Daughter of Moth (The Moth Saga, Book 4)

by Daniel Arenson

  "Crocodiles!" said Derin, his chest shaking with laughter. "I can just imagine her wrestling those creatures in a pit of mud."

  "Just like in the story I drew," Lari said. She reached into her pack and pulled out a scroll. She unrolled it and held out the parchment.

  Neekeya froze and her heart seemed to freeze too. Her eyes stung. Upon the scroll appeared a drawing of her—a cruel cartoon, displaying her not as a lord's daughter but as a savage barely better than an animal. Words appeared below the text: "The Story of Neekeya, the Half-Crocodile Swamp Monster." Below the title appeared a story; Neekeya only read enough to realize it portrayed her as a beast whose father was a crocodile.

  Neekeya shouted hoarsely, tears in her eyes, and tried to snatch the parchment, but Lari pulled the scroll back.

  "Calm down, savage!" Lari said. "We copied this scroll fifty times. It's all over the university already. Every first year quartet has a copy."

  Neekeya didn't know if to weep or scream, and for a moment, she only froze.

  Father was right, she thought. Father warned me. I should have stayed home. I can't survive here. I can't face such cruelty.

  She closed her eyes. She wanted to run—across the gardens, outside the walls, all the way home to Daenor far on the western edge of the world. She was a joke here, nothing but a joke.

  "Lari!" rose a voice from across the gardens. "Lari Serin! I heard you say you like magic?"

  Neekeya's eyes snapped open and she gasped.

  Tam stood under the stone archway that led into the gardens. Autumn leaves clung to his brown hair and green robes. He smiled, eyes bright, and thrust his hands forward.

  With a chorus of shrieks, a dozen bats filled Lari's hair.

  The young Magerian screamed.

  "Get them off!" she cried. "Derin! Twins!"

  But Tam pointed again, and suddenly bats were clinging to the others' hair too. They all shouted and ran, fleeing the gardens, tugging the bats off one by one.

  Tam watched them leave and sadly shook his head. "They're only bats. I think they're cute." He pointed up at an oak. "They live in that tree. I only had to choose them as my material and move them a few feet downward."

  Neekeya wanted to run to her friend, to thank him, to embrace him, but she only stood, still frozen like a damn fool. And her damn tears still flowed.

  I'm acting like a baby, she thought. I'm a warrior. I'm the daughter of a lord. I—

  She covered her eyes, her body shook, and her tears kept flowing.

  Warm arms enveloped her, for for an instant Neekeya struggled, afraid, sure that it was Lari returned to torment her. But when fingers stroked her hair, she opened her eyes and saw that it was Tam who held her.

  "It's all right," he said softly. "They're gone."

  Her tears wet his shoulder, and her body pressed against him. "I can't do this, Tam. I don't belong here."

  "None of us do." He touched her cheek, taking one of her tears onto his finger. "Not Jitomi, not Madori, not me. We're all outcasts at Teel but we have to stick together."

  She looked away. "Jitomi? He has other Elorians here. Madori? She's half-Elorian herself; she often speaks to Jitomi of their home, a home they remember together. And you, Tam?" She looked at him. "You fit in here. You look like everyone else and you talk like everyone and—"

  "And I'm not like everyone," he said, stiffening. "I'm from Arden. I'm the Prince of Arden. Maybe that's not a land of swamps and pyramids and crocodiles, and maybe like Mageria it's a fragment of the old Riyonan Empire, but it's still a different country . . . a country I miss." His voice softened and he sighed. "I'm sorry. You're right. Maybe I don't know how you feel. But I'm here for you. We all are."

  She nodded. Her voice was choked; she could barely speak louder than a whisper. "I know." She smiled tremulously and held his hand. "Thank you, Tam. Our quartet means everything to me." She trembled and smiled through her tears. "Well, our quartet and those cute little bats."

  He laughed softly, and she touched his cheek, and she didn't know how it happened, but somehow he was kissing her. Their laughter died, and as he held her close, it felt like she was melting into his kiss. His one hand stroked her hair, and the other held the small of her back. They kissed for what seemed like ages, desperate for each other, scared of letting go, wanting to forever stay like this in these gardens, together, one, whole, no longer afraid but warm and full of tingling joy. She had never kissed a boy before but it felt right, it felt natural, it felt like the best thing in the world.

