The Moon Rogue

by L M R Clarke

  “And,” Fylica snapped, “a sibling knows their sibling’s ways better than anyone. If you do not help us, you are as poisonous and evil as he.”

  That word, again. Evil. It echoed, but each time it resounded, it grew louder.

  Evil. Evil. Evil.

  Queen Valentia strode back to the window. She stared into the fading evening for some time, leaving Mantos to stew in silence.

  “What would you all have me do?” he asked at length. “I don’t know my brother’s plans. He killed me so swiftly after our father’s death, there’s no way I could know what he’ll do.”

  “We would have you do what is right,” Valentia said. She continued to stare through the window. Mantos watched her face in the reflection. Eventually she turned to face him. “You will help save my queendom. You will take back the Masvam throne, under our auspices. Your life belongs to me, and you will do as I tell you. But most of all...” She paused, her face hard as stone. “You are going to kill your brother.”

  Phen choked back a sob. Mantos’ throat bobbed as he tried to formulate an answer. Kill Bandim... Why not? He’d killed Mantos. And yet, how could he? They were hatched together, raised together. Always, always together. We share a bond, Mantos thought. His throat grew tight. I don’t love him, but can I kill him?

  Seizing on the moment of silence, Princess Valaria slammed the flat of her hand on the table.

  “Weakness!” she cried. Fonbir shot his sister a vicious stare. But with a temper to match Fylica’s, she wouldn’t back down. “Your brother will bring this world to its knees—you all will! You Masvams meddle with things you don’t understand. You worship false gods and idols, light or dark—it is folly! You think you know best, that you’re better than the rest of us.” She bared her teeth. “Now look at what you’ve done. Your brother has brought a demon into this world. Mantos, if you need to kill every last Masvam to bring peace, you should not hesitate. You owe us nothing less!”

  “Valaria, stop.”

  The queen’s command silenced her. The princess stilled her mouth, but fire was still in her eyes. “I apologize, Your Highness,” she said, though she sounded far from reproachful.

  Valaria sat, her eyes never leaving Mantos’.

  “Much is at stake,” Queen Valentia said. Her serpent coiled around her neck. “It’s not just your brother’s life, or your soul, or my queendom. It’s all our lives, our souls, and all the lands of the world. Your brother may bring destruction upon us. You have a duty to stop him.” She rose. “You have one day to make your decision. Choose wisely. Promise to deliver me Bandim’s head, or I will cleave yours from your neck tomorrow.”

  She cast a fleeting glance at Phen before she strode to the door. The guards snapped to attention, opening it for her.

  Queen Valentia left, flanked by her fiery daughters. Fonbir lingered, half-reaching to Mantos.

  “Fonbir, come,” Valaria snapped.

  The prince’s face grew pained. He stepped back, the heavy chain at his waist clinking. Mantos’ heart grew cold.

  “I’m sorry,” Fonbir whispered, slipping away.

  The evening dimmed. The sun disappeared below the line of buildings on the horizon. Phen pressed her eyes to stem the flow of tears.

  “Oh, Mantos,” she said. “We are destroyed. No matter what we do, we cannot win. If we help the Althemerians, Bandim will die. We betray our own folk, our own empire. If we don’t help them and instead allow Bandim to bring this evil into the world, he may kill us all.”

  As Mantos listened, Valaria’s words came back.

  Mantos, if you need to kill every last Masvam to bring peace, you should not hesitate. You owe us nothing less!

  Gritting his teeth, he shook his head. Words failed him as the impossibility of his choice loomed heavy above him. Bandim had killed him. Why not seek retribution? But, the other side of his mind replied, would that not make them as bad as each other? As evil, as Fylica had claimed?

  He looked at his mother, at the way she wrung her claws together and at the despair that flowed from her eyes. Did she cry more for the son who’d tried to end her life, or for the folk she’d once been empress of, who were now in mortal danger?

  Or did she cry for her other son, the one who had to make an impossible choice in one day?

  Mantos’ chest tightened as if the hand of Nunako herself was squeezing his bones. One day. Once, when he was a youngling playing pretend soldiers with Bandim, winding through the palace halls, a day could last an eternity.

