The Moon Rogue

by L M R Clarke

  Outside, rain pounded. The sky was so murky it looked like Merish had passed and was gone forever. Phen pressed a kiss to her son’s temple and wound her claws into his unbound fronds.

  “I will speak to Bomsoi,” she said. “Perhaps there’s something she can do.”

  Mantos shook his head and lifted a hand to lay atop his mother’s. “I don’t hold out much hope,” he said. “I’m alive again, but I think this is the penalty wielded for it.”

  Phen drew him into a tight embrace. “Oh, Mantos,” she breathed.

  Mantos sank into his mother’s arms, but the words of his dream still swirled forth, haunting him. Always there, always biting.

  Mantos, Mantos... Dear brother, I will find you...

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Bandim

  His attendants unpeeled his state robes, and cleaned the make-up from his face. Bandim allowed himself a small sigh. It had been a long day. The bright orange and red silk, colors of House Tiboli, fell in waves and were swiftly whisked away to be cleaned and pressed. The soft cloth on his face wiped the red and white paint from his face and smudged the Tiboli lightning bolts until they were gone. Perhaps they were gone forever this time. They were symbols of his father and his brother, but not Bandim himself. I should replace them with the five arms of Dorai, he thought, not only on my face, but on my banners and soldiers as well. He added that thought to the list he held in his head of changes that needed to come.

  Stripped of the trappings of his office, Bandim was wrapped in a soft shirt and a felted kilt, with a silken robe draped around his shoulders. His dressers retreated, and his cup-bearer Yameteth came forward with sweet wine and food before she disappeared into the background again. Bandim settled in the chair by roaring fire, dipping hard biscuit into a goblet polished to an impossible gloss.

  Expanding an empire was just as difficult as expected. Of course, he was well prepared for the task of empire-building. This is why I was meant to be the emperor, Bandim thought. I’m the rightful ruler. I know what I’m doing. In the first weeks of his reign, he’d kept many of his father’s advisors, courtiers, and servants. Bandim tapped the softened morsel of biscuit on the rim of the cup. But as time passed, he knew he had to plant his own folk in all roles, from the humblest to the highest—just like ridding the empire of the Tiboli lightning bolts. It was time for a great change.

  Strip the walls of dissent, and line them with a tapestry of support.

  That was one of Emperor Braslen’s frequent shards of wisdom on recounting the tale of his ascension.

  Bandim sank his teeth into the biscuit. Those words were never meant for him. Always they were for the moonson, Mantos. Regardless, Bandim intended to use every piece of his father’s knowledge to his advantage.

  It was necessary, for there were rumblings of dissent now that the truth of Dorai came to the fore. But the folk would know the real truth, and would see what was right. And those who refused to believe and bend? I will crush any who try to move against me.

  From the corner came a little flash of fear. It was as if young cup-bearer Yameteth read his mind, and he was able to feel her emotions. She lingered in the flickering light, hardly daring to breathe. Bandim remained facing the fire, but clicked his talons and pointed to his side. “Come here.”

  Like the obedient young thing she was, Yameteth came forward. She was recently gendered, a disconnected cousin from the outskirts of House Tiboli. Many Tibolis from the edge of the family had been welcomed back into the fold. Those who had once hidden behind masks in the sunken temple were now above ground and strewn through the court: including, to Bandim’s delight, his cousin Tesselica. A handsome male, a son of his father’s long-dead brother, Tesselica had been one of Bandim’s few friends when they were younglings—until his uncle dragged Tesselica away.

  He says I’m not to play with you any longer. Words of a letter written long-ago were still burned into Bandim’s mind. He says you’re dangerous. He says you’re of the Dark. But I know you’re all right. I’ll keep writing when I can.

  Letters had been sparse, and eventually stopped when both younglings gendered and went about their lives—Bandim as the spare, and Tesselica training under his father. Their eyes had met again in the temple and as soon as he was able, Bandim brought his cousin back into his confidence. He’s like me. He understands.

  Yameteth’s story was different. Her parents were dead, and even when alive, they’d been no one. Her guardianship had been handed over to the crown many cycles ago. She was young, innocent—and perfect for Bandim’s needs.

