Daughter of Moth (The Moth Saga, Book 4)

by Daniel Arenson

  For two or three heartbeats, they raced unopposed upon the bridge.

  Then that old sound Torin remembered and hated filled the air.

  Whistling arrows.

  He ducked and pulled Cam down too. Arrows whistled above them, and one slammed into the cart inches away from Torin. Hayseed whinnied and kept running, her fear driving her.

  "Now this is more like the old days!" Cam shouted, then winced and ducked lower as an arrow grazed his head, slicing a lock of hair.

  The cart bounced madly. The river flowed at their sides, and the distant bank seemed miles away. When the cart hit a crack in the bridge, it bolted into the air, and Torin winced when they slammed back down. A cask of ale fell from the cart, and Torin spun around to see it roll and shatter, spilling its contents. Several soldiers were running across the bridge, slow in their armor; one slipped in the ale and crashed down.

  For an instant hope leaped in Torin; they would make it across the bridge! But when he heard the hooves beating and the horns blowing, his heart sank down to his belly. He watched, grimacing, as a dozen Radian riders galloped onto the bridge, pointing lances.

  "Hayseed, go, girl!" Cam was shouting.

  Torin, meanwhile, climbed from his seat into the back of the cart. An arrow whistled, and he winced as it slammed into another cask of ale. He shoved, sending the cask tumbling down. A rider tried to dodge the rolling barrel but was too slow; his horse slammed into the obstacle and fell. Torin ducked, hiding behind more supplies as arrows flew. He shoved again, knocking down bundles of firewood; a horse entangled in the rolling logs and crashed down.

  When Torin glanced back eastward, he saw that they had only crossed half the bridge. The remaining riders were gaining on them. Visors hid the Radians' faces, and their lances rose, ready to thrust.

  Torin raised his sword, prepared to fight as best he could. But rather than charge from behind, the horses raced around the cart and came to block its passage. Hayseed whinnied and bucked, and the cart halted so suddenly it almost tilted over.

  A ring of riders surrounded the cart, lances pointed inward like the teeth of a lamprey. The sunlight blazed against the Radian emblems upon the soldiers' breastplates and shields.

  "Torin Greenmoat," said one rider, the tallest among them. He raised his visor, revealing the stony brow, haughty blue eyes, and strong jaw of Lord Serin. "Hello again. And . . . I do believe this is Camlin of Arden, the Shepherd King."

  Sword raised, Torin nodded at the lord. "Hello again, cousin." He turned to glance at Cam and spoke in Qaelish, a language of the night they both had learned in the war. "The rider to my left—the shorter one?"

  Cam nodded and spoke in Qaelish too. "After you."

  Torin didn't waste another instant. He leaped from the cart, katana swinging, and lunged toward the knight. Cam leaped behind them. The horse bucked. The knight's lance thrust, and Torin's katana knocked it aside. Cam lashed his own blade, driving the horse back.

  The two friends raced around the rider, free from the encircling enemy, and ran toward the bridge's ledge.

  "Stop them!" rose a voice behind.

  A crossbow thrummed and the quarrel whizzed by Torin's ear. He ran with Cam, arms pumping.

  They reached the bridge's ledge and kicked off. Torin's heart hammered and his legs still ran in the air. They plunged down toward the rushing water, crossbow quarrels flying above them.

  "Yes, definitely like the old days!" Cam shouted at his side.

  With a a great splash of icy water, they crashed into the river.

  They sank, kicking and swimming underwater. Torin's eyes stung and he kicked off his boots, propelling himself eastward—at least he hoped it was eastward. Arrows pierced the water around him, and one grazed his calf. Blood rose like dancing red demons.

  Yes, I don't miss the old days, he thought as they swam, arrows filling the water like raindrops cutting through mist.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN:

  SEEKING MAGIC

  She walked through the library of Teel like a woman walking through a temple.

  "Here is my temple," she whispered. "Here is my solitude, my peace, the wisdom I seek."

  She took a deep breath and smiled. She stepped forward slowly, head tilted back, her fingers tingling at her sides.

