Shadows of Moth

by Daniel Arenson

  Frogs trilled, the water gurgled, and birds sang—the music of the swamps. The people around her raised wooden flutes to their lips, and they added their music, the notes frail and beautiful to her, a song of both sadness and joy. Tears stung Neekeya's eyes, for she had never loved her home more, even on the eve of this home falling to the fire.

  Perhaps all the marshlands will burn and dry up, she thought as she rowed. And perhaps the enemy will cover this land and my life will fall in the fire. But here, this turn, I am a bride, and I am a proud latani of my homeland. This turn I am joyous.

  Dragonflies and fireflies danced around her and haloed over her head, forming a crown of light. A statue rose ahead from the water—the god Cetela, a man with the head of a crocodile, vines dangling between his teeth and lilies blooming around his legs. She rowed around the statue, and there—upon a platform of stone between two columns—she saw him. Prince Tam Solira. The man she was marrying.

  The people had mended his old clothes of Arden, filling the tatters and holes with gossamer and seeken, forming a patchwork that did not look old and worn but new, healed—a garment of both the plains of his homeland and the swamps of his new home. A garland of ivy crowned his head, and a beard was thickening upon his cheeks, and Neekeya no longer saw the boy she had known. She saw a man, a prince, a soul with whom to forever walk the dark paths ahead.

  The stone platform rose from the water, carved into the shape of birds and reptiles, the old engravings mossy and wet. The columns that framed it rose taller than men, and their capitals supported baskets of sweet-scented flowers. All around hung the mist, dragonflies flew, and egrets waded through the water. Neekeya docked her sheh'an at the platform and rose to stand beside Tam. She smiled tremulously, her fingers tingled, and her eyes dampened.

  Perhaps next turn the fire will fall, but this turn I am in love, and I am happy.

  Her father stood upon the stone too—once a lord of a pyramid and now King of the Marshes, of the free Southern Daenor. He wore a cloak inlaid with gold and silver disks, and a breastplate covered his chest, nine jewels upon it—symbols of the Nine Mothers, founders of Daenor. Kee'an looked older than Neekeya had ever seen him, and deep lines marred his face, and on the eve of war, worries too great to bear hung upon his shoulders. Yet joy too filled his eyes, and he spoke in a deep, clear voice.

  "In the words of our Old Scrolls, whose wisdom Cetela taught to the Nine Mothers: In times of death, let there be life. In times of peril, let there be hope. In times of sadness, let there be joy." He reached out and joined hands with Tam and Neekeya. "There is no light without darkness, no courage without fear, but one force needs no counterpart. Love. Love can exist without ever having heard of hatred. Love lights the hearts of both the innocent and broken. And this turn, surrounded by the life and light of our marshlands, we celebrate the love of Neekeya and Tam, children of sunlight."

  Neekeya reached into her pouch, then handed Tam a gift: a gilded crocodile tooth amulet. She hung it around his neck and couldn't help but grin as it rested against his chest, a grin she suspected looked silly and far too wide but one she couldn't curb.

  He handed her a gift too: a ring of braided silver and gold.

  "I worked it myself with magic," he said. "You can't see it, but inside the silver strand is a hair from my head, and inside the golden strand is a hair from yours."

  She gasped. "Did you go plucking hairs off my head while I slept?"

  He looked a little guilty, then nodded. "It's a custom of Arden. I hope you like it."

  She let him slip the ring onto her finger. "I will never remove it," she vowed.

  Lord Kee'an spoke some more, reading from the Old Scrolls, and Tam and Neekeya spoke too, exchanging vows they had written. Finally Kee'an opened a golden box, and many fireflies flew from it, beads of light swirling and rising through the mist. And thus Neekeya was wed. She pulled Tam toward her, and she kissed him, a deep kiss of love and fear, and though joy filled her, she wondered how many more kisses they would share and how long before the Radian fire burned her.

  * * * * *

  Tam stood in the chamber, stared into the mirror, and did not know who he saw.