  As she reached his side, Yameteth kept her eyes downcast. “Yes, Your Grace?” she asked.

  “Tell me,” Bandim said, dipping biscuit in wine again, “what do the palace servants think of Dorai?”

  The flash of fear became a stench of terror. It tasted of smoke and flame. Bandim swirled the taste in his mind. It really was as if he could feel her emotions.

  “Your Grace?” Yameteth’s voice wavered.

  Bandim took a sip of his drink, savoring it as much as her fear. “You heard what I said, Yameteth. Tell your cousin Bandim what the simple folk feel about his plans. And don’t dare lie to me. I will know.”

  Yameteth’s entire body trembled. “Your Grace,” she said, her voice wavering. “I...”

  Bandim set his cup aside and turned to her. He beckoned her forward to stand in front of the fire. “Your emperor has asked you a question,” he said. She took her place in front of him, with her back to the flames. “You must answer.”

  Her throat bobbed, her eyes continually blinking. Tears spilled and she fell to her knees, her tail wrapping around her buckled legs. “Your Grace, some of the folk are scared. Some of them fear that we’re straying so far from the Light that we’ll never be safe again.”

  Her truth was bittersweet, harsh yet expected. Bandim leaned forward and placed a hand under her chin. “May I show you something, Yameteth?” he asked.

  She could do nothing but agree. Bandim clamped his talons hard, passing into the soft flesh of her cheeks, and he pushed forward. His knees hit the fur rug, and he held her whole weight by her face. Her head hovered ever-more dangerously above the flames.

  “Do you feel the fire?” he asked.

  “Yes!” Yameteth cried.

  “Do you see its light on my face? Dancing, painting me?”

  “Y-yes!”

  Her fear intensified. Sweat broke on her brow.

  “And do you see the shadows?”

  “Yes!”

  “The Light cannot be trusted!” Bandim said. “Light changes. It comes and goes, it builds and it fades. But the Darkness is always there. It always waits, trustworthy when the wretched Light flees!”

  He pushed her back until the ends of her fronds singed.

  “Tell your fellows, the ones who say that we stray from the Light, that it is wretched, and we don’t need it to be safe. The Light lies! The Darkness is the only thing that we can trust.”

  “Yes, Your Grace! Yes! Please!”

  Her fear was sharp now, and burning. Where it ended and the flame began, Bandim couldn’t tell.

  He wrenched her forward again, safe from the fire. He released her face and grabbed her by the shoulders. “Tell them for me,” he whispered, bringing his face close to hers. “Do it for your cousin.”

  Her face flooded with tears. “Yes, I will. I will!”

  He pulled her in for an embrace, winding his arms around her bony frame. “Good,” he said. “You are loyal and obedient.” He drew back. “Now, do as you are told.”

  Yameteth scrambled to her feet and fled, her fear overwhelming her training to never turn her back to the emperor.

  Bandim didn’t care. As his cup-bearer withdrew, taking the stench of fear with her, he returned to his chair by the fire. For many hours, his eyes stayed focused on the flames.

  It was much later in the evening when Johrann Maa came to his chamber. He left her waiting long after her knock. When she eventually entered,
he didn’t beckon her forward for some time. Even when he did, he didn’t look at her. The whole time he kept her waiting in silence. Her lesson in humility and obedience was far from over.

  At length, Bandim turned his gaze to her. She was garbed in simple temple robes, without even the horn jewelry she wore as high priestess.

  “Your Grace,” she said, bowing.

  Bandim responded with silence, flicking his eyes up and down her tall, thin form. Gone were her silk slippers with fine embroidery, and the jewels were removed from her fingers. Some of the rings she wore had belonged to Bandim’s mother. His father had kept Empress Phen’s things locked in the empress’ chambers, across the palace from his own. Those had been Johrann’s chambers, though with her failure, Bandim had removed that privilege. She wouldn’t have the honor again until she delivered her promise to fulfil his power. So far, she was no closer to achieving that.