  Now one day felt infinitesimal. An impossible timescale for an impossible decision.

  Kill Bandim and take back the crown, betraying a brother who was, in truth, the rightful heir. Work with the enemy, and live as a puppet emperor on an Althemerian-controlled throne.

  The alternative?

  Do nothing and die.

  Again.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Emmy

  Emmy brushed off her hands and sighed. She sat back on her heels, admiring the blanched fabric dressing she’d wound around her Althemerian patient’s injured chest. Days in Hutukeshu Encampment were an endless whir of comings and goings. Between the ill, the injured, and those careless in training, Emmy’s hands were never still. She changed bandages, purged wounds, wrapped injuries, mixed healing pastes and potions, all in the confines of her Althemerian prison. However, even in these circumstances there was a glimmer of satisfaction within her. Healing felt right, as if it was what she’d been hatched to do. Despite the tether that tied her to Althemer, Emmy’s heart sang with a worthwhile purpose.

  Crossing to another patient—a Selaman with a head injury this time—Emmy set to work redressing the wound. The shine was taken off her satisfaction by the branded reminder on her arm. There was no element of choice in her actions. She had to obey. Even so, there were worse ways to serve her time. Rel was kind, and the scowls of Medicine-Yarim and Medicine-Asri were nothing compared to the bite of a sword to her neck. No amount of training could mold Emmy into a warrior. Once more she thought of Charo, whose whereabouts were unknown. Worry weighed like a boulder on Emmy’s back. She could play at being a healer all she liked, but it wasn’t going to find Charo, and it wasn’t going to grant any of them freedom. You’re a fool to feel any satisfaction in this, she thought. It’s no better than being with Krodge. You need to think about how to heal Zecha, find Charo, and get all three of you out of here.

  Finished attending to the Selaman’s head, Emmy set aside the roll of coarse woven bandage. He was the last of her patients for now. As happened when she finished any task, her eyes returned to the one prone form she knew better than the rest.

  Zecha still lay on his cot, unconscious but seemingly settled. A healthier pallor had returned to his skin, and under the bandages his stomach wound was knitting neatly. Whatever Rel had done to him had accelerated his healing tenfold, but as yet he still hadn’t opened his eyes. Crossing to him, Emmy laid a hand on his shoulder, willing for him to somehow wake and grace her with a glance from his red eyes. Only recognition and an inane comment would settle the ache in her chest.

  His eyes remained shut. Emmy sighed. Medicine-Yarim heard her and shot across a glare, but Emmy pointedly ignored her. There was no point wasting time on a waste of time. Removing her hand, Emmy left Zecha’s side and moved onto the second part of her rounds.

  The work of a healer, slave or not, was far from glamorous. Not only were there wounds to clean and bandage, complete with blood and varying shades and stinks of pus, there was sickness to comfort too. The effluent created by illness was less tolerable than that of wounds, but in a camp where so many folks were kept in close quarters, illness spread like smoke. Although she would rather stitch a thousand wounds in a row than clean up lakes of unmentionable fluids from the sick, Emmy endeavored to treat her charges with compassion. Imagining herself into one of the cots, covered with a rough woven blanket, dignity was what she would prize the most.

  Unfortunately, her kindness was not often apprecia
ted. That was why she much preferred unconscious folk—they didn’t sling insults with their blood and vomit. Emmy’s temper flared at the idea that folk could still despise her and regard her as more of a monster than the Althemerians who captured and branded them. Over and over she bit back her ire. It was nothing she hadn’t already endured. Krodge’s haggard face flashed in her mind. Emmy shut her eyes as the vision passed. It didn’t matter what abuse her ungrateful charges flung at her. She’d heard it, and felt it, all before.

  As she wiped the sweaty face of a Lurking Death victim, voices approached from outside. Emmy turned to the door, awaiting the arrival of another wound or illness. She and Medicine-Yarim shared a brief glance, and the latter went to prepare a free cot for their newest arrival.

  When the figure entered, Emmy’s eyes widened, and she squeaked. “Charo!”

  Rushing forward and tripping over an errant pile of soiled bandages, Emmy righted herself and grabbed Charo’s claws.

  Her friend’s head snapped up and she blinked with recognition, shaking off some of the confusion she’d entered with. “Emmy?”

