"If you must feed," Torin whispered to the bear, "feed and enjoy your meal. But if you will suffer your hunger, I will provide you with more than a meal. I will offer you friendship." He stared at the roaring beast, and he recognized something in Gashdov's eyes—something lonely, something lost. "What is the greatest pain they caused you, friend? Hunger or loneliness?"
The great bear bellowed and Torin winced, waiting to be eaten. Surely Gashdov could not understand. It was a mindless animal, a vicious killer. But as the roar went on, those teeth did not rip into him, and Torin heard the loneliness in that cry, the pain. He stared up at the howling bear.
This is not merely an enraged animal, he thought. Gashdov is an ancient deity of the forest, one who is no less a prisoner than I am.
"I understand," Torin whispered. He reached up a hesitant hand and stroked the animal's brown fur. "I understand what they did to you. You're meant to roam the forests, to protect this ancient land, your domain, to watch over your people." Torin's eyes stung. "But they imprisoned you here, forced you to kill men for food. To entertain them."
The bear's roar now sounded like a plaintive cry of pain. His paws thumped down onto the soil, and Torin stroked the animal. The bear's head nuzzled him, as large as Torin's entire body.
"It's all right," Torin whispered. "I understand. I'm your friend."
The bear emitted soft, deep gurgles, sounds of old kindness almost crushed under hunger and imprisonment.
Across the arena, the roars of the crowd—like the roars of the bear—faded.
One hand upon the bear's head, Torin pointed up at King Ashmog.
"You imprisoned this animal!" he said. Blood dripped down Torin's arm but he barely noticed the pain. "You turned against your own protector, your own god. Even in Arden, we tell stories of the ancient Gashdov, a guardian of the forest, a noble deity of the northern hinterlands. And you turned him into this." Torin shook his head sadly. "Into a starving animal for a bear-baiting spectacle."
He stood in the arena, chest heaving, waiting for King Ashmog to call for archers, perhaps to call for a bow and shoot Torin himself. If he had to die, at least he'd die speaking truth. Truth is what he had always fought for, had always been willing to die for. Snow glided down, coating the arena, turning the bear white. Silence. No movement but for the falling snow.
Finally Ashmog spoke, and his voice was soft, awed, and in the silence it carried down from the bleachers, as clear as if shouted.
"He tamed Gashdov." Tears streamed down the beefy man's cheeks. "He tamed the beast!" The king rose to his feet, unslung his war hammer from across his back, and raised the weapon above his head. "He spoke to the bear, and the bear heard his words. Kava Or has risen!"
Torin blinked. Who had risen?
The bearded king trundled down the bleachers, shoving men aside, and entered the arena. He rushed toward Torin and the tamed bear. Torin half-expected the man to swing his hammer, and he winced. But King Ashmog knelt before Torin, holding out his hammer as an offering. Tears streamed down the king's ruddy cheeks, and his bottom lip trembled.
"Forgive me, Kava Or, He Who Talks to Bears." Ashmog's chest shook. "Forgive me, Old One, Spirit of the Forest. I did not know." He was weeping now. "You tamed Gashdov, Guardian of Verilon. You spoke to him. You are Kava Or, prophesied to rise in Verilon's greatest hour of peril, to return our god to sanity, to help us fight evil."
Along with relief for his spared life, anger rose in Torin. He stared at the kneeling, weeping king. "Saved him from sanity? Maybe if you hadn't imprisoned him, hadn't forced him to slay men for food, he would not have gone mad."
Ashmog prostrated himself. "Forgive us, Kava Or! The great god Gashdov went mad many generations ago, and we could not tame him, could not speak with him. But you spoke. And he listened." The king rose to his feet, eyes solemn. "I understand now. The prophesies spoke truth. An evil has arisen, and it storms forth from the south—the evil of the Radian Empire. Gashdov is restored to sanity. Kava Or has joined us." He turned toward the crowd. "Kava Or has risen!"
The crowd cheered and their voices soon rose in song, a prayer of the forest. In the arena, Gashdov moved closer to Torin, nuzzling him with his wet snout.
Stroking the animal, Torin looked at King Ashmog who stood beside him.
"Will you let the forces of Arden into your walls, Ashmog? Will you fight with us against the Radians?"
Ashmog tightened his lips and clutched Torin's shoulder. His eyes burned, and his lips peeled back in a sneer. "Kava Or, we will not just fight. We will crush the Radians as a hammer crushes stone."
CHAPTER NINETEEN:
A MEMORY OF MUSIC
Emperor Tirus Serin sat on his horse, staring down at the smoldering sinkhole, and clenched his fists.
"Gone," he whispered, voice choked. "You're gone, Pahmey. As I had vowed to you."
Around him, the hosts of his empire cheered. Men beat drums, blew trumpets, and sang the songs of Radianism. A hundred thousand troops roared for victory. In the river, men cheered atop ships, and cannons blasted out in triumph. Even Lari, sitting at Serin's side upon her horse, raised her fist and howled with joy.
But Serin watched silently, his jaw tight, the memories pounding through him. Most of the others were too young to remember. But he, Tirus Serin, had been to Pahmey before. The memory gripped him like a fist of magic.
He had been a young man, not yet thirty, when the last war had flared across the night. Sir Tirus Serin—handsome, the firstborn of a proud lord, heir to Sunmotte, a favorite son of sunlight. He was a man of Mageria, but that war he fought alongside Arden, the kingdom of his betrothed. His bride—a fair but weak-willed woman named Ora—waited back in Kingswall, and Serin had come here to kill, to shed as much blood as he could before settling down with a wife.
"Slay them all!" Serin shouted, marching through the city gates. "Slay the nightcrawlers!"
They stepped over the corpses of Elorians and through the shattered gates, entering the city of Pahmey.
And there Serin saw her.
His sword bloