The Moon Rogue

by L M R Clarke

  “But you’re the last of your kind,” Bandim said. “You told me so yourself. There cannot be another Heart. Mantos must be dead. You told me that feeling his presence in my dreams was nothing but my past life infringing on my present.” His words tumbled out faster and faster as he went on, and his grip on her face grew tighter until she whimpered. “And, in any case, the only one who can harness the power of the goddess is you. You told me that yourself!”

  Those last words were flinty with accusation. Biting her lip, Johrann nodded.

  “I did,” she said. “But I didn’t know there was another Uloni. I never believed there could be, but there have always been rumors. Apocryphal tales. That the One of Balance is still corporeal, that she walks this land, eternally searching for her kind. She... She could know things. She might feel my intentions. If she knew, she could have acted. If she has found another of her kind, she might have a second Heart.”

  Bandim finally released her. He shook his head, disbelief surging through him.

  “It’s not possible,” he said. “My father searched and searched, and no news of someone of your colors ever returned. He sent troops into the Great Northern Range, and they found no evidence of your folk—the Uloni. He had talons in all corners of the land. He wanted them, wanted to harness their power for his own gains. Had the One of Balance been alive, he would have found her.”

  “I don’t know,” Johrann whispered. “I simply don’t know.”

  Stalking forward, Bandim grabbed her shoulders and rammed her against the nearest wall. Her talons scrabbled against the stone, and she keened in terror.

  “Not knowing isn’t good enough!” Bandim said. His insides churned and swirled, and a pyre built in his belly. “You’re supposed to be my advisor. You’re supposed to know everything about the spirit world and the goddess. You’re supposed to be the last Uloni. You’re supposed to be my Heart. How could you not know?”

  The tips of his talons grew hotter and hotter. Johrann whimpered as her skin sizzled. Smoke rose from Bandim’s hands as the power of Dorai coursed through him, down to his bones. The smell of burning fabric and flesh consumed him. “You are supposed to know everything!” he cried.

  Johrann wailed, the screech ear-piercing, as her shoulders burned. “Please, stop! Stop!”

  Her sudden pleading shocked him, and Bandim stumbled back. His gaze flicked from the fear in her eyes to the smoking wounds on her body. His talons had scorched even her armor. Her flesh still smoked. Bandim stared at the tips of his fingers. They glowed like embers.

  “You will help me find this Uloni,” he said. “She’s somewhere on Althemer. We need to kill her.” He turned away, but half-turned back. “And you should hope that my brother truly is dead. If he isn’t, those wounds on your shoulders will be the least of your pains. Now get out!”

  With tears streaming from her glimmering eyes, Johrann turned tail and fled. The chamber door slammed behind her, and Bandim was left alone.

  Yet truly, he was not alone. He was never alone.

  Dorai curled within him like a flame, coiling in rage. If her wretched daughter, the One of Balance, was still roaming the world, she would soon cleave her head from her shoulders. And if the mangled spirit of Nunako managed to crawl from her hole and into the world, it wouldn’t matter how strong her Hand or her Heart were.

  Dorai was all-powerful.

  Dorai could not be stopped.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  Emmy

  It was still early when Emmy roused. Her bones protested from a night on the unforgiving ground, curled in the roots of a blackblood tree. She felt like she could sleep for days. Stretching, she rubbed her eyes. Her injured arm throbbed as she struggled to her feet.

  The little group had put as much ground between themselves and the Hutukeshu—and the angry Althemerians—as they could, eventually coming to rest in a small glade in a deep wood. The army wouldn’t be looking for them, for they had more pressing matters to attend to—like a Masvam invasion. Despite this, there was a tightness to Emmy’s throat. In spite of everything, she felt she should have stayed behind to help the wounded.

  But she hadn’t, and there was no going back.

  A cool breeze blew through the morning calm. Charo and Zecha curled into one another under the protection of the tree, their limbs entwined and their breath in sync. Rel’s eyes were closed, though she sat upright with her back against the rough bark of the tree. Grateful as she was that they survived, Emmy couldn’t help but wonder what would happen next. What would Rel have her do? How different would life become—again?

