"Old Master Lan Tao!" she shouted. Her voice echoed across the landscape. A boulder tilted. Pebbles raced under her feet. She winced, expecting an avalanche, and kept walking gingerly, navigating between fallen stones. She dared shout no more.
A tilted black mountain, shaped like a wilting sail, loomed ahead. She walked along a ragged path, pebbles creaking under her boots. She barely dared to breathe. A shelf of stone loomed above her, and boulders perched like dragon eggs at her side. She thought that if she sneezed, she'd set the whole structure tumbling. Below stretched a valley, perhaps a crater, strewn with many boulders. A stream flowed through it, reflecting the moonlight. The mountains, boulders, and canyons spread as far as Madori could see. For the first time in her life, she was thankful for her Elorian eyes, eyes that had branded her a foreigner in Timandra. Here they collected even the softest of lights, guiding her way.
"Where are you, Lan Tao?" she whispered. Her mother had only told her he lived in a cave. Madori saw dozens of caves here. If she shouted his name again, she was likely to send boulders tumbling. If she began to enter each cave in search of him, she was likely to encounter some slumbering nightwolf or other beast.
Have I been a fool to come here? Have I traveled all this way to find only rock and water?
She was walking across a cracked valley, boulders rising around her like columns, when she heard the growl.
At once she paused and spun around. Her heart leaped into her mouth.
Yellow eyes gleamed above upon a mountainside, but the creature itself remained hidden in shadow. She saw only those eyes and long, sharp fangs.
Madori dared not move.
If you run, he'll see you as a prey. She forced herself to remain calm. If he smells your fear, he'll pounce. Stand your ground, Madori.
The growl rose again, loud and coarse as boulders rolling down a mountain. The creature padded forward, emerging into the moonlight. A nightwolf.
Madori sucked in her breath. She had heard of nightwolves before—her Uncle Okado and Aunt Suntai, fallen heroes of the night, had ridden them in the war—but Madori had never seen the beasts. She had always imagined them the size of Timandrian wolves, animals no larger than sheepdogs, but this creature could dwarf most horses. Its thick gray fur bristled. Its body was wide but graceful, made for leaping, and its claws were long, made for tearing flesh off bone. Madori remembered the scars that marred her mother's face; they had come from such claws.
She met the nightwolf's gaze. Its eyes were even larger than hers. Wise, deep eyes. This was no mindless hunter; this was a sentient being. And it was hungry. She saw the hunger in those eyes, in those bared fangs, in its lanky body. Yes, its fur was thick, but that pelt hung over a thinned frame. Its every movement spoke of hunger, the need for meat. Most nightwolves hunted in packs; if this one was alone, it must have been a wild beast, an animal too unpredictable, too proud to serve a master. It must have wandered the wilderness for many turns, far from the plains where its brethren claimed territory and hunted. It must not have eaten in as long, and Madori knew how she appeared to it.
Like a feast.
The animal took one more step forward. Madori stared upward. A good fifty feet separated the two, but Madori knew he could easily jump the length. Yes, she thought of the wolf as a he now, no longer an it; she saw his story in his eyes, and he became almost a companion to her, a fellow wandering, hungry, lonely creature.
Slowly, Madori chose the air between them.
The nightwolf snarled.
She claimed the air.
The wolf leaped.
She changed the air, forming a thick shield, pressing the material close together like bunching silk into a thick rug. The nightwolf slammed into the force field and yowled, shocked at the impact. But the beast was too powerful to stop completely—he weighed several times more than a man—and he tore through the air like a diver through water.
The nightwolf slammed into Madori.
She fell beneath him.
His weight nearly crushed her. A thick, soupy layer of air still lay between them, remnants of her shield. The wolf's teeth drove down, and Madori winced and funneled the air upward, knocking the wolf's head aside. His claws scratched along her arm, and she cried out in pain. Her blood spilled. He leaned in again to bite, and the pain of her wounds drove her magic away.
Focus. Think. Fight him!
She chose his fur. She claimed it. She changed it.