  “It’s me!” Emmy replied.

  Charo’s mouth stretched with a pained grin. “Why am I surprised you’re here? Of course you are.”

  The reason for her visit was clear. Her temple was badly bruised and bloodied, and her left eye was swelling. To Emmy, it looked like a blow to the head with something blunt—and heavy. She pulled Charo in for a careful hug, squeezing her gently. Relief washed over Emmy in waves.

  “Finally,” she said, ghosting her fingertips over Charo’s wound. “I haven’t seen claw nor tail of you since we arrived. I was so worried!”

  Bleary-eyed, Charo nodded, blinking against the pain in her head. “I was worried about you too,” she replied.

  Emmy guided Charo to the bed Medicine-Yarim had prepared. “What happened?”

  “Drenna Haldra,” Charo replied, wincing as she sat on the canvas cot. “The butcher is no soldier.”

  Emmy took a closer look at the damage and tutted, before grabbing a mortar and pestle from a nearby trestle table. She plucked the right healing ingredients from her belt pouches and mixed a fragrant paste to relive bruising.

  “I’m glad you’re safe,” Emmy said, sitting on a stool to apply the mixture. “Where have you been?”

  Charo winced as the paste hit her wound, but she allowed Emmy to continue.

  “I’ve been assigned to combat training,” she said. “We spend a lot of time in the fields outside the camp learning to fight. Or inside the camp, still learning to fight.” She ventured a small smile. “They say I’m a fast learner.”

  The last part was added with a pinch of pride. Emmy shook her head.

  “Don’t learn too fast,” she said. “I don’t want to lose you again.” Emmy worked the paste across Charo’s bruising with gentle claws. “How do they treat you?” she asked.

  “Well enough,” Charo replied. “There’s enough food and, like I said, I seem to learn quickly. That helps a lot. Our instructor Bara—though they call her Stickslice—is fair. For a captor, I suppose,” Charo added with a sigh. “For the likes of Drenna, the days must be long and awful. For me, well... I enjoy the drills and the practice. Sometimes I even forget why I’m here. But then I remember...” Her eyes filled with sudden tears. “I remember we’re slaves.”

  Emmy rubbed Charo’s shoulder with her clean hand. For a moment, Charo looked desperately young. She’s only fourteen, Emmy thought. She is young.

  “I can’t believe it,” Charo went on, her eyes downcast. “I can’t believe I was freed from one set of bonds only to be delivered into another.”

  “It’s not as bad as it could be,” Emmy said. “There’s food and shelter, and I suppose it’s not forever. Who knows? If you’re that good, you could earn your freedom sooner than me.”

  The words were little consolation, and Emmy knew it, but there wasn’t much else to say. Charo looked up, her tears replaced with fervency.

  “If I did, I’d come back for you,” she said. “I’d come back to free you—and Zecha. We’re friends. More than friends. You two are the closest thing to family I’ve ever had.”

  Emmy tried to smile. Family, she thought. I have no family but Charo and Zecha either.

  An image of Krodge flashed across her mind.

  Finished her off, I did.

  The words brought a surge of urgency to her chest. She locked eyes with Charo. The sudden need to speak was too great.

  “You know, I’m glad Krodge is dead,” she said, half-confessing. She tilted her chin up, as if to defy judgement. She grabbed a rag from the trestle table and balled it between her claws. “Krodge was terrible and cruel and deserved to die. I’m glad she’s dead. And Bose too.”

  The sudden turn in conversation made Charo’s eyes widen. But she nodded and placed a hand on Emmy’s knee.

  “I don’t think you need to mourn the deaths of those who don’t deserve it,” she said. “If I found out my old owner was dead, I wouldn’t shed any tears over her. I’d kick her ashes to the wind if I had the chance. I had no life with her. At least here there’s a chance I’ll be freed.”

  Emmy took in the image of her friend decked in her blue uniform. Wounded as she was, Charo was a far cry from the starved and stabbed waif on Emmy’s doorstep. Her fronds were growing fast, reddish-brown, thick and shimmering. Her color was healthy, and her muscles were taut and growing. Even her scars were less noticeable.

