the night she could find some acceptance. After all, they too were curiosities here; Madori saw how the others stared and pointed at them. If Madori and these Elorians did not share the full bond of race, they shared the bond of alienation.

  One of the Elorians noticed her. He raised his eyes and stared her way. His large, gleaming eyes were deep blue. A tattoo of a dragon crawled up his neck and cheek, finally coiling over the eyebrow. Strands of hair fell across his forehead, milky-white, and a silver ring studded his nose. He didn't speak, didn't step toward her, merely stared, his gaze penetrating. Slowly, the others in his group turned to follow his gaze, and Madori saw the confusion in their eyes. Like everyone, they too were trying to decide what she was—a girl with Timandrian hair and skin, her eyes large as an Elorian's.

  She took a step toward them, needing that comfort, that acceptance, that security of a group. But before she reached them, she paused.

  No.

  A voice spoke in her head again, but this time it seemed to be her own voice, not her father's—a voice from deep within her.

  This is not the path to acceptance.

  She was in Timandra now, about to apply for
admission in a university full of Timandrians. She had to make a choice how to live here, which side of hers to embrace. If she chose to mingle with Timandrians, perhaps she could still find some acceptance in the sunlight. If she chose to live as an Elorian, she would forever be an outcast here—just one more outsider, a misfit among misfits.

  She caressed her own tattoo—a small duskmoth upon her wrist, its one wing white, the other black. Duskmoths were creatures shaped like the world, torn between day and night. They were creatures like her, forever halved. Madori tore her gaze away from that strange, tattooed Elorian boy and his comrades. Leaving them, she walked toward the wooden stage.

  Several men and women stood upon this stage, clad in flowing robes. Mages, Madori knew—each from a different school. One mage, a stern looking man with cold eyes, wore the black robes of offensive magic—dark spells used in warfare. Several other mages wore white, green, and red robes, though Madori did not know what those colors signified; her father had met only the dark mages in the war. She wondered which of these professors could teach her healing; it was the skill she had come here for, the skill she refused to leave without.

  One mage, an elderly woman clad in blue robes, stepped toward a podium on the stage. She was a frail little thing, barely larger than Madori, her hair white and her skin deeply lined. The woman raised her arms, and when she spoke, her voice boomed out, loud as a crashing oak. Applicants started and gaped as the thundering words pounded out of this dainty woman's mouth. Already they saw magic at work.

  "Welcome, applicants, to the Teel Trials!" The mage gazed across the crowd. "I am Headmistress Egeria. You've traveled here from many lands to prove your mettle. I see applicants from across Mythimna. I see boys and girls from our homeland of Mageria." Cheers rose from the crowd at this; most here were local Magerians. "And I see applicants from the pine forests of Verilon, from the plains of Arden, from the cold arctic isle of Orida, from the jungles of Naya . . ." As the headmistress named every sunlit nation, its applications cheered. The old woman continued. "I see students from the swamps of Daenor, from the desert of Eseer, from the savannah of Sania." She cleared her throat and fixed the round glasses that perched atop her nose. "And, for the very first time in Teel University history, I am proud to see that Elorians—children from the dark half of Moth—have chosen to cross into the sunlight to join our quest for knowledge."

  At those last words, the crowd fell silent. Madori cringed. The headmistress had spoken with good intentions, but looking around, Madori saw that the applicants weren't as pleased with the prospect. Some students glanced at one another; others gaped openly at the group of Elorians who stood clustered not far from Madori, hidden inside their silken robes.

  One applicant, a golden-haired girl who stood not far from Madori, snickered. "What's next, letting pigs apply?" she said—too softly for the professors on the stage to hear, but loud enough for Madori to turn red.

  A few of the girl's friends stifled laughs.

  "Truly, Lari, you think Elorians are pigs?" said a boy, addressing the girl. He grinned. "Pigs smell better."

  Lari tossed back her golden tresses. "Rotten pig carcasses smell better than Elorians. My father says they're lower than maggots."

  Again the friends laughed.

  The headmistress was speaking again, but Madori was paying no attention. She glared at the group of snickering youths. There were several of them—Magerians by the looks of them, all tall, golden of hair, and blue of eyes. They wore fine clothing of rich, embroidered cotton, and golden jewelry adorned their wrists and necks. They all wore the Radian sigil upon their lapels—a sun eclipsing the moon.

  Madori ground her teeth. "Radians," she muttered.

  The lead girl—Lari—seemed to hear her. She turned toward Madori, tilted her head, and narrowed her eyes.

  "And what have we here?" she asked.

  Madori clenched her fists. Lari was everything Madori was not. She had perfect clothes, perfect hair, a perfectly beautiful face—the kind to make boys trip over their own tongues. She was taller than Madori, obviously better bred, and about a thousand times wealthier. If Madori were a plucky little mutt, here was a prize racehorse.

  "Somebody who'll punch your perfect little teeth out of your perfect little mouth," Madori said, raising a fist. "So I suggest you shut that mouth if you don't want this fist shattering it."