  Madori had spent many hours of her childhood in the library of Fairwool-by-Night, a hall cluttered with creaky shelves, dusty books, and piles of scrolls. That had been a place like a womb, warm, comfortable, worn in, the book spines smoothed by many fingers, the air rich with the scent of papyrus and parchment. But here . . . here in the great Teel Library she found a different world. This was no womb; it was a palace. Porphyry columns rose several stories tall, their capitols shaped as Mageria's buffaloes, the beasts supporting a vaulted ceiling painted with scenes of sunbursts, pink clouds, and birds of all kinds. Marble statues stood every few feet, depicting the ancient gods of Riyona, their nude bodies paragons of beauty. Oil paintings of landscapes and ancient battles—the canvases as large as sails—covered the walls. Giltwood tables and upholstered chairs, themselves masterpieces, supported silver counter-square boards with jeweled pieces.

  But more than any painting or statue, the books filled Madori's heart with warmth like mulled wine.

  Thousands of books stood upon the shelves—tens of thousands, maybe millions. Some books were great works of art, their spines jeweled, their leather covers engraved with landscapes. Some books had jeweled covers of silver and gold, others covers of olive wood engraved with animals. Other books were mere bundles of parchment tied together with string. Some were great codices, three feet tall; other books were so small Madori could have hid them in her pocket.

  She walked around in wonder, her smile growing, her head tilted back to take it all in.

  "Books," she whispered. Portals to other worlds. Keepers of secrets. Chests of wisdom. Madori had seen the stars of the night, the white towers of Kingswall, and the pagodas of Qaelin, but to her books were the greatest wonders in Moth. They were more than objects; they were magic. Simple pages, that was all—pages with ink—and yet each contained a life, an entire world, a wisdom from beyond the ages.

  As she walked here between the shelves, suddenly her troubles outside—Lari's aggression, Atratus's hatred, her troubles with this or that spell—seemed trivial. Here she felt safe, a star floating in a sky of light.

  She pulled down a great, heavy book as long as her arm; inside she found ancient drawings of healing herbs. She spent a while reading an ancient codex with a red leather cover—a bestiary detailing all the animals of the world, from the humble shrew to the mighty elephant. For an hour, she read stories of adventure, the old heroes of Riyona battling sea serpents, cyclops, and dragons. She read a small book of ancient poetry—words two thousand years old—and shed tears for a pair of lovers whose song echoed through the ages.

  The others have a home, Madori thought. Neekeya had the swamps of Daenor, Tam was from a great city of white towers, and Jitomi was from an island in the night. Madori caressed a pile of books on the table before her. This is my home—anywhere among books. My home is the world of words.

  When she finally stepped outside the library and stood under the sky, she inhaled deeply and smiled. A new strength filled her, a tranquility like the sea after a storm. Whenever troubled, she knew she could return to this place, to her anchor.

  "Madori!" The voice rose ahead, and Neekeya came racing toward her, panting. "Madori, where have you been? I've been looking all over for you. Professor Yovan said we have a test tomorrow, and you're the only one who understands healing magic." She grabbed Madori's hand and tugged her. "Come on! Back to our chamber. Tam cut his finger on purpose and tried to heal himself, but he can't, and Jitomi is laughing so hard I think he'll die. Quickly!"

  Madori allowed herself to be dragged away. She looked back once, saw the library dome gleaming in the sunlight, and smiled silently.

  * * * * *

  The bells had rung, the turn was over, an
d most students and professors slept in their chambers, but Neekeya would not leave the workshop, not until she found a hint of magic.

  "What about this one?" she said, placing her pewter mug upon the table. "It's a magical mug. My father said that you can drink and drink from it forever, and it'll never be empty. I tried it, and it doesn't work for me, but I think we just need to remove a little hex clinging to it, and—"

  "Neekeya, please," said Professor Rushavel, his brow creased with weariness. His orange mutton chops, normally bristly like the cheeks of an orangutan, drooped like empty wine skins. "The turn is over. Return to your chamber to sleep, child. You must be weary."

  Neekeya shook her head vehemently, her hair swaying and her necklace of crocodile teeth chinking. "I'm not! I'm wide awake! What about this one?" She took out a smooth river stone and placed it on the table. "This one is definitely magic. My father says if you add it to a pot of boiling water, the water will magically turn into soup. It sort of works for me, but I have to always add potatoes and carrots and leeks, so I think if you can just test it maybe, you know, with a spell to detect magic, we can—" She blinked and nudged the old man. "Professor Rushavel, wake up!"

  The professor's eyes had closed, and he almost slipped off his seat. He woke with a snort and blinked a few times. His red, bulbous nose twitched as he sucked in air. "Yes, yes." He cleared his throat. "Perhaps next turn, child. Perhaps?"

  Neekeya groaned so loudly it blew back a lock of her hair. She looked around her at the workshop. So many magical artifacts! They covered the shelves, the tables, even many of the chairs: figurines of animals that moved at the corner of your eye; horns that played any tune you just thought of; seashells that sounded like the sea, complete with seagull cries and the songs of sailors; model ships in bottles whose sails billowed and oars stroked; and a thousand others. Professor Rushavel himself had made many of these items. How could it be that none of Neekeya's own artifacts—and she had brought dozens from Daenor—wouldn't work?

  "But my father told me these artifacts are magic," Neekeya said. "You have to help me fix them. I— Professor Rushavel?" She nudged him again. "Professor!"

  But the old man was sound asleep, his cheek resting against his fist. His mutton chops rose and fell with every breath. When Neekeya nudged him, he only slumped down onto the table, his lips fluttering as he snored.

  She sighed.

  After a few more attempts, she gave up on waking the old man, wishing she had brought her magical snuffbox from Daenor, the one that could rouse a man from any sleep of weariness or wounds. She stuffed her artifacts—the mug, the stone, the ring of power, and two dozen others—back into her pack. With a sigh, she left the workshop.

  She wandered across the university grounds, moving down columned galleries, along grassy courtyards, and through gardens full of statues and fountains. The halls and towers of the university rose all around, their bricks golden in the sunlight, their steeples so high Neekeya felt dizzy to look upon them. The library loomed to her right, a great dome rising into the sky. The first autumn leaves were scuttling along the grass and porticoes of Teel. With the hour so late, most of Teel University was deserted, the professors and students sound asleep. Only birds, squirrels, and an occasional lizard kept Neekeya company as she walked through the sunlit grounds, for which she was thankful. Animals were her friends, better than most humans here at Teel.

  She sighed. "I'm like an animal myself to most of them," she whispered, and tears stung her eyes. Nobody outside her quartet ever spoke to her. Whenever Neekeya moved through a busy crowd—at the dining hall, in the cloister, or even the library—students moved aside, pointing, whispering, even laughing.

  Neekeya paused by a pool of clear water in a garden. She knelt beside a statue of a winged cat, gazing into the pool.

  "Who am I?" she whispered, looking at her reflection. "Who am I to them?"

  She saw the same girl she had always been, a girl she had been proud to be. Her skin rich brown, her eyes large and black, her lips prone to smile, her smooth hair just long enough to fall past her chin. She looked at her crocodile tooth necklace, at the scale armor she always wore beneath her school robes, and at her magical bracelets of bronzed coffee beans.

  "You are the most beautiful, talented, magical girl in the world," her father would tell her, muss her hair, and kiss her cheek. "You make me proud, and you are a great warrior."

  He was a great warrior too, a lord of Daenor, a man who commanded a great stone pyramid rising from the swamps, wisely ruling over many people. He loved her dearly, and once Neekeya had loved herself too, but now tears streamed down her cheeks.

  The memories of home—of her last turn there—pounded through her. She had walked through the swamps, leaping from stone to stone, a feral thing, hunting frogs with her long, silver-tipped spear. She had spent hours in the wilderness, needing to hunt, to run, to sweat, to drain herself of her nervousness, of her fear of leaving home. It had been a turn of fear.

  "But I will face my fear," she had whispered that turn in the swamps. "I will learn magic—real magic."

  The swamp waters gurgled around her, the frogs trilled, and the mangroves swayed in the breeze. All her life, her father had spoken to her of magic, gifting her his many artifacts, telling her tales of magical shields to block the fists of giants, cricket choirs that could sing so beautifully grown men would weep, and islands that floated through the sky.