  Those questions were too complicated for the dewy morning, and the throbbing pain in her arm took too much of her attention anyway. Pulling up her sleeve, Emmy winced. The slice in her armor was long, and surrounded by a crust of blood. Underneath, her skin was hot and bulging. I need to clean this before it gets poisoned.

  Emmy rose and walked to the edge of the glade, her boots and bare ankles soaked by dew. It took only a few moments to pluck up what she needed. Wide leaves from a wild sicklestem plant would cover the wound, and the tiniest amount of the same leaf, crushed to release the juice, would help with the pain. A strip of fabric from the bottom of her tunic would serve to bind it. As satisfied with her work as she could be, Emmy grunted and wandered back over to her friends. Before she made it, something caught her attention.

  Another tree, huge and gnarled, stood across the glade. Its branches reached into the brightening morning. Above it, a thin covering of cloud drowsed high in the sky, gradually burning as the sun rose.

  As she looked at the tree, she imagined how far back its memory would stretch and what stories it could tell her. The time since she’d left Bellim had passed in an instant, yet in some ways, it felt like no time had passed at all. It was so strange, Emmy thought. Everything was strange.

  She laid her hands on the tree. It was a twistwart, famed for its unique trunk that grew in a spiral. Emmy knew its many medicinal purposes. She’d used its bark often in her time as Krodge’s apprentice. Until now, she’d never seen one planted in the earth.

  Her time as Krodge’s apprentice. It made it seem like it was cycles ago, but it wasn’t. It was barely longer ago than her time in the camp.

  The memory of the battle at the encampment echoed in her mind. The surge and burst of power, the tingling of the impossible at the tips of her talons. She had never felt so...alive. So powerful. The events had shattered her existence, and turned her understanding of the world on its head.

  Everything had changed. Even Emmy.

  She grabbed a low bough and planted her booted feet onto its bark. Arms and legs moving of their own accord, she climbed.

  Under the sicklestem leaf, the ache of her wound abated. Before Emmy knew it, she was at the top of the tree, nestled carefully on a curved bough. She sat for some time in the twistwart’s embrace, feeling the soft breeze, watching as the orange ball of the sun rose through the morning haze.

  The quiet was broken by a rustling from below. The bustling grew louder as Rel hauled herself into the upper boughs with her strong arms. She settled on the branch just below Emmy’s and gave her a tired smile.

  “We’re alive because of you,” Rel said. “You should be proud of what you did. You’re beginning to realize who you truly are.”

  Rel still shed the façade of the Belfoni, embracing her blue and purple, but her face was drawn with a weariness Emmy hadn’t seen before. Using her powers seemed as much a burden as a blessing.

  Emmy slid across her bough, leaving space for Rel if she chose to climb further. The tree creaked under her weight. “Rel,” she asked in a low voice, “are you all right?”

  With a slow nod, Rel smiled. She pulled herself onto Emmy’s branch, sitting close beside her. “Don’t worry. I’m fine.”

  Emmy shook her head, pulling her eyeridges low. “You’re not fine,” she said. “You look exhausted.” Emmy gestured at the slumbering figures of Zecha and Charo, curled together under th
e protection of a low-slung tree. “We all are. None of us are fine.”

  Emmy gripped the rough surface of the branch that held her snug and safe in the treetop.

  “We’ll be better when we to get to Bomsoi,” Rel replied. She let out a sudden chuckle. The sound carried into the distance. “She’s a strange creature, and for all the time I have known her, I still cannot comprehend her. But we’ll be safe with her, so we must go to her.”

  Emmy looked to the sky. The last sliver of Dato sank below the horizon. Rafa and Akata were nearly gone. The light of the sun sent a yellow wave through the blueness of the sky.

  “Yes, we must,” Emmy said at length. “I’m not sure if I want to, but I don’t think I have a choice.”

  “You do have a choice,” Rel said, shifting on her branch. Her eyes were soft and round. “You’ve already made it. And as long as I draw breath, I will be by your side to help you.”

