Every time you take a life, you chip off another piece of your soul. Koyee lowered her head, eyes squeezed shut. Please, Xen Qae, if you watch over me, keep my daughter's soul pure.
A knock sounded on the door—so loud that Koyee started. An instant later, Madori stepped into the room.
Koyee rubbed her eyes. "Madori, by Xen Qae . . . I don't know why you even knock if you just barge in anyway."
Madori bristled. "I don't know why you even talk if it's just to scold me."
Koyee sighed. "What have you come for?"
"Well, nothing now." Madori's eyes reddened. "I had a gift for you, but I'm tossing it out." She turned to leave.
Koyee's heart twisted. She leaped forward and grabbed her daughter. "Madori, wait. Please."
The girl reeled toward her, eyes red. "What?"
"I don't want to fight. All we ever do is fight. Let's not part like this." Koyee guided her daughter into the room and they sat on the bed. "What have you brought me?"
Madori chewed her lip and clenched and unclenched her fists, seeming torn between her anger and forgiveness. Whenever they talked, it seemed like this—Madori forever torn between love and hatred, confusion and rage. Finally the girl relaxed, reached into her pocket, and pulled out a silver locket on a chain.
"For you," she said.
Koyee took the gift and smiled. "It's beautiful. Where did you get this?"
"Old Shinluan made it for me in the village. It's real silver. Look inside."
Koyee snapped the locket open. Inside she saw a delicate painting of Madori's face, perfectly lifelike.
The face inside the locket smiled and waved.
Koyee gasped and nearly dropped the locket. She spun toward her daughter, eyes wide. She saw that Madori was holding open an identical locket of her own, waving toward it.
"What . . ." Koyee began. She looked back into the locket Madori had given her, and she saw her daughter's face inside again. Only it was no painting, she realized. It was a reflection of the real Madori.
"The two lockets are linked," Madori explained. "Mine and yours. One peers out of the other. Look inside your locket again."
Koyee looked back at her locket in wonder. As Madori moved her own locket from side to side, the view changed.
"They are windows," Koyee whispered.
Madori nodded. "With our two lockets, we can always see each other. Each locket is a magical eye." She grinned. "I made them with magic. See, it's very simple! Each locket actually has a mirror inside. All I had to do was magically link the mirrors. Now your locket reflects whatever light goes into my locket, and vice versa. Essentially, when you look into your locket, you're just looking into my mirror—sort of. It's a bit more complex than that. It's an application of Feshavern's Fifth Principle as applied to artifacts and the bending of light. Professor Rushavel taught us this magic back at Teel University. I can explain more about how—"
"It's all right, daughter." Koyee smiled. "I think I prefer my magic with a tinge of mystery." She kissed Madori's cheek. "Thank you. I will worry less now that I can watch over you."
Madori nodded. "I'll keep my locket closed most of the time. I don't want you always watching! But whenever the moon hits its zenith, I'll open the locket and look inside, and I'll wave to you so you know I'm all right. Will you do the same?"
Koyee's eyes dampened, and she could barely speak without crying. "Of course." She embraced her daughter. "Of course. I love you, Madori. Be safe out there."
Madori nodded. "Ouch, Mother! You're crushing me. I'll be safe. Now let go and stop crying."
After her daughter left the room, Koyee slung the locket around her neck. It rested beside her other amulet—the little gear she had taken from Cabera Clock, the gear that kept the world locked between day and night. The two talismans—one of family, one of the world—rested side by side against her chest. She placed her hand over them and stared out the window at the night.
* * * * *
Tirus Serin, the Light of Radian, the Emperor of Mageria, stood upon the hill and watched his army muster at the border of night.
Once a village had nestled in the valley, a little backwater called Fairwool-by-Night, home to that mongrel Madori. Once the little beast's house had stood here, its roof woven of thatch, its gardens lush. Once an old maple tree had grown from the village square, shading the staircase of a columned library. Once five hundred souls had lived here on the border of darkness, the most eastern settlement in all Timandra.
The village was gone.