The fur rustled madly, crackling like Madori's hair when she dragged her feet across a rug. Several sparks flew across the wolf, little bolts of electricity. The animal yowled, and Madori kicked, pulled herself out from under him, and jumped to her feet. She snarled, nurtured the sparks upon the animal, and with a single puff, the fur burst into flame.
The nightwolf whimpered, turned tail, and ran a few steps. Then he fell to the ground and rolled, struggling to extinguish the fire. The smell of burning fur filled Madori's nostrils.
She doffed her cloak. She raced toward the animal, tossed the cloak over him, and patted out the flames. The nightwolf didn't attack, only lay and whimpered as she worked. Finally the fire was extinguished.
"There you go," Madori said. "Just singed a bit. Didn't burn the flesh."
The wolf lay before her. He rolled onto his belly, legs splayed out, a mark of surrender. When Madori patted his snout, he licked her with a tongue as large as her hand.
"Good boy." She rummaged through her pack, produced a dried lanternfish—her last one—and held it out. Still lying on his back, the wolf ate the paltry meal. "It's all I can give you, friend."
Her own belly grumbled. She had only a single jar of mushrooms left, barely enough food for another turn. Then she too would have to wander the wilderness, desperately seeking bats, fish, or moles. Perhaps she would turn into something like this wolf, a wandering, feral thing, slowly dying of starvation. She slumped beside the animal and stroked his fur.
"What are we doing here, boy?" She sighed. "We're both lost."
A voice rose from a hilltop behind her, an ancient voice like crumpling parchment.
"Why didn't you kill it?"
She spun around, drawing her sword in a single, fluid movement.
He stood on the mountainside upon an outcrop of stone. He was an old man—ancient—his face wrinkled, his beard long and white, his head bald. And yet he stood straight, his shoulders still squared, his eyes still sharp. He wore blue robes and a silver sash, and he kept his hands tucked within his wide sleeves. A katana hung at his side.
"He was hungry," Madori said, staring at the stranger.
The old man nodded. "An invader is hungry for your soil. A thief is hungry for your treasure. A murderer is hungry for your blood. Would you not deal death to them?"
She glared up at the elder. "That's different. Those are humans. Humans are cruel. Animals are kind."
He raised an eyebrow. "This kind animal almost ripped out your throat." The man hopped off the outcrop, and Madori winced, sure he would smash down into the valley, snapping every bone in his body. Yet the elder effortlessly glided down a good ten feet, landed neatly, and knelt to absorb the impact. He straightened and walked toward her. "A great nightwolf attacked you, and you did not draw your blade. You could have sliced out its throat before it reached you. Instead you fought with clumsy, crude magic like a Timandrian. Now you see a frail old man and draw your steel." He shook his head sadly. "A fool has come to see me."
She sneered. "I told you." She stepped closer to the old man, her blade drawn. "I don't like people. I like animals. Stand back or this blade will cut your throat." At her side, the wolf stood up and growled at the man.
He came to a halt a few feet away from her. His long white beard and flowing mustache fluttered in the wind. His gaze was haughty, she thought, and the hint of mockery twisted his lips.
"Kill it," he said. "Kill the nightwolf. It is hungry. So are you. You won the fight. Slay the beast and eat its flesh."
Madori pointed her
katana at the man. "I'd rather kill you and feed you to him. He won't be hungry and I'll be rid of your prattling."
"And soon after you would die of hunger." He shook his head sadly. "You are foolish. You are rash and angry. Slay the animal. Prove yourself strong and I will train you. Otherwise turn and leave. I have no patience for fools."
Madori grumbled. "And I have no patience for cruel masters, Lan Tao. That is your name, is it not?" She spat at his feet. "I had a cruel master at Teel University. One was enough."
The old hermit smiled thinly. "Did that cruel sunlit master teach you to fight with magic? Perhaps he saved your life. If not for him, that wolf would now be digesting your flesh. Perhaps a cruel master is exactly what you need, for a great wolf of sunfire rises in the west. Yes, I have seen it, even from here—a great light mustering along the dusk. If you show the enemies any mercy, as you've shown your adversary here, they will cut through you and all those you love." He stepped closer, and his eyes narrowed. "Now kill the wolf."