  They walked back to their chamber in silence, sneaking glances at each other, then lowering their eyes—a little afraid, a little embarrassed, a little joyous.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN:

  THE HOUNDS OF SUNMOTTE

  Lord Tirus Serin—The Light of Radian, Duke of Sunmotte Citadel, Warden of Hornsford Bridge, and Lord Protector of Mageria—stood upon the bridge and watched the two Ardishmen breach for air.

  At his side, Lord Imril—a wiry baron with a gaunt face and beaked nose—raised his crossbow, aiming it at Torin's head.

  "Got him," he said, a hint of hunger and delight twisting his thin lips. He pulled the trigger.

  Serin nudged the crossbow aside, and the quarrel skimmed over Torin's head, vanishing harmlessly into the water. Sir Imril turned toward him, and for an instant irritation filled the man's pale blue eyes. The show of defiance vanished quickly, however, replaced by the servility Serin demanded from all in his order.

  "My lord?" Imril said.

  "Let them be," Serin replied calmly. He waved down his other crossbowmen's weapons. "Let them swim."

  His men lowered their crossbows as one, moving in perfect unison. Down in the water, Torin and Cam were still swimming to the Ardish riverbank, unaware that Serin had just spared their lives—for a while at least.

  "But, my lord," said Imril and cleared his throat. The ratty nobleman was high ranking enough to speak while the others dared not. "The Shepherd King is a friend of the darkness. Sir Greenmoat is wed to one of the nightcrawlers. Why spare the lives of these scum?"

  Serin turned slowly to stare at the shorter, gaunter man. Lord Imril's pencil mustache quivered just the slightest; to challenge Lord Serin himself, the Light of Radian, was an offense most men would be tortured for.

  "You disagree with your lord?" Serin said softly, letting a hint of a smile tingle his lips. "Perhaps you think the Light of Radian is fallible?"

  "No, my lord!" said Imril, that mustache twitching. He slammed his fist against his chest in salute. "I worship the Light of Radian. I only—"

  "Tell me, Lord Imril." Serin placed a hand on the baron's shoulder. "Do you think I do not know who those two vermin are?"

  "I only—" Sweat trickled down Imril's face.

  "And tell me, Lord Imril, do you know the punishment for challenging the Lord of Light?"

  Imril's throat bobbed as he gulped, and a glob of sweat ran down his cheek. "I— Yes, my lord."

  "Describe it to me," Serin said, smiling, his voice pleasant. He leaned closer, his grip tightening on the man's shoulder. "In loving detail."

  Lord Imril blinked and paled. He spoke hoarsely. "You whip them. You disembowel them. Then you tie them to four horses and send each running in another direction."

  Serin nodded, his smile breaking into grin. "Excellent! And quite accurate." He laughed. "But of course, you are my loyal baron. You are far too high ranking for such lowly punishment. You feel free to speak your mind to me. I understand. I will show you mercy."

  Imril laughed nervously and blinked sweat out of his eyes. "Thank you, my lord. I—"

  He sputtered as Serin's dagger drove into his eye.

  "This is my mercy," Serin said, twisting the blade inside the man's skull. "I give you a painless death. Your wife and children will enjoy the same mercy."

  He pulled the blade free. Imril gave a last gasp, then collapsed upon the bridge.

  "Remove his armor!" Serin barked at his soldiers. "Take his sword too. Then kick the
body into the water; let the fish eat."

  Upon the eastern bank, Greenmoat and the king were now climbing onto the Ardish bank, safely back in their homeland, that pathetic kingdom of magicless imbeciles.

  Go back to your capital, Serin thought, watching them with a thin smile. Tell your generals what you saw here. Tell them of the armies in my fields, of my mighty fortress, of the wrath that surely will descend upon you. He licked his lips. Tell them . . . and be afraid.

  The soldiers were unstrapping Imril's armor. Leaving them to their task, Serin mounted his horse and rode back west to the Magerian bank.

  The world rose and fell as he galloped, and Serin smiled, still savoring the sweetness of the kill. It was not a good turn without at least one good kill. Ahead rose his fortress, large as a mountain, a city for an army, this army that would soon bring the light and truth of Radianism to the world.