  Bandim’s eyes were drawn as always to the four circular scars on her cheek. The imprint of his fingertips was always on her. All she had unlocked so far was his anger, the burning power that branded her, and a few paltry tricks. He could make small candle flames flare brighter and stoke embers back into fire, but there was nothing befitting a goddess. Where was the great power Johrann had promised?

  Even though he knew why she was here, he asked the question with disdain. “What do you want?”

  Johrann kept her eyes on the floor. “May I be permitted to administer Your Grace’s next lesson?”

  Slowly he spread one hand, gesturing for her to assume her usual position, kneeling before him.

  “Pray that you achieve something this evening,” he said. “My patience and kindness wears thin.”

  Nodding in silence, Johrann knelt on the rug. She took his hands in hers and massaged his pale palms.

  “The spirit of Dorai moves within you,” she said. “Every day you gain more control over this power.”

  Bandim’s face darkened. “Dorai does not move within me,” he said. “I am Dorai.”

  She stilled in fear before nodding vehemently. “Yes, Your Grace. Of course. I misspoke. You are Dorai, and every day you learn how to grasp your powers once again. Every day, more of our followers believe in you. And every day, we learn together.”

  She dared not say she taught him. He didn’t need to taste her panic to understand why.

  They went through all he’d learned. Harnessing the beating power within, he conjured greater flames from the fireplace. He made the fire in the hearth dwindle into nothing but a dim ember, only to bring it roaring back to life.

  “Spread your influence, Your Grace,” Johrann said. “Close your eyes and look for the fire. Where does it dwell?”

  As darkness enveloped him, Bandim’s mouth went dry. His mind probed beyond the room, feeling every fire in every grate, and the fine ladies who gathered to them. The blazes in the kitchens far below, with sweat-soaked boiler boys keeping the ovens aflame.

  And Bandim could taste them all. Their sweet hopes. Their candied dreams. The smoky twist of fear that nothing good would come to pass.

  “I feel it all,” he whispered.

  “Touch it,” Johrann said. “Manipulate it.”

  Bandim breathed hard, squeezing her hands. Do as I wish, he thought. Obey!

  Every flame did.

  Their own fire spluttered and burst across the hearthstone, landing upon them, lighting their clothes. Bandim felt nothing but power. The flames spun around them as every fire in the palace whipped into a frenzy. He couldn’t hear the screams, but he could feel them. Skin scorched. Blood boiled. Feet fled. Bandim grinned and opened his eyes to the joy of the flames that surrounded them.

  “It is mine,” he said. “It all belongs to me.”

  “Remember this feeling,” Johrann said. “Remember the power of the flame. With that memory, you’ll be able to conjure fire from air. Your powers awaken and you begin to truly manifest as Dorai.”

  “I feel the power,” Bandim whispered. “Everything. I feel it all. The flames. I can manipulate them. I can create them.”

  Johrann turned Bandim’s hands over, holding his palms upwards.

  “Then do it,” she said. “If you feel that you can, do it now. Make flame from nothing. Once you can do that, you can do anything.”

  Breath sucked away as if suffocated, Bandim’s brow broke out in a sheen of sweat. His palms were clammy, but he closed his eyes. He concentrated. Do as I command. Flames, appear! Do it now!

  It started as a little spark in the pool of his hand, but it grew and grew until eventually a raging red flame burned there, hot enough to scorch their faces. Johrann drew back, but Bandim did not. He lifted his other hand to touch the flame, passing his hands through it as if it was colored air.

  “Your Grace,” Johrann whispered, her cheeks blackened with smoke. “You’ve done it. You’ve made flame. You are truly Dorai!”

  Bandim stood, spreading the flame across his hands. Both alight, he lifted them high above his head, dangerously close to the wall hangings above the fireplace.

  “I am the goddess,” he said. He tossed the flames from one hand to the other. “I am Dorai. With this power, I can conquer anything—the rest of the Metakalans, the Althemerians at long last.” His face was dark in the shadow cast by his flames. “I’ll show Queen Valentia what pain truly means. I’ll burn her entire country and make her watch. Then I’ll cut her head from her neck.”