Where Madori's house had stood now rose a great marble statue, twenty feet tall, depicting him—Emperor Serin—gazing upon the darkness. Atop the ash of burnt houses stood iron cannons shaped as buffaloes; the filthy nightcrawlers had discovered the secrets of gunpowder, and now these Magerian guns would turn their own invention against them.
Beyond the cannons, where once fields had swayed, stood Serin's troops. Five thousand horsemen mustered here, each rider clad in steel and bearing lance, sword, and shield—a vanguard to charge through the gates of darkness and smash the walls of the Elorian cities. Thirty thousand soldiers stood beyond the horses: archers clad in boiled leather, their longbows taller than men, their arrows powerful enough to punch through armor; pikemen in chain mail, their pole-arms serrated and cruel; and many swordsmen in breastplates, their longswords wide, double-edged, and two-handed, blades to crash through the thin Elorian katanas. These men would swarm through the night cities, plundering, destroying, slaying every nightcrawler they found.
Finally, in the river, anchored dozen of warships. Shields hung across their hulls, each displaying the Radian eclipse. Their masts rose tall, and slaves manned their oars—mostly Ardishmen with whipped backs and collared necks. Upon the warships' decks stood Serin's finest warriors—his mages. Their robes were black, their faces hooded. Their magic would bring the nightcrawlers to their knees.
"All this is only a single fist," Serin said softly. "Very soon now, more troops will arrive from the capital. Very soon now, we will have a host to light every last corner of the night."
"I want her to watch," Lari said, voice strained. "I want Madori to see the night burn. To see her people scream in flame. To see her cities fall and shatter. I want my filthy cousin to watch every sword thrust into every heart, to see every babe ripped from its mother and crushed, to see every every throat slit." Lari clenched her fists, and the wind streamed her hair. "Madori will witness the anguish of the night before we drag her back into the day."
Serin looked at his daughter. Lari was a proud woman of the Magerian race, tall and strong and fair, her eyes blue, her hair golden—a paragon of purity. The nightcrawlers her scarred her cheeks on the road outside of Teel, but powder and rouge now hid the two pale lines. How wonderful the Timandrian! Serin thought, admiring her. How superior we are to the sub-humans of the night! Pride welling in him, Serin stroked Lari's cheek.
Serin's aunt had married Teramin Greenmoat, a weak knight with peasant roots—that had been bad enough. But then Torin Greenmoat, Teramin's son, had gone on to marry a nightcrawler, further polluting the family's blood. The ultimate insult was Madori, a half-nightcrawler in the family. Serin shuddered in disgust to imagine that he shared blood with that beast. As pure as Lari was, Madori was filthy, a stain upon his family, a stain he must efface.
"We will make Madori watch," he said. "She will see every death in Eloria before we take her to her father. And then she will see his death too." His hand, which caressed Lari's cheek, was missing one finger. Madori had taken that finger from him, and Serin's pulse quickened. "But Madori will not die. She will be the last nightcrawler in Mythimna, and we will keep her alive to a very old age. With magic, we can extend her age to hundreds of years." Serin sucked in breath, already imagining it. "She will travel the world in a cage, from town to town, a freak for the people of our empire to marvel at. The mongrel will become our pet, our circus animal. All will see her and scorn her."
Serin caressed the stump of
his finger, and a thin smile stretched across his lips to remember Madori: her large lavender eyes; her strange black hair, cropped-short aside from two long strands that framed her face; and the fire in her heart, the fire that had driven her to attack him. It was almost a shame that she was half nightcrawler. With that much passion within her, Madori could have made a good warrior in his hosts, perhaps even a good mate to warm his bed; Serin had not been with a woman since his wife had died. Yet fire or not, Madori was a mongrel, tainted, filthy. When Serin met her again, he would break her.
"Look, Father!" Lari said, pointing west. "The boat arrives."
Serin clasped his hands together. "Splendid!"
It was a small vessel, its hull black, its sails displaying two crossed scrolls—emblem of Teel University. Several slaves sat chained to oars, propelling the boat onward. A stooped man stood at the prow, black cloak wrapped tightly around him. His nose was as curved as his back, his eyes were beady, and a ring of oily hair surrounded the bald crest of his head. He looked like some gangly vulture, and even his fingers, which clasped his cloak, looked like talons, complete with long sharp nails. As fair as Serin was, this man was foul. Serin was a warrior of nobility, of pride, of wide shoulders and a proud stance, a lion among lesser creatures; here before him emerged a scavenger.