She shook her head and sheathed her sword. "No. If I kill without reason, I'm no different from the sunlit demons. You cannot fight a monster by becoming one yourself. If you do, you've already lost. Salai of Oshy, my grandfather, was a noble man. He would scoff at your words." She turned to leave.
His voice rose behind her. "Did you know your grandfather, child?"
She froze. She looked over her shoulder back at Lan Tao. "I heard tales of his great deeds."
"Tales turn killers into heroes. Tales turn monsters into men of valor. Legendary men were rarely honorable; the poets of later generations ennobled them." Lan Tao nodded. "You bear his sword, Sheytusung. A sword I taught him to wield. A sword he slew many with. How many widows did your grandfather create, how many orphans? How many did your own mother slay with this blade? Most were not murderers, not criminals, not bloodthirsty beasts. They were boys and girls like you, caught in a war. They were souls like that wolf, simply hungry and lost, seeking a meal or a coin. And your grandfather killed them. He killed dozens of them. He did not let his morals get in the way. He did not pause to ponder the nature of life or death. He slew his enemy because that is all the world is, child. Enemies to slay. You kill or you are killed. That is all."
"The world is not black and white!" she insisted.
He nodded. "The world is infinite shades of gray. But not to a soldier. Not to a soldier who wants to survive. In war, a soldier must see the world in black and white, must destroy his or her enemy. We leave philosophy to the philosophers. We soldiers deal in steel."
With that, he drew his own steel. His katana arched down toward her. Madori parried. The two blades clanged together.
"You are slow," said Lan Tao. "I could have slain you a dozen times by the time you parried."
She summoned her magic. She chose his sword and began to heat the hilt. He replied by slamming the flat of his blade against her cheek, and she yowled in pain.
"Magic is slow." He slapped her again, a blow to her arm. "A blade is fast as lightning, sharper than a dragon's claws, and as elegant as a nighthawk across the moon."
Her wolf growled and leaped forward, placing himself between Madori and Lan Tao. The animal's fur bristled, and he bared his fangs at the old man, protecting Madori, shielding her with his body.
Madori stared over the wolf at Lan Tao. "I won't kill my nightwolf. He is mine now. I showed him mercy and I earned his loyalty. Now he defends me." She smiled crookedly. "You call my mercy weak, but it just saved me from another swipe of your blade. Perhaps I have a thing or two to teach you as well."
The old man stared at the nightwolf, then back at her. He nodded. "I will let you keep this companion, but I will not let you keep your pride. If you stay here, I will break you. I will shatter your impudent soul until, like the wolf you tamed, you are subservient. You will surrender your will to me . . . and I will forge your soul into a weapon harder than steel."
She placed her hand upon her nightwolf. "Teach me, Master Lan Tao." She sucked in breath and grinned savagely. "I could not defeat Serin with magic, but I cut off his finger with steel. Teach me how to cut out his heart."
CHAPTER SIX:
THE STONES OF EETEK
Neekeya raced across the hall, tears in her eyes.
"Father!"
Kee'an, Lord of Eetek Pyramid, sat on an obsidian throne which rose upon a limestone dais. He was a tall man, powerfully built, his dark skin deeply lined. A string of gilded crocodile teeth and feathers hung around his neck, and nine gemstones—each as large as an egg—gleamed upon his silvery breastplate, symbolizing the Wise Mothers, founders of Daenor. His arms were bare and wide, and a headdress of golden claws topped his bald head. Two crocodiles lay guarding his throne, mouths open, their collars and leashes golden.
The lord rose to his sandaled feet, climbed down his dais, and stretched out his arms. "Daughter!"
For a moment she paused, staring into the hall, for the place had changed.
Gilded archways rose along the walls, affording views of the swamplands—miles of mist, mangroves, and mossy water leading to distant haze. Statues of men with crocodile heads—idols of Cetela, god of the marshes—stood in neat rows. Soldiers clad in feathers and iron stood holding spears and swords. The Hall of Eetek was as she had left it. She knew all its imperfections like the lines on her palms. The same scratches marred the floor, the same scars marked the guards, and the same patches of moss grew between the archways. Down to the last nick, the place was the same, and yet it could not have seemed more different to her.
Because I've changed, she thought. She looked down at herself. Her armor, the metal shaped as crocodile skin, was dented and chipped; the swords of Magerians had slammed against it. Her limbs were ropier; countless miles on the road had hardened them. But mostly her soul had changed, she thought. It too was leaner now, harder, stronger.
Over a year ago, I left this place a wide-eyed girl, a child who believed in magical rings, in heroes vanquishing villains, in adventure and wonder . . . a child who had never fought a battle rougher than a swamp-scuffle with the frog hunters' boys. She took a deep breath. I return home a woman.
Her father's smile faltered, and his eyes softened. "Neekeya?"
Her eyes dampened and something cracked inside her, a chip in the armor she had worn around her heart for so long. A hint of that old girl, innocent and full of wonder, leaked through, and Neekeya ran. Her boots thudded against the floor, and she crossed the distance in several bounds and leaped into her father's embrace. She held him tight as if she were a child again, not a warrior all in steel.
"Father." Her tears fell. "I'm home."
He kissed her forehead, held her at arm's length, and admired her. "These old eyes have missed you, Neekeya. Even in these dark times, you fill an old man's heart with joy."
"You are many years away from being old, Father." She smiled and wiped her eyes. Her father had fought many wars for many years, only taking a wife after returning from his final war, the great War Of Day and Night. The swamplord was sixty years old now, his body covered with many scars, and often Neekeya had caught a deep sadness in his eyes, haunting ghosts of those old battles. He hid that pain from her, she knew; whenever around her, even now, his eyes filled with warmth and his lips smiled. Neekeya had never understood those shadows she would see as a child, that memory in his eyes, those times he wandered the halls, seeming lost, alone, unable to find rest. Now, returned from her own war, her sword stained with blood, Neekeya understood something of old ghosts, and she understood something of the importance of family, of love, of joy in a dark world.
Kee'an raised his chin and looked over her shoulder. "And who is your companion?"
Neekeya turned to look at Tam too. She was about to announce him as the Prince of Arden, but she hesitated. Would Father only scoff? After their long journey through war and wilderness—six months had passed since leaving Teel—Tam looked nothing like a prince. His tunic and cloak were in tatters. Mud and moss covered him from
head to toes, and stubble grew on his cheeks, thick with grime. Leaves still clung to him. Indeed, he looked like one of the mythical heekeni, monsters said to rise from the swamp and snatch misbehaving children.
"Father, this is . . ."
Tam stepped forth, leaving muddy footprints. He knelt before the Lord of Eetek. "My lord, I am Tamlin Solira, second son of Queen Linee and King Camlin of Arden. Our noble kingdom, an ally to Daenor, has fallen to the buffaloes of Mageria. I've come to you for sanctuary and for aid."
Neekeya looked at him, for a moment dazzled; for the first time perhaps, she saw the true prince in him. When she turned back toward her father, she felt a twinge in her heart. There it was—the old pain in Lord Kee'an's eyes, the old ghosts that lined his face.
"Tales have reached us in Denetek of the war in the east," Kee'an said. "Rise, Prince Tamlin. You will find sanctuary here, for Arden and Daenor have long been allies. Memories of my visit to Kingswall nearly twenty years ago still fill me with warmth; your parents welcomed me kindly, walked with me through their gardens, and we shared many laughs. I grieved to hear of Arden's fall, and I pray to Cetela that your parents find their own sanctuary in the wastelands of war." When the prince opened his mouth to say more, Lord Kee'an raised his hand to hush him. "You have many more stories to tell! That I know. But you are weary from the journey. First you and Neekeya will bathe, and we'll serve a feast for your return. Over a hot meal, you'll tell me all your tales."
Servants arrived to escort them out of the hall, down the pyramid's western flank, and to the public baths of Eetek. Columns surrounded the complex, each bearing a statue of another holy animal: not only reptiles but many birds, insects, and fish forged of bronze. Within the colonnades, wet tiles surrounded a pool of steaming water fed by a hot spring. Mangroves, ferns, and hemlocks grew between the columns, forming a green wall. Egrets flew overhead.
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