  He rode through the field, his banner raised high. Soldiers stood at attention at his sides, creating a path between them. Serin rode through this sea of steel. Men pounded their fists against their chests, chanting for their cause.

  "Radian rises! Radian rises!"

  When he reached his fortress, his guards pulled down the drawbridge, then saluted as Serin rode past them and through the gates. Past the walls, a vast courtyard awaited him, full of more soldiers. In great pits dug into the earth, collared slaves toiled, their backs lashed, their ankles chained. They were raising siege machines—catapults to hurl boulders, trebuchets to fire flaming barrels, and battering rams to swing on chains. In one pit, deeper than the rest, men stirred mixtures in great pots, creating the secret, flammable powder stolen from the night. The Elorians were weak, maggoty creatures, but they had invented cannons of fire, and Serin licked his lips hungrily to imagine turning their own weapon upon them.

  "Greenmoat, you fool," he whispered as he rode between the pits. "Do you think I care a wit or jot for Arden, that cesspool you call a kingdom? Arden will be a wasteland when I'm done with it. Your only worth to me is the land to your east. You are a road to the night, nothing more, Greenmoat." He clenched his fist. "Your bones will pave that road."

  Past the slave pits, he reached a second layer of walls, these ones even taller. A dozen towers rose along them like teeth from a stone jaw, topped with archers. The banners of Radianism draped the walls, displaying the triumph of the sun over the moon, the triumph of Timandrian blood—pure and hot and red—over the Elorian vermin, the subhuman creatures who spawned in the shadows. He rode through more gates here, across another courtyard, and toward his keep—the center of his domain. The building rose taller than any palace in Timandra, even taller than the palace of Serin's king in the south. Its towers scraped the sky, blades of stone. The King of Mageria perhaps wore the crown, but he—Lord Tirus Serin—ruled from the kingdom's greatest castle, commanding the greatest armies in all Mageria, perhaps all the world.

  He dismounted his horse outside the gates of his hall, letting his stable boys lead the beast away. Servants bowed and guards stood at attention as he walked forth. He walked under an archway and entered his throne room—a vast hall lined with red columns, their gilded capitals shaped as sunbursts. A mosaic spread across the floor, depicting a battle of thousands, the soldiers of sunlight slaying the demons of the night. The mosaic was designed so that, as Serin walked toward his throne, his boots spared the Timandrian soldiers but stomped upon the faces of the twisted Elorians. He climbed the stairs onto his dais and sat down upon the throne, his banners hanging around him, framing him with their might. His soldiers stood across the hall, spears in hands, armor bright.

  Serin clutched the armrests, leaned forward, and barked, "Bring them in!"

  He had been waiting for this moment all turn, and he sucked in breath with delight and hunger as his guards stepped forward, dragging the chained prisoners.

  Truly, these Elorians were pathetic beings, he thought, his nostrils flaring as he smelled their blood.

  "Look at them!" Serin said, pointing at the chained wretches. "They are worms. They are subhuman."

  The Elorians could barely stand; the guards had to hold them upright. Whips had torn into their flesh, and bruises surrounded their freakish, oversized eyes. They reminded Serin of naked moles. He had caught these creatures—seven in total—traveling into Mageria to peddle their silk.

  "We will cleanse Timandra of their filth!" Serin cried, rising to his feet. "The lands of sunlight will be purified of shadows. We will allow no creatures of darkness to crawl upon our land."

  The Elorians tried to beg in their language. One fell to his knees, bowing. Serin sneered.

  Pathetic, he thought. Groveling insects.

  Across the hall, the guards laughed. One soldier lashed a whip, knocking the bowing Elorian down, incurring more laughter.

  Serin too laughed. "Bring in the dogs!" he shouted, voice echoing across the hall. "They are hungry. Let my pets feed!"

  Growls sounded followed by mad barks. Guards stepped forth, leading chained dogs larger than men, creatures twisted and augmented with dark magic. The beasts howled, smelling the blood, hungry for meat. At a nod from Serin, the guards released the animals.

  The Elorians yowled in fear. Some tried to escape only for the dogs to tear them down. Blood splattered the mosaic.

  "Fantastic," Serin whispered, leaning forward in his seat, his eyes wide. "I wish you were here to see this, Lari."