  "I'm going to study magic too," she told her father that turn. "At the great school they call Teel. I'm seventeen now, Father, and I must go. I must become not only a warrior but a sorceress."

  They stood in their great hall, the mossy stone pyramid that rose from the swamplands, so tall only the bravest bird could reach its peak. From the throne room, Neekeya could stare out the windows at an endless land, green and lush and fluttering with birds, that rolled into the misty horizons. When she returned her eyes to her father, she saw a kindly man, his head bald, his eyes warm. Necklaces of gilded cocoa beads hung across his bare chest, and a sword hung from his side, its silver hilt shaped as a crocodile's claw.

  "My daughter," he said to her, eyes dampening. "The outside world is cruel and dangerous. I fought in the War of Day and Night years ago. I saw not only the horrors of the night but the horrors of the day. We are Daenorians. We are outcasts even among the sunlit kingdoms. They mock our ways. They call us the backwater of Timandra." He rose from his wooden throne, stepped toward her, and held her hands. "Please, child, stay with me here. Daenor is lush, warm, a place of family, of friendship, of righteousness. Do not step out into the cold, cruel world where greed and hatred fill the hearts of nations."

  She squeezed his hands. "But I would learn of these things! How can I fight for righteousness without knowing of cruelty? How can I be a just ruler some day, a lady of this pyramid, if I haven't seen injustice? How can I surround myself with your gifts, your artifacts of magic, when I don't have the power to use them?"

  He could say no more; his voice choked. The tall warrior, stronger than any man in Daenor, pulled her into his gentle embrace and kissed her head.

  "Goodbye, my daughter. Goodbye. I will miss you."

  Neekeya sniffed, her tears falling. That had been many turns ago, and here she knelt in Teel University, this land that was so strange to her. This land where people wore cotton robes, not beads and iron and leather. This land where people whispered cruel secrets, taunted one another, mocked anyone who was different. Neekeya had never feared the swamplands' crocodiles or warriors who drank and cursed too much; she had always been able to fight them, but how could she fight in a place like this? She could survive in the wilderness, but how could she survive within the walls of Teel?

  "I miss home," she whispered to her reflection in the pool, and her lips shook. "I miss you, Father."

  Laughter rolled behind her.

  A voice rose in exaggerated falsetto. "I miss you, Father."

  Neekeya leaped to her feet, spun around, and saw them there. />
  She growled.

  Sunlit Purity—Lari's quartet.

  "Well, look at what we have here," Lari said, hands on her hips. "The swamp monster."

  Neekeya balled her hands into fists. The four were everything she was not—full-blooded Magerians, their hair blond, their skin pale, their eyes blue, their clothes woven of meticulous cotton, their accents perfect and highborn. Neekeya was the daughter of a great lord, but to them she was a barbarian, uncouth and no better than an animal.

  She began to walk away from the pool, but they moved forward, blocking her passage. Lari stood before her, smiling crookedly. The twins—Fae and and Kae—blocked her left side, while tall Derin stood to her right.

  "Get out of my way," Neekeya said.

  Lari laughed. "Or what? Will you curse us with one of your 'magical amulets?'" She spoke those last two words in a mockery of a toddler's voice. "Will you hex us with a dead rat, attack us with an enchanted stick, or maybe kick us with a magical boot?" Lari's smile turned into a sneer. "You have no magic, Neekeya. You never did. You never will. You are nothing but a swamp monster and you need to go home."

  Neekeya tried to shove Lari aside, but the girl stepped back, laughing, and slapped Neekeya's cheek.

  "Oh, she's going to cry!" said one of the twins and laughed.

  Lari too laughed. "Awful! I'm going to have to scrub my hand now. It already smells like the swamp."

  Neekeya growled and tried to shove past them again, but they blocked her way. She tossed a punch but Lari dodged the blow, and one of the twins sneaked behind Neekeya and shoved her forward.

  "I'm warning you, Lari," Neekeya said, raising her fists. "I used to wrestle crocodiles in my spare time, and if you don't step back now, I won't just slap you. I'm going to bash your skull against the cobblestones."

  They only laughed harder.