  Emmy resisted the urge to reach across and embrace the other female. And then she stopped resisting, because there was no good reason not to embrace Rel. We’ve been through so much together, she thought. We’re friends.

  Rel returned the hug, and wound her fingers through Emmy’s thick black fronds. She smelled of worn leather and blood, but it was the most comforting scent Emmy had ever smelled.

  “I’m glad I found you,” Rel said. “Yet, at the same time, I...”

  She tilted her head upwards. Her pupils grew small in the light. Emmy licked her lips and blinked. “What are you thinking?” she asked.

  “I am thinking,” Rel replied, still staring up at the sky, “that I don’t know exactly what I’ve found you for.” She broke her gaze and passed a hand over the side of Emmy’s face, slow and comforting. “I know, at least, that it’s not for something simple. It’s not for something safe. And now that I’ve found you and I know you, I am afraid for you.”

  “Afraid?” Emmy asked. “You? I didn’t think you could feel fear.”

  With a brief smile, Rel patted Emmy’s cheek. “Of course I feel fear,” she said, “but I tell myself to fear nothing when I know it will consume me. To be paralyzed by fear is to be vulnerable. But to believe there is nothing to be feared is foolish.”

  Embracing Rel once more, Emmy nodded into her shoulder. “That makes sense,” she said. “How did you become so wise, Rel?”

  “Anyone can be wise,” came the reply, “if they choose to look beyond the edge of their own experience.”

  They stayed in the tree for some time, bound together as the sun rose. Emmy drowsed, images of her sixteen cycles floating through her half-sleep. Dreams with Zecha. The sweetness of a friendship with Charo. Fights with Krodge and Bose. Medicine-Yarim, Medicine-Asri, Drenna Haldra, and all the others she’d known in the encampment. She thought of her old self, angry and outcast, furious at everything, always ready to snap. She’d been helpless. Powerless.

  But that life was over. Now she was someone else.

  Finished it off, I did.

  “Now, come,” Rel said, pressing a kiss to the top of Emmy’s head. “It’s time for us to journey on. We must get to Kubodinnu.”

  Emmy didn’t say anything. A shudder passed through her, as if she’d been dipped in icy water. But it wasn’t an unpleasant cold or a feeling of adrift hopelessness.

  No. It was a feeling of control.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  Mantos

  As the day wound on, the sky opened. A deluge of rain like nothing Mantos had ever seen poured down. The silver drops hammered against the courtyard below, drenching any palace servant who dared venture out. From the open window, he stared at the specks that scurried across the square. The fountain spurted uselessly in the storm. The temple chanting was barely audible above the thunderous rain. Mantos didn’t care that the wind sent curtains of it into his face. He still watched.

  Somewhere in the distance, wind chimes fluttered in the storm. The sound was hollow. It was desperate.

  Just like Mantos.

  He could think of nothing but the words Bomsoi had said to him. Her voice plagued his mind, insidious in its penetration. He was swept away by memory, back into the strange place of snow and ice that Bomsoi had brought him to.

  “I would have you take on the mantle of Nunako,” she had said. “You must become the Hand.”

  Mantos tried to claw out of his memories. He blinked against another barrage of raindrops. The front of his tunic was drenched.

  Bomsoi would have him be the Hand of Nunako. The One of Two, the same as his brother, a match in machinations, in order to stop him. Bandim was bent on destruction and desolation, of reclaiming the world and molding it in his own image. To stop him, Mantos knew Bomsoi would have him take Bandim’s life before he could strike a dark blow.

  Thunder rolled in the distance, and the rain continued to pour.

  It was easy for Bomsoi to tell him to become something he wasn’t. It was easy for her to suggest he become part-goddess, for that she already was. But she didn’t know any better than him. She couldn’t know what it meant to be mere flesh and blood. How could she understand?

  Though Bomsoi seemed to think she knew him well. “You would not turn from your path,” she had said. “Not like me.”

  Snorting, Mantos leaned out, letting the raindrops pound his face. Their coldness blunted the edge of his pain. How wrong she was, he thought. How utterly wrong.

  For of course, Mantos had already strayed from his path.

