"Perhaps they will fight as we march in," he said softly. "Perhaps they will beg. Perhaps they will flee. No matter what they do, the outcome will be the same. They will die."
Lari leaned against him. He slung his arm around her, and they stood together, watching the darkness. Behind them, the army stood ready to invade. Very soon now, the last troops would arrive from the capital. Very soon now, the darkness would burn.
CHAPTER FOUR:
SWAMP AND STONE
Madori stood upon the hill, the wind whipping her cloak and two strands of black hair. She gazed down upon her home—the village of Oshy, the Inaro River, Salai castle, and beyond them the dusk. She had spent many of her childhood summers here. She had sought sanctuary here. When the invasion began, she would shed blood here.
"For now I say goodbye, Oshy." The whistling wind drowned her words and nearly tugged off her cloak. "I go into shadow."
For the first time in her life, she wore Qaelish clothes—garments she, half Timandrian, had once rejected. A qipao dress hugged her body, its indigo silk embroidered with golden fish. A silver sash encircled her waist, inlaid with pearls, and her silken black cloak sported dragon motifs. Across her back hung her greatest possession: Sheytusung, fabled katana of her father.
Now I travel into the Desolation, to find the master who trained my grandfather. She touched the silk-wrapped hilt. I've learned to fight with magic. Now I will learn steel.
She sighed. Once she had dreamed of being a healer, not a soldier. When her mother had miscarried years ago, leaving Madori an only child, she had vowed to learn to heal others, not slay them. At Teel University, she had made her greatest progress in Magical Healing class, not Offensive Magic. Yet now she—the girl who had wanted so badly to mend broken bodies and souls—would march into the darkness to become a killer. Perhaps her fate was to be torn—between day and night, between healing and hurting.
She turned to look northeast, away from the dusk and the village in its light. The full darkness of Eloria stretched there, empty, lifeless, nothing but black hills and plains beneath the stars. The wilderness. Madori was half Elorian, but the sight of so much darkness, such vast empty land, chilled her. She would not be sailing upon a river that reflected the stars, that glowed with lanternfish, that eventually led to cities of light. She would be traveling into the emptiness; she might as well have been walking across the surface of the moon.
She gulped.
"You're out there somewhere, Master Lan Tao," she whispered.
She unrolled her parchment scroll, revealing fields of stars. When Koyee had given her this starmap, Madori had only nodded, rolled her eyes, and insisted that she understood the directions. She had lied. She could barely understand the runes, arrows, and coiling lines that snaked between the illustrated constellations. Yet she had needed to quickly leave her home in the village, to leave her mother, to begin her quest. Every moment back in Oshy, she was tempted to defy her mother, to race into the dusk, to find Serin and challenge him to another duel. That would have meant her death, she knew. As much as she hated Serin, her training was not yet complete; a single year at Teel had not made her powerful enough to defeat her enemies. So she had stuffed the map into her belt. She had raced here to the hill, too anxious for teary partings. And now she stood out here in the wind, on the cusp of pure darkness, afraid, alone.
She took a deep breath. "I survived the searing light and cruelty of Timandra." She smiled crookedly. "I can survive the cold, empty darkness of Eloria."
She took a single step—the first of many, the beginning of a new journey.
A voice rose behind her, tugging her back like a rope.
"Madori."
She spun around to see Jitomi walking uphill toward her.
The young Ilari, once her fellow student at Teel, wore the raiment of his southern, island-empire. His black silk robes fluttered in the wind, embroidered with small red flames. Upon his belt hung a tanto dagger, a traditional weapon of Ilar. A red bandana encircled his brow. His nose ring gleamed in the moonlight, as did the smooth, white hair that hung across his brow. His dragon tattoo coiled up his neck and cheek, the scaled head resting above his eyebrow.
Madori nodded at him, a new lump forming in her throat. "Jitomi."
He stepped closer and stood before her. His blue eyes—large Elorian eyes like hers, twice the size of Timandrian ones—stared at her. "You are leaving without saying farewell?"
She looked away. "I don't like goodbyes." Her voice sounded too thin to her, too hoarse.