  Lari laughed—a beautiful, trilling sound like rain upon leaves. "Oh my. Oh dear. This isn't an Elorian, my friends. This is . . ." She gasped and covered her mouth, feigning surprise. "A mongrel."

  Her friends grimaced. A few made gagging noises.

  Madori leaped forward. She barely stood taller than Lari's shoulders, but she didn't care. "A mongrel who'll bash your—"

  "Applicants!"

  The voice boomed across the crowd, louder than thunder. Madori froze, her fist inches away from Lari's face. She spun to see Headmistress Egeria glaring from the stage. The elderly woman was pointing at Madori. Around the headmistress, the professors stared at Madori, eyes boring into her.

  "Is there a problem, applicants?" the headmistress said.

  Madori forced herself to lower her fists, though she still fumed. Grinding her teeth, she stared back at Egeria and shook her head.

  At her side, Lari pouted, a picture of innocence. The girl leaned closer to Madori and whispered, "Oh sweetness, such temper . . . truly you mongrels are rabid beasts. Someday we Radians will put you all down."

  The headmistress was still staring at them; so were thousands of curious applicants. Madori forced herself to take several steps away from Lari and her friends.

  We'll settle this later, Lari, she thought, her cheeks hot. You might be a perfect little lady, but I'm a farm girl, grown up wrestling boys in the fields, and I can bash you and your friends to bits.

  After clearing her throat, the headmistress continued speaking to the crowd.

  "As I was saying: Teel University accepts only the very brightest, the very strongest, the very wisest of all youths to learn the secrets of magic. Every year, we can admit only two hundred students to our school. Over two thousand of you have gathered here this turn." The headmistress raised her chin. "Most you will soon return home."

  Grumbles rose across the crowd. Madori looked from side to side, judging the others' reactions. Some students seemed confident; Lari and her friends stood smiling, hands on their hips, sure of their victory. Other students looked worried; one boy wrung his hands, while another actually whimpered.

  Ninety percent will go home, Madori thought. But I won't. I lived my life an outcast, a misfit, a creature to be scorned or pitied. She squared her jaw. I will pass these trials, and I will become a mage. I will become powerful.

  "To weed out the chaff," Headmistress Egeria boomed out, "you shall partake in three trials. A Trial of Wisdom. A Trial of Wit. And finally a Trial of Will. Only those who pass all three trials shall attend Teel University. Your names will be called out one by one. When you hear your name, you will enter Ostrinia Tower." The headmistress pointed at an archway beyond the stage; it led into the base of a brick tower that scratched the clouds. "There your trials will begin."

  With that, the headmistress stepped back. A young mage stepped forth to replace her, unrolling a scroll that dangled down to his feet. He began to read out names one by one. As each name was called, an applicant walked toward the tower.

  Madori chewed her lip. She hadn't registered her name anywhere. How would they know to call her? She looked around, seeking somebody—perhaps a professor or other university member—to talk to. She cursed herself; how could she have missed signing up! As she scanned the crowd, she saw the Elorian boy—the one with the dragon tattoo and pierced nose—staring at her again.

  Madori froze and narrowed her eyes, staring back, but the boy wouldn't look away. His eyes seemed to stare deep into her, his face expressionless, and something about him unnerved Madori. She had seen many Elorians before—after all, her mother was Elorian, and Madori sp
ent many turns in Oshy, a village of the night—but never one like this, one so . . . the only word she could think of was intense.

  She took a step closer toward him, intending to insist he explained his stare or she'd stab his eyes. Before she could take a second step, however, a hand reached out and tugged her sleeve.

  "Billygoat?"

  She spun around, for an instant sure that her woolhead of a father had stepped into the university grounds, the only parent here to utterly humiliate his child. But it wasn't her father who stood there, holding her sleeve. Madori's eyes widened.

  "Tam?" She rubbed her eyes. "Prince Tamlin Solira?"

  It was him. The Prince of Arden himself, her best—her only—friend in the world, stood before her.

  Madori's father had spent the war fighting alongside the king and queen—his dearest friends. Madori spent half her summers in the darkness of Eloria, the other half in Kingswall, the capital city of Arden, spending time with the king, queen, and twin princes. The adults spent most of their time in dreadfully dull conversations, telling old war stories and discussing politics; so did Prince Omry, Tam's twin and heir to Arden. Meanwhile, Madori and Tam—bored senseless with the court—would sneak out into the gardens to chase butterflies, explore secret paths, and pretend to be adventurers.

  Of course, they were older now, almost adults themselves. Tam was seventeen, a year older than her, and quite a bit taller. Brown, curly hair fell across his brow, and his smile was bright. Madori had always known him to dress in the finery of a prince, but here he wore simple woolen garments, clothes no finer—though perhaps more traditional—than her own.

  "Hush!" His voice dropped to a whisper, and he winked. "Don't say my name here. At least not my full name. I'm sort of, well . . . undercover."

  Madori grumbled. "And don't you call me Billygoat. You know I hate that stupid name. I am Madori Billy Greenmoat." She glared at him for a moment, then felt her eyes sting. She pulled him into an embrace. "What are you doing here, Tam?"