  As the dogs fed and guards cheered, Serin imagined bringing the mongrel—that little wretch Madori—here for a show. His pets would enjoy her young, supple, sweet flesh.

  "Soon, Madori," Serin whispered. "Soon it will be your blood spilling across my hall."

  The dogs fed and Serin grinned, inhaled deeply, and licked his lips.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN:

  AUTUMN MOON

  They sat in their chamber, sheets hanging over the windows, cloaking them in shadows.

  "Are you ready?" Madori whispered.

  The others nodded, huddling with her. They had pushed their beds back against the wall and sat upon the rug. Madori had prepared the scrolls, drawing Qaelish runes upon them—prayers to Xen Qae, father of her nation. The parchments now hung upon the walls. Jitomi had constructed the lanterns, stretching paper over thin wooden frames. They now floated, candles glowing within, tethered to the bedposts. Here in their little bedchamber, in the heart of a sunlit university, they had created a bit of home, an enclave of the night.

  "It's beautiful," Neekeya whispered. She reached over and clutched Tam's hand. "Isn't it, Tam?"

  He nodded. "It makes me want to visit Eloria."

  "We are visiting Eloria now," Neekeya said and smiled.

  Madori looked at the pair, and a strange chill filled her. She had seen the two hold hands, share hidden glances, and whisper many times these past few turns. The prince and the swamp dweller were growing close, and looking at them now, holding hands and smiling at each other, Madori felt something cold inside her. Was it jealousy? Did she herself want to hold hands with Tam, her childhood friend? Or did she feel outcast again—the half-Elorian, not good enough for the two children of sunlight?

  Jitomi spoke at her side, interrupting her thoughts. "We're ready, Madori."

  She turned toward him. He stared at her, his blue eyes solemn—large, luminous eyes, eyes like hers, eyes for seeing in the darkness of the night. Jitomi was from Ilar, a nation in the south of Eloria, far from Qaelin, the great empire of darkness where Madori's mother had been born. Their cultures were different—their two nations had fought many wars in the darkness—and yet here in the daylight, he was the closest thing she had to a kinsman, to somebody who understood the importance of darkness, the loneliness here deep in sunlit lands.

  She nodded. "I've never done this magic before, but . . . I'll try." She took a deep breath and looked at her friends, one by one. "It's the Autumn Equinox. On this turn thousands of years ago, the great teacher Xen Qae arrived on the shore of the Elorian mainland, and there he met his w
ife, a young fisherman's daughter named Madori. I am named after her. Together they founded the Qaelish nation whose children spread across the night. This turn all Qaelish people celebrate their love."

  She smiled softly, remembering the stories her mother would tell her of Xen Qae, the wise philosopher with the long beard, and his wife, a beautiful woman with hair like spilling streams of moonlight. As Madori sat here in the shadows, she felt almost like a full Elorian, a true daughter of darkness. When she spoke again, she found that even her voice changed, speaking with just a hint of a Qaelish accent—the accent her mother spoke with.

  "On the Autumn Equinox, we pray to the moon, for we believe that its light blessed our great father and mother that turn. It is a time for moonlight."

  At her side, Jitomi spoke softly. "I am from Ilar, an island nation south of the Elorian mainland, but we too celebrate the Autumn Equinox. We do not know the teachings of Xen Qae, but for thousands of years our people have danced under this moonlight. We call this autumn moon the Domai Jatey, the Half Light, a milestone between the turn of the seasons. It is blessed, a light of peace when our warriors may rest and pray."

  Madori took a deep breath and closed her eyes. "Let us pray to the moon."

  She looked at the soft light from the floating lanterns. It glowed a pale silver through the paper frames. A smile touched her lips as she chose the light, as she claimed it, and she changed it. She pulled wisps like glowing silk from the lanterns, weaving them together in the center of the room, a ball of twine woven from strands of candlelight. The others gasped but Madori only smiled silently, pulling the light more tightly together, raising the glowing ball to let it float above them. It pulsed softly under the ceiling, the size of an orange, a makeshift moon.

  "It's beautiful," Neekeya whispered. "I've seen the moon from the daylight before. It's just a wisp from here like dust in a sunbeam. Is this how the moon looks in the night?"

  Madori shook her head. "The true moon in the night is many times brighter, many times more beautiful. But this is the limit of my magic. Perhaps no magic can capture the true moonlight."