"I'm leaving Oshy too. I'm returning to Ilar, to speak to my father, to try and enlist help for the border." He stared south into the darkness as if already seeing his distant homeland. "This is not only the border with Qaelin but with all the night. I'll make my father understand; he holds sway in the court of Empress Hikari. When he speaks, she listens. Ilar will help us, Madori."
She turned back toward him. "I thought you came here to say goodbye, not to speak of armies and empresses."
Jitomi nodded. He held her hand, and he leaned forward, trying to kiss her. She pulled back and took a step away.
"Madori?" His voice was soft, hurt.
She shook her head and looked away. "Go, Jitomi." Her voice caught in her throat. She remembered that time in Teel, the time they had kissed in the infirmary, how she had lain in his arms. "Go to Ilar; that is your path. And my path leads into the wilderness. There's no need for farewells, no need for your kiss, no need for any of this." Her voice cracked. "We must tread different paths. Perhaps they will never cross again."
She hefted her pack across her back and began to walk away from him, heading into the darkness.
"Madori, wait." He stepped toward her, held her shoulder, and touched her hair. "Do you forget all we've been through? Do you forget the year we spent together at Teel, the long moons we spent together on the road?" His voice dropped to a whisper. "Those turns we slept in each other's arms, those secrets we whispered, those—"
"That's all over!" Her voice rose so loudly she was almost shouting. Tears burned in her eyes. "Don't you understand, Jitomi? We're not youths anymore. All those turns together have ended. It's war now. War like the one my parents fought, like we'll have to fight." She tasted a tear on her lips. "There will be no more embraces, no more kisses, no more sunlit turns of youth. We're in darkness now. We must walk our paths alone."
Pain filled his eyes. He touched her cheek, lifting her tear onto his fingers. His voice was barely a whisper. "Madori, I love you."
That only sent anger flaring through her, a rage fueled by her pain. "Well, I don't love you." She shook her head wildly. "What can love bring us now? Only heartbreak. Go, Jitomi. Go! Go to your homeland and I'll travel my own road. That is what's left for us." She laughed, though it sounded more like a sob. "I told you I hated goodbyes. I told you to leave. Now look." She gestured at her tears. "Now look what you've done to me. I hate you, Jitomi. I . . ."
Yet somehow she found herself embracing him. Somehow she found herself kissing him again, and it tasted of her tears.
She placed her hands against his chest and shoved him back. She turned away, eyes damp, and walked as fast as she could into the shadows. The stars spread above, and the icy wind cut through her, and she did not look back.
* * * * *
Tam Solira, Prince of Arden, and Neekeya, a daughter of Daenor, crested the rocky hill and beheld the swamplands sprawl below into the horizon.
"Daenor," Neekeya whispered. "Home."
The young woman stood bedecked in crocodile motifs—a helmet shaped as a crocodile head, a shirt of scales mimicking crocodile skin, and a necklace of crocodile teeth. Finally, a sword with a crocodile-claw pommel hung from her belt. Her tattered green cloak fluttered in the wind, as did those strands of her black, chin-length hair that escaped from her helmet. The rising sun gleamed upon her brown skin and lit her large, chocolate-colored eyes. She smiled wistfully, gazing with love upon her kingdom.
"I missed y
ou, Denetek." She turned toward Tam, her eyes bright, and her smile widened to reveal her teeth. "Isn't it beautiful? We call our land Denetek in our tongue; Daenor is what the kingdoms of Old Riyona call it."
Tam looked back toward the view. Three years ago, he had visited the rainforest of Naya and thought that land harsh. Now, viewing the marshlands of Daenor, he understood what true harshness looked like. Daenor was not just lush and wet; it looked like a flooded apocalyptic nightmare. The water stretched for miles, covered in algae and lilies. Mangroves grew like spiders of wood and leaf, their roots twisting. Boulders jutted like islands from this green sea, looking as sharp and cruel as blades. Mist hung in the air, birds cried out discordantly, and distant pyramids rose upon the horizon, as grim as tombstones.
If ever the world fell to ruin, to flood, to decay, he thought, it would look like Daenor.
He suppressed a shudder and forced himself to nod. "It's lovely, Neekeya. It's very . . ." He thought for a moment. ". . . full of life."