A useful scavenger, Serin thought. A tool, no different than my cannons and sword.
"Professor Atratus!" Serin called out. "Welcome to the dusk."
The professor's small eyes stared across the mustering armies at the hilltop where Serin stood. The mage placed his fist against his chest.
"Radian rises!" he called out.
The boat navigated between the Magerian warships, a piranha moving between sharks. Two hooded mages stood upon the deck behind Atratus, holding whips of fire. Those whips cracked, slamming against the backs of rowing slaves. As the boat drew closer, Serin noticed that several Elorian skulls—the eye sockets freakishly large—hung upon the buffalo figurehead.
You are a twisted bastard, Serin thought, staring at Atratus. A man after my own heart.
The boat docked at the pier. Ardish merchant boats would once dock here, load the bounty of Timandra, and send the gifts of sunlight—fruits, grains, wines—into the night. Serin sneered. The Ardishmen had betrayed the sunlight, feeding the creatures of darkness. It was fitting, he thought, that from this very place—the docks that had once fed Eloria—the night's doom was kindled.
As Atratus stepped off the boat, the soldiers of Mageria formed a path between them and stood at attention, slamming the butts of their spears against the earth. Atratus did not spare the soldiers a glance. He walked between them, cloak wrapped tightly around him. A sneer found his lips, and his dark eyes glittered. When he finally climbed the hill and reached Serin, the stooped mage—the new Headmaster of Teel—knelt in the dirt.
"My Lord Serin!" A bubble of spit floated out of Atratus's mouth and popped against Serin's shin. If Atratus noticed, he gave no note of it. "I've come with the traitor, O Light of Radian. We hurt her. She is broken. But she still clings to life. We've kept her alive so that you may kill her yourself, dearest leader."
"I will kill her!" said Lari. The young woman tossed back her hair and smiled down at Atratus. "I suffered under her yoke at Teel for an entire year. The old crone nearly had me throwing up every time she summoned us to the courtyard." Lari drew her silvery sword. "I will gladly pierce her shriveled old heart, the traitor." She barked a laugh. "Letting nightcrawlers into Teel! Disgusting. She'll pay for her treachery."
Atratus rose to his feet and bowed his head toward Lari. "My Lady! Perhaps you would even care to demonstrate your magic on her? It would make your old professor quite proud. Besides, your sword is too beautiful a weapon to bloody on the likes of the traitor." He looked over his shoulder. "Here she comes."
Two younger mages were walking uphill, hands raised. Between them floated a bruised old woman. Invisible chains held her aloft between the robed men. Her white hair fell over her face, and bloodied rags covered her body. She was barely larger than a child—a dying, famished thing. When the younger mages reached the hilltop, they saluted and released their magic.
The old woman fell to her knees, coughed, and raised her head.
She stared up at Serin, fire in her eyes.
She spat upon his boot.
Serin glanced at his daughter, then back at the old woman. He backhanded her. It was perhaps crude—not an elegant attack like a blast of magic—but it did the trick. Blood splattered and the old woman fell to the ground.
"Headmistress Egeria," Serin said. "Or rather, former headmistress. How lovely to see you. Are you impressed with the armies I muster here? They will soon invade the darkness. They will soon step upon the worms you sought to protect. They will soon bring me Madori, the little vermin you harbored."
Though her eyes were bloodshot and puffed with bruises, Egeria fixed Serin with a steady gaze. Blood filled her mouth, but she spoke in a clear voice.
"Remember, Serin, what Madori's parents did to the last man who invaded the night. Beware that Madori does not do the same to you."
Serin sighed. "Ferius was a religious fanatic, a mere monk, a fool who thought he could lead an army." He swept his arm across the field. "Do you see these forces, Egeria? They are mine to command. I am no village preacher who knows nothing of warfare. I am a conqueror. I am . . . an exterminator. And the nightcrawlers will perish under my heel. All but Madori, that is. Oh, that one will live a very long time." He turned toward Lari. "What say we send the mongrel a little gift—one of many to come?"