  He had turned eighteen this year, had come of age by the customs of his people. Were he back in Arden, the kingdom would have celebrated. King Camlin and Queen Linee would have tossed a great banquet in the palace gardens, and all the lords and ladies of Arden would have attended, come to see the twin princes—Tam and Omry—become men. There would be flying doves, pies of all kind, blooming flowers, and wandering jesters and pipers. Corgis would scuttle underfoot, and children would laugh, and wine would flow.

  And you'd be there, Madori, he thought. His eyes stung. You and I would sneak away from the festivities, hide ourselves in cloaks, and go down to the docks.

  He smiled to remember those times Madori and he would wander among the fishermen and sailors, compete to see who could spit farther into the water, pay copper coins for oysters, and talk about the exotic lands the ships must have come from. They would talk of boarding one of those ships, sailing to the distant islands of Sania or Orida, even far into the night, and finding lands of adventure.

  "Our real adventure came out quite differently, didn't it, Madori?" he whispered.

  He looked around him at the room. The chamber was small and stood high in the pyramid of Eetek. A bed lay in the corner, topped with tasseled cushions, and murals covered the walls, depicting egrets, crocodiles, dragonflies, and a hundred kinds of trees. Through the window, Tam could see the true swamps of Daenor, a land of mist and water. But instead of exploring and seeking adventures, he was waiting for war, for the fire to descend upon this wet land and sear it dry.

  He looked back into the mirror. And he was different too. Where was the Tam he had been, had dreamed to be? He saw no prince of Arden. He saw no adventurer. He saw no mage. Instead, he saw a lost man, far from home, far from his family and friends. He missed them. He did not know if they still lived, if his home still existed, and the pain constricted his throat.

  The door to the chamber opened, and in the mirror, he saw Neekeya enter the room.

  He spun around and lost his breath.

  "Hello," she whispered, then lowered her eyes and smiled shyly. "I'm ready."

  Some of his fear washed away. No, he was not alone. He had Neekeya. He had a wife. He stepped toward her, feeling the pain melt.

  "You look beautiful," he said.

  She smiled demurely. She stood clad in a chemise woven of gossamer; the garment revealed more than it hid. Her smooth black hair hung down to her chin, scented of flowers, and her ring encircled her finger. Tam placed a finger under her chin, and she raised her head. Her eyes were huge, dark pools, and her full lips parted. He kissed those full lips, and she kissed him back, a deep kiss, their bodies pressed together, their arms around each other.

  She took him into her bed; here was the bed of her childhood, now the bed of her womanhood. They would not stop kissing, even as they undressed, and they lay together, moving together, sometimes laughing, sometimes solemn, something staring into each other's eyes, sometimes closing their eyes and surrendering to the heat. They were as different as day from night—his skin was pale, hers dusky as the shadows, a prince from a palace and a warrior from a marshland pyramid. And he knew that, no matter what the next turn might bring, he loved her fully, and with her he was complete.

  They made love for what seemed like hours, then lay in each other's arms, gazing up at the mural of birds upon the ceiling. She nestled close, her arm and leg slung across him, and playfully bit his chin, then grinned up at him. He kissed her nose.

  "My husband," she whispered.

  "My wife," he whispered back. "My latani."

  He closed his eyes, and though she was warm against him, and the soft sunlight fell through the window and birds sang outside, he was afraid, and he was back on that road in Mageria, the Radians swinging their swords and his friends dying around him.

  CHAP
TER FOURTEEN:

  THE VIEW IN THE LOCKET

  "Slowly tilt to the left." Old Master Lan Tao demonstrated, swaying his frail body. "Slowly . . . slowly . . . let your right foot rise until just your toes touch the earth. Focus your awareness on the movement, on how your muscles work, on your breath, on—"

  "I can't focus when you talk so much!" Madori wobbled, nearly fell, and glared at the old teacher.

  He sighed. "In battle, when arrows fly and swords swing, will you tell your enemy that you cannot focus while they try to kill you? You must be able to focus even as they attack; you should be able to handle words from an old man's mouth. Now—tilt! Slowly . . . to the left . . . be aware of every breath . . ."

  She grumbled but she obeyed. As he had taught her, she cleared her mind of thought, focusing all her awareness on the movement of her body as she tilted to the left—the muscles stretching, the weight shifting, her strands of hair falling free from behind her ears, the feel of the ground beneath her bare feet, and the air entering and leaving her lungs. When they swayed to the right, she kept breathing deeply, letting every thought that entered her mind flow away.