Of course, "life" probably meant man-eating crocodiles, insects the size of his fist, and snakes that laid eggs inside human skulls, but he felt it safest not to vocalize those thoughts.
She held his hand and pointed across the marshlands. "Do you see that distant pyramid? That's my home. My father rules all these lands, as far as you can see. They'll be our lands one turn, Tam. We'll be married and rule together, a wise lord and lady of the swamps."
He looked at Neekeya—her ready smile, her bright eyes, the goodness that shone from her. Perhaps Daenor seemed forbidding to him, but Neekeya was beautiful and pure. He squeezed her palm. "But first we must stop the Radian menace. We must convince your father and the other lords of Daenor that Mageria must be fought. Or else these lands might fall as Arden fell."
A twinge twisted his heart to think of Arden, his homeland. The memories of its fall still hurt him—the enemy troops snaking across its roads, the Radian banners upon Kingswall's towers, and mostly the fear . . . the fear for his family, for his friends. He did not know if his family had survived. Would Serin keep the royal family alive, or was Tam the last survivor? He thoughts of them now—his wise father, King Camlin; his kind mother, Queen Linee; his twin brother, Prince Omry. Did they languish now in a Radian prison, did they lie dead in a field, or had they too fled to foreign lands? Even more than he wanted to free his homeland, Tam wanted to find his family again. With every breath, worry for them flared. It had been four months since he had parted from Madori outside the conquered city of Kingswall; he had heard nothing of his friends or family since.
Tam closed his eyes, the memories suddenly too strong to resist.
Catch me! little Madori cried, only a child, short and scrawny, her knees scraped. She laughed and ran through the sunlit gardens, and Tam ran in pursuit, a mere boy, laughing, his face tanned and freckled, his world full of joy. His twin, Prince Omry, was stuck in the stuffy court, heir to Arden, a serious boy groomed to rule. But Tam, a few minutes younger, laughed as he chased Madori outside. They splashed through the stream, collected frogs, and finally lay on their backs in the grass, watching the sky.
That one looks like a dragon, Madori said, pointing at a cloud. I'm going to ride dragons some turn.
Tam pointed out another cloud. That one looks like a ship! We're going to find our own ship some turn, Billygoat, and sail far away from here, far away on adventure.
So many summers they had lain like that in the gardens of Kingswall, dreaming, speaking softly of the distant lands they'd visit, of all the monsters they'd slay, the villages they'd save. Her—a girl torn between day and night. Him—a prince so jealous of his twin, his inheritance stolen by a few minutes of sleep in the womb.
They had finally gone on their adventure together, traveling to Teel to become mages . . . yet now Madori was so far from him. Now this adventure did not seem like much fun at all. It had been a journey of pain, of bloodshed, of fear and hunger. And now Madori was gone from him, traveling deep into the darkness on the other side of Moth.
I miss you, Billygoat, he thought. And I must find aid here in Daenor. I must or all the night will burn.
He turned back toward Neekeya. She stared at him, and her face hardened, and her eyes filled with determination.
"We will find aid," Neekeya said. "We've come here to prepare Daenor for war. We will protect our borders. Daenor will stand."
Hand in hand, they walked downhill, heading into the swamplands.
When they reached the water, Tam grimaced. The green, dank soup rose to his knees, thick with moss. Dragonflies flew around him, frogs trilled upon lily pads, herons waded between reeds, and he even saw a snake coil across the water. The mangroves rose around him, twisted like goblins. The air was hot and thick and filled his lungs like smoke. He wondered how he'd even walk a hundred yards here, let alone several leagues toward the pyramids. Neekeya, however, seemed to suffer no mobility problems. Despite her armor, she bounded from boulder to boulder, log to log, twisting root to twisting root. Her boots barely touched the water.
"Come on, Tam!" she said. "It's not a sea. You won't have to swim." She grinned. "Just hop your way over."
"I don't hop!" he said. "I'm not a frog."
She shrugged. "Well, you might not be, but you're wearing one as a hat."
He reached to his head and felt something slimy. When he pulled it free, the frog hopped away, and Tam grimaced.