  Emmy twisted the rag in her hands, wiping excess paste from her claws. “In some ways I feel I should mourn Krodge,” she said. “Even though she was dreadful to me, she still took me in when she could have drowned me in a bucket or dashed my head on the back step.”

  Charo squeezed Emmy’s knee. “Ever since you told me the story of how you came to be with Krodge, I did wonder. Why would she take you in but treat you so badly?”

  Emmy shrugged, setting the soiled rag aside. She brought a hand up to touch Charo’s chin, tilting her head so she could examine her handiwork.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I’ve wondered about that all too often. Krodge could have ignored me, but she didn’t. Yet she didn’t love me.” She released Charo’s face and sighed. “And now I’ll never know her reasons, because she’s dead.”

  Charo grasped Emmy’s hand. “She doesn’t deserve your thoughts,” she said. “You’ll never know, just how I’ll never know why my parents sold me into slavery—if that’s the truth. It’s what I was always told.”

  Charo was right, Emmy thought. Wondering about Krodge’s intentions had been pointless when the wretch was alive. Now that she was dead and there was no possibility of learning the truth, it was even more futile.

  Charo released Emmy’s hand again and touched the side of her head. She winced and stood.

  “Thank you,” she said, “but I can’t hang around. Stickslice told me to come straight back. If I take too long she’ll punish me, whether I’m a fast learner or not. Before I go, though,” she continued, glancing around at the rows of cots, “I did want to ask, though I’m scared of the answer.” She briefly bit her lip. “Have you seen Zecha?”

  A smile broke across Emmy’s face and she placed a hand in the small of Charo’s back, just above the base of her tail. Gently she ushered her across to the cot she frequented the most. Charo grinned, though at the same time her eyes filled again.

  “He’s alive!” she said, falling to her knees at Zecha’s side.

  She cupped his face with one hand and hovered the other over his bandaged wound. “I was so afraid he’d be dead,” she said. “I can’t believe he’s okay.”

  Rel’s strange coldness flashed in Emmy’s memory but she bit back her words. There wasn’t time to talk about what might, or might not, have happened. Instead, she simply smiled.

  “The head healer here is excellent,” Emmy said. “She’s been training me. She can do things that I’ve never seen anyone do before.”

  It was the truth. Charo leaned
to kiss Zecha’s head, her lips lingering on his skin.

  “I’m grateful to her,” she said. Pulling back, she turned to Emmy. “And to you. I’m sure you’re keeping a close watch on him.”

  “And rehearsing and tweaking the scolding I’m going to give him when he wakes up,” Emmy said, holding a hand out to help Charo to her feet.

  Charo accepted the hand and rose. Instead of releasing Emmy’s claws, she pulled her in for a tight embrace. Emmy stiffened in surprise but accepted the touch, squeezing Charo back.

  “We’ll get out of here,” Charo whispered into Emmy’s neck. “I don’t know how, but we will. Once Zecha’s better, we’ll find a way.”

  The youthful innocence in Charo’s words made Emmy feel as old as the sea, but she kept her jaded retort to herself. Escape was unthinkable, though she still yearned for it as much as her younger friend. Instead of brutal truth, Emmy spoke a comforting lie.

  “We will,” she said. “We will.”

  They released once another. Emmy kept the smile on her face for Charo’s sake as they walked to the door.

  “Come back if your pain isn’t relieved,” Emmy said. She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Come back even if it does, and just say it hasn’t. We’ll be able to talk more then.”

  “Will do,” Charo said. She edged towards the outside. “Take care of yourself, and Zecha.”

  “The same to you,” Emmy replied.

  With that, Charo disappeared. Emmy’s heart sank again as the door swung closed, sealing her inside the building again, away from her friend. She turned, and the first thing she saw was Medicine-Yarim’s sour scowl. Emmy suppressed a sigh, palmed her face, and went back to work.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Emmy

  Emmy stood at the front of the healers’ building and shaded her eyes against the dipping sun. There were black figures on the hilltop, silhouetted against the orange sky. She squinted, trying to make sense of the shapes. I wonder if it’s Charo, she thought. Her tunic clung to her skin and she passed a hand over her forehead, threading her claws through her horn crest. At least now she knew her friend was alive.