Lari nodded and a smile spread across her face, the smile a wolf gives its prey before pouncing. "Gladly."
The princess stretched out both hands.
Egeria winced and struggled to raise her own arms, but magic bound her. Lari's blast of energy pounded against the old woman's chest, knocking her down. Lari grinned, stepped forward, and leaned over the former headmistress. Coiling strands of smoke materialized in the air. The astral tendrils snaked into Egeria's nostrils, ears, and mouth like serpents entering their burrows. Egeria thrashed on the ground, the serpents slithering under her skin, their forms visible like animals moving under sheets.
"I . . . I failed you, child." Tears streamed from Egeria's eyes. "I tried to teach you, Lari. I tried to teach you integrity, morals, goodness, I—"
With a scream, Lari balled her fists. The smoky serpents vanished from under Egeria's skin, digging deeper, crashing into her organs.
With a final gasp, Egeria went limp.
Lari looked up at her father, the rage gone from her face. Suddenly she seemed like a child again, desperate for her father's approval.
"Did I do it properly, Father?" She bit her lip. "I was hoping to drive the serpents into her heart right away. I didn't think they'd crawl under her skin."
"Keep practicing." Serin frowned at her. "I expect the best from you, Lari. Next time you kill, I want it quick. You will have to kill quickly on the battlefield. Do you understand?" He clenched his fist. "Do you remember what happened when you were a child, when you failed to play the proper notes on the harp?"
Lari blanched and her bottom lip trembled. Those bruises would linger for turns. To her father, the harp was almost as important as magic; whenever Lari had played a bum note, he would knock her onto the floor, would beat her with sticks, would leave her bruised, bleeding, and begging for another chance. Lari had grown into a woman, perhaps too old to beat, but Serin still expected perfection from her.
She nodded. "I will practice, Father. I promise. I will practice on as many nightcrawlers and traitors as it takes." She kissed his cheek. "I will make you proud."
Standing beside them, Headmaster Atratus cleared his throat—a horrid sound like a vulture gagging up a chunk of maggoty flesh. "And don't forget about your old professor. After all, I taught you much magic myself."
Lari smiled sweetly at the balding, stooped man. "Of course, Headmaster. I had to leave your
university early to join the war effort, but I promise you—what I miss in classes I will perfect on the battlefield." She turned back toward the corpse. "And now . . . now I will bloody my sword. Now I prepare a gift for the mongrel. A little herald of what's to come."
Lari drew her sword and swung it down several times, finally severing Egeria's head.
They walked down to the river—an emperor in bright steel, a princess with a bloodied sword, and a mage in black robes. Myriads of soldiers stood at their sides, forming walls of steel, a force of sunlight about to swarm into darkness. The warships of the Magerian Empire rose in the water, masts like a forest. Serin barked a few orders, and soon a rowboat—an old landing craft the fleet could easily spare—was lowered into the water. Serin himself stuck the head onto a spear, then propped it onto the boat's prow, forming a lurid, dripping figurehead.
He took a scroll and quill from a servant, and standing on the river bank, he wrote in his fine, flowing script.
Dearest Madori!
Last we met, you took a finger from me. I now give you a head. Poor Egeria died knowing your fate. I wanted you to know it too. When we meet again—and it will be soon, my dearest Madori—I will take a finger from you. Then another finger. Then all your fingers and all your toes. But not your head. That will remain, so that you can see the crowds of Timandrians who gape at you, so you can hear their jeers, smell your own blood as they pelt you with stones. You and I will travel my empire together—you as a circus freak, I as your trainer. I'm afraid that dear old Egeria suffered a fate far kinder than what awaits you.
I am coming for you, and I will see you soon, sweet mongrel!
Your dear uncle,
Emperor Tirus Serin
He rolled up the scroll, nailed it onto the boat's hull, and sent the vessel floating eastward. He stood with his daughter, watching as the boat moved toward the dusk. Soon it entered the gloaming, and beads of light gleamed upon its wake like drops of liquid metal. Then the boat was gone into shadows, gone toward the village of Oshy. To Koyee. To Madori. To all the Elorians who would see his might and fear him.
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