  His Imperial Majesty, Sole Ruler of the Masvam Empire, Protector of the Realm, Conqueror of Heathens, Scorcher of Souls, son of Braslen Tiboli, grandson of Maram Tiboli, Emperor Mantos Tiboli.

  The words that were never spoken sounded back at him, said in every voice but his own. Remembering the last words of his father, Mantos shuddered.

  You must lead the empire to new glories.

  There was no glory now. There was no leadership. There was only the clipped sting of shame that burned his insides. Instead of leading his folk, he’d sold their secrets to a queendom that was his father’s enemy.

  An unanswered question sounded loud in his mind. This time, the voice was his own.

  How can I command an empire if I cannot keep my own house in order?

  Mantos snorted. He never needed the answer to that question, never got the chance to command an empire. Perhaps it was for the best. He wouldn’t have succeeded, not in the way his father wanted. Not in the way they all expected.

  Not all, perhaps.

  His mother didn’t seem to think grabbing every scrap of land was the most important part of ruling an empire. But then, she’d never been empress, not really. She’d barely even lived. His mother didn’t make good choices, he thought. That much was clear.

  What mother would abandon both her sons to save the life of one? Mantos may have lived, but it was at the expense of Bandim’s mind. Chest tightening, Mantos gulped in a breath. The riddle of whether his life was worth that price was unsolvable, like a puzzle missing a piece.

  His life was now twice-saved. He could almost feel the freezing prints of death’s grasp on his throat. Twice-saved with nothing to show for it, he thought. What a waste.

  He pulled his head from the storm at the sound of a knock. Permission to enter given, the door opened. It was Fonbir, who pulled away his veil and smiled. But his mouth gaped as he took in the sodden mess Mantos had become. “What are you doing?” he asked as he bustled in. “Were you hanging out of the window?”

  On another day, Mantos might have chuckled at Fonbir’s fond clucking. But today he didn’t. Instead, he shrugged. “I was,” he said. “I thought the rain might clear my head.”

  “A soaking will do nothing but make you ill,” Fonbir said. “You must change your clothes.”

  On another day, Mantos might have laughed and pulled Fonbir into an embrace, or spun him across the floor, teasing him with his eyes. But he didn’t. Those days were in the letters they’d left behind, dreams that had been trampled by duty and rules and his father’s
will. You cannot marry an Althemerian, Mantos, he’d said. I will not allow it. Instead of teasing, Mantos let Fonbir delve into a trunk to fish out a dry shirt.

  “Toketa, you must take better care of yourself,” Fonbir said, his voice muffled as he dug through the clothing. “You’ve only just returned to me—to us. It wouldn’t do for you to die of sickness now.”

  Mantos shrugged again and stood, his arms hanging loose at his sides.

  When Fonbir straightened and closed the trunk, his lips curled. “Do you need me to remove your tunic for you?”

  Mirth danced in his white eyes. Mantos’ didn’t match. On another day, he would have joined in. On another day, they would have ended up in bed. But this was not another day. Those times will never return, Mantos thought. He peeled off his clothing, dried his skin and armor on the proffered cloth, then put on another shirt and tunic that weren’t his own.

  At the lack of levity, Fonbir sobered. He took up Mantos’ hands.

  When Mantos spoke, his words were so quiet, the storm almost drowned them. “Do you know what Bomsoi would have me do?”

  Nodding, Fonbir tightened his grip. “I do,” he said. “She told me.”

  “And do you know what that means?” Mantos asked. “Do you know what it really means?”

  Eyes widening at the question, Fonbir’s grip slackened. His lips moved, but he made no sound.

  “Exactly,” Mantos said. “You don’t know. And I don’t know. And yet, she wants me to go through with this...magic...and become something I’m not. She wants me to destroy my brother. She wants me to help her return balance to the world, the very thing she couldn’t do.” He snorted and squeezed Fonbir’s hands. “If she, a descendant of goddesses, couldn’t do it, how does she expect me to achieve it?”

  Far-off thunder rolled.

  “I don’t know,” Fonbir whispered.