  Johrann remained at a distance. Her eyes were ablaze. “Yes, Your Grace,” she said. “Do it. Do it all.”

  Clicking his fingers, the flames were gone. His hands were cold, bereft, yet Bandim still smiled. He pulled Johrann into an embrace, walking backwards to the bed. Finally she had redeemed herself. Finally she had delivered his power.

  “My Heart,” he said, falling backwards. She fell on top of him. “I could do none of this without you.”

  “And I am nothing without you,” she replied.

  They embraced. Together, they flamed.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Emmy

  As the ship glided into the giant harbor, Emmy’s mouth gaped. The Althemerian port of Athomur was majestic, nestled between two huge spurs of land. The water glimmered like gemstones as sunlight sparkled on the waves. The twisting buildings glittered too, made of sandy stone that caught the light.

  “It’s so beautiful,” Charo breathed.

  Emmy nodded. Countless vessels cut the water: from the smallest of galleys, manned by females with faces eroded by cycles of salt air, to ships with impossibly tall masts, built in the new fashion. Their gigantic sails caught the wind, propelling them for hundreds of miles.

  The liberated Masvam boat approached the shore through a floating forest. The ships split into distinct sections. To the right were the merchant vessels, their colored sails furled, unloading wares into shallow shore boats. To the left the ships were darker, with sleek lines and rows of cannon. Their decks swarmed with blue-garbed Althemerians.

  “I’ve never seen ships so huge,” said Charo.

  “The Masvams want the title, but the true masters of the sea are the Althemerians,” Emmy said. She shifted, casting her eyes away. “Now they’re our masters too.”

  Charo made no reply.

  When they reached the city, they were swallowed whole. Enormous walls soared upwards, their tops patrolled by marching soldiers. There were towers at intervals along its length, a cannon in each belly.

  The princess disembarked first, attendants trailing on her heels. Pesmam’s head newly dangled from her belt. When she reached the gangplank, she thrust it aloft and let out a fearful battle cry.

  “Long live the queen!”

  Every face on the dock snapped towards her. A chorus of elation followed, all those on the shore crying their allegiance. The princess threw the head at a soldier she passed.

  “Mount that somewhere,” she said.

  Then she was gone, swept off on a wave of royal attendants and cheers.

  There was no time
to gape at the spectacle. Emmy and the others were herded ashore by new guards.

  “All right,” one yelled, “follow me! And be quick about it!”

  Emmy and Charo jolted as the crowd surged. Mounted Althemerians on huge feline vaemar formed columns beside them. Soon they marched through a thick archway, into the city proper.

  They snaked between tall stone buildings covered in carved serpents, and along cobbled pathways. Filthy younglings pulled faces and screeched at them. The more well-to-do shied away. The scents of foreign food, foreign air, foreign skin, were pervasive.

  “Where’s Zecha?” Charo asked, pressing into Emmy’s side. “I can’t see him.”

  Emmy scanned the jostling crowd, her height giving her clear sight above others’ heads. She could see no trace of Zecha. Let him be safe, she thought. I don’t know what I—what we would do without him...

  She shook her head, winding her talons around Charo’s. “I don’t know,” she said. “We can only hope he’s getting help.”

  As their journey continued, the stark reality of capture bit like a knife. There was no welcome for them. City folk jeered at the snake of slaves.

  “We own you!”

  “Your lives are ours now!”

  “You’re nothing but life-debtors!”

  Emmy jerked as a rain of pebbles and nutshells fell on them. As they wound on, the taunts grew louder, the missiles heavier, and it wasn’t until the mounted guards stepped in that it ceased.

  “Get out of the way of the queen’s possessions!” one of them bellowed. “If you don’t step back, Sharptooth here will sort you out.”

  As if on command, the huge vaemar bared its fangs and growled, the sound coming from deep within its cavernous chest. No one dared defy it. For Emmy, Sharptooth wasn’t the frightening part. It was the soldier’s words. Possessions. That was all the Metakalans were. They don’t care about our lives. Just our use to them.