They kept moving through the bog—Neekeya hopping from log to rock, Tam slogging through the knee-high water. He made a few attempts to leap like Neekeya, only to fall face-down into the muck, covering himself with mud, moss, and peat. The leafy mangrove branches hid the sky, and the song of the swamp filled his ears: squawking birds, chirping insects, trilling frogs, and gurgling water. An egret snatched a dragonfly. Snails perched upon a floating branch. Drops of water gleamed upon countless spiderwebs. Tall grass and reeds grew upon tussocks, rich with grasshoppers and toads.
"At least this land would be a nightmare to invade," Tam muttered as he waded forward, algae tangling around his legs. "I can't imagine Mageria's horses and chariots slogging through this."
Neekeya nodded. "I'd like to see them try. Our soldiers would rain arrows down upon them." She pointed up at the canopy, then waved. "Hello, boys!"
Tam looked up and lost his breath.
"Idar's shaggy old beard," he muttered.
Several Daenorians perched among the branches, clad in dark green cloaks and gray tunics. Brown and green paint covered their faces, and leaves covered their helmets of boiled leather. They held bows and blowguns, and daggers hung from their belts. With their camouflage, Tam doubted he'd have noticed them were they not waving back toward Neekeya. When he looked behind him, he saw that many other Daenorians filled the trees he had already walked under.
Neekeya gave Tam a solemn look. "Daenor is defended." She nodded and gripped the hilt of her sword. "If Serin invades the swamp, he will find his watery grave."
Tam stared east across the marshlands—east toward the distant Teekat Mountains and beyond them Mageria.
Will Daenor remain a last island of freedom? he thought. Will all the world fall as Arden fell, and will the night burn, while we linger here in the mud? He did not speak these concerns. But he knew: We cannot simply hide as evil rises beyond the mountains. We must face that evil, and we must attack it, or the Radian noose will choke us.
They kept walking, heading east. The marshlands thickened. The water soon rose to Tam's armpits, and the mangrove roots twisted everywhere like a lattice. He was forced to hop forward with Neekeya, jumping from root to log to mossy rock. After a few spills and bruises, he got the hang of it. Soon, with the help of dangling vines, he was able to move above the water almost at normal walking speed. He marveled at how Neekeya, with her heavy armor, managed the task; he wore only wool and felt clumsier than an elephant in quicksand.
After hours of traveling, they reached mossy old ruins. Arches of dark stone rose from the marsh, a hundred fe
et tall, like the ribs of a fallen giant. No roof or walls rose among them, but Tam saw other remnants half-submerged into bogs: the massive stone head of a statue, large as a boat; an orphaned archway, its doors long-rotted away; and sunken columns, their capitals shaped as crocodiles. At first Tam wondered if Serin had already invaded and lay waste to Daenor's cities, but he quickly realized that these ruins were thousands of years old.
"Relics of the Ancients," Neekeya said. She nodded solemnly. "They were great in magic, and many of their magical artifacts are still hidden under the bogs. Now magic is lost to Daenor, but the whispers of our forebears remain." She whispered a prayer in her language, clasping her necklace of teeth.
Tam thought back to the history books he would read in Arden. Like Mageria and Verilon, Arden had once been part of the Riyonan Empire; all three of those kingdoms, neighbors north of the Sern and east of the mountains, now spoke similar dialects and worshiped Idar, the god of sunlight. But Daenor, this swamp between the mountains and the western coast, had spent most of its history isolated from the rest of Timandra. Its people looked different, their skin darker, their frames taller, and they spoke a different tongue and worshiped older gods. It was said that even when Riyona herself had been young, Daenor had already been ancient.
They walked under the mossy arches, pushing back curtains of vines. They had just emerged from the ruins when Tam saw the men ahead. He froze and reached for his dagger.
Magerians, was his first thought.
A dozen men stood ahead, seeming as foreign to this swamp as Tam was. When he squinted, he saw that they bore the banners of Daenor—a black crocodile upon a green field—but they looked different from any Daenorian he'd ever seen. Their skin was a lighter brown, and their eyes were green. Their helmets were not shaped as crocodile jaws or their armor as crocodile skin; their helmets were simpler, their breastplates unadorned. Rather than green cloaks and necklaces of teeth, they wore gray cloaks clasped with silver brooches.
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