  For long moons now, she had been training with Master Lan Tao, and still he did not allowed her to swing her sword. Sometimes, he had her sit still all turn, focusing her awareness on each part of her body in turn—her toes for what seemed like hours, then finally her feet, then her legs, then her hips, gradually moving up to her head as the turn ended. Other turns, he had her focus her awareness on sounds she heard: the wind in the canyons of the Desolation, the creaks of rocks, the snorts of her nightwolf, the scuttling of animals and bats, and a thousand other sounds she had never imagined could exist in this wilderness. Other turns Lan Tao insisted that she simply breathed, monitoring her mind for thoughts: memories, planning, fears, or sometimes just random daydreams . . . allowing all thoughts to flow away, to disperse like clouds, letting her awareness return to her breath again and again, a rebirth every time she inhaled.

  When they were finally done, Madori rubbed her shoulders. She asked the same question she asked every turn. "Master Lan Tao, when will you teach me how to fight?"

  And he gave her the same answer he always did. "I already am, my student. With every breath."

  "But I want to learn with the sword!" she countered as always.

  He would only shake his head. "First you must learn to fight with your awareness, with your soul, with your body. Once you have mastered Yin Shi, then, child, you may lift your sword and let the blade be a part of you."

  Madori sighed. She had been here for three moons now, and she had spent all that time training in Yin Shi. She couldn't wait much longer for battle. Whenever she gazed into her locket, she saw new Elorian forces mustering at the dusk. One time, Koyee had stood upon the roof of Salai Castle, held the locket up, and let Madori see the tips of distant enemy towers—siege engines prepared for war. Any turn now, Madori knew, the invasion of Eloria would begin.

  "And I'll be stuck here," she muttered. "Without even a sword."

  With their training done for the turn, Master Lan Tao prepared their usual dinner—a bland paste of mushed mushrooms sprinkled with dried eel flakes. As always, the old man sat perched on a hilltop, staring into the distance as he chewed slowly, mouthful after mouthful. Madori had stared at that landscape so many times—she had memorized every nook and cranny in the Desolation, and she could have drawn from memory the jagged boulders, snaking canyons, the cracks in the craters, and the scree upon the hillsides. This turn, instead of eating with her master, she simply grabbed her bowl of food, stomped toward the cave where she slept, and entered the shadows. Barely any moonlight filled this place, which suited Madori. She sat cross legged, took a spoonful of food, and grimaced at the taste. Forcing herself to swallow, she pulled her locket from her shirt.

  "I miss you, Mother," she whispered. A lump filled her throat, and it was not from the stew. "I'm so worried. I'm so scared for you and Father and everyone else."

  She peeked outside, waiting for the moon to reach its zenith, the time she and Koyee had agreed to open their lockets in tandem. Her bowl of stew was empty and her eyes were drooping when the time came. With a deep breath, she opened her locket, expecting to see her mother smile at her.

  Madori gasped.

  She dropped the locket.

  Her eyes burned.

  By the stars . . .

  Trembling, she lifted the locket again and stared into it. She grimaced. Instead of Koyee's smiling face, she saw fire burning. Magerian troops marching. Enemy warships in the water. The land rose and fell, and the vision spun madly, sometimes vanishing, sometimes appearing at odd angles. It took a moment for Madori to understand; her mother was running, the locket bouncing and spinning upon her chest, sometimes clattering shut, sometimes knocked open.

  "The invasion is here," Madori whispered. She gripped the locket. Her voice rose to a shout. "Mother! Mother!"

  But the locket could convey no sound. Madori watched, clutching it so tightly it nearly snapped. Koyee's locket swayed madly, and for a moment Madori saw only steaks of color and light. When the image settled, she realized that Koyee had leaped into a boat and had begun to sail downriver. Arrows flew overhead. When the locket spun west, Madori caught a glimpse of Salai Castle. It crumbled before her eyes, its roofs collapsing, its walls cracking. Beyond the castle spread an army of thousands, its Radian banners held high.

  "Mother!" Madori cried again.

  The locket spun—Koyee turning back eastward. Several other Qaelish soldiers sat in the boat with Koyee, faces grim and bleeding, their armor cracked. One soldier was shouting something. Madori could read his lips: Oar faster! Retreat!

  "Mother, can you hear me?" Madori shouted into the locket. "Mother, are you all right? Mother!"

  A voice rose from the cave's entrance. "Calm yourself, Madori. Breathe. Like I taught you."

  She spun toward the cave entrance, her eyes damp, her chest heaving. "Master Lan Tao! Timandra invades! Armies flow into the night and—"

  "Let your thoughts leave you," he said. "Calm yourself. Breathe. In . . . slowly . . . feel the breath—"

  "This is no time for a lesson!" Madori shouted. She shoved herself past him. "Where is my sword? War! I have no time for your Yin Shi breathing now. War is h—"

  It was his turn to interrupt. "This is precisely the time for breathing. When the sky is falling, that is when we must remain most calm. Breathe. Slowly." He inhaled deeply as if to demonstrate. "Hold the breath . . . and release." When she opened her mouth to object, he silenced her with a glare. "Do it."

  Her insides trembled, and her mind was a storm, but she forced herself to obey. She took a deep, slow breath, yet still her mind raged. Her mother was in danger! The enemy attacked! Perhaps her mother was dead already. She needed to look into the locket again, she—

  "Focus all your awareness on your breath," said Lan Tao, voice soothing. "Let all your thoughts leave you."

  She wanted to object. How could he force her to train now?

  This is not training, she realized. This is mastery of Yin Shi in a true storm.

  She let all thoughts flow away. She exhaled. She inhaled again. Her mind cleared, becoming like a still pond. After a few more breaths, she looked back into her locket.

  It had fallen dark.

  Madori looked back up at her master. "My mother is fleeing down the Inaro River. She will be heading to the great city of Pahmey where more soldiers await. I must join her, Master. I must fight at her side."

  Suddenly Master Lan Tao seemed very old. He had always seemed old to her but vigorous too; now he truly showed his age, his wrinkles deep, his eyes sad.

  "Your training is incomplete," he said, and she heard the pain in his voice.

  "Perhaps we're never ready for a storm," Madori said. "But I've learned so much. I cannot linger here, safe while my mother flees and fights, while our people need me. Return my sword, Master. Please. I will wield that blade proudly—as my gran
dfather did, as my mother did. I will make you proud, Master, and I will not forget all that you taught me."

  He lowered his head. For a moment his shoulders stooped. But then he straightened, raised his chin, and turned to walk down the hillside.

  Madori bounded outside of the cave and ran after him. "Master Lan Tao! Will you let me leave? Will you return my sword?"

  He kept walking, not turning back toward her. Madori ran behind him, panting. Grayhem raced up toward her and loped at her side.

  The old master walked toward a crater full of still, silver water that reflected the moonlight. Kneeling, he reached into the water and pulled out Sheytusung, the blade of legend. The moonlight reflected against it. The Yin Shi master turned back toward Madori and held out the katana.

  "It has been blessed with moonlight and with water," he said. "And now it truly passes to other hands, to a student of Yin Shi. It no longer shall be named Sheytusung, for that was its name in other hands, a name that means the light of the river, a name of brightness and swiftness. Now I name it Min Tey, the glow of the water, a name of calm and stillness."

  Madori took the blade reverently, and it felt warm in her hand, and the light and water still clung to it.

  I will make you proud, Grandfather, Mother, Master, she thought. She hung the sword across her back and climbed onto Grayhem. I will remember all that I learned.

  She rode out of the Desolation, her sword upon her back and her locket hanging around her neck. She stared into the southern, dark emptiness, and she traveled by the starlight, heading to Pahmey, heading to war.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN:

  THE RAVEN AND THE BEAR

  The limestone bear rose from the forest, craggy and frosted, a sentinel taller than any tree. Snow gathered around its feet, and eras of wind and hail had beaten its form. Perhaps once every strand of its fur had been lovingly carved, every fang and claw detailed, but now the statue looked like molten rock, barely more than abstract. Torin had to crane his neck all the way back to see its roaring face high above; the statue must have loomed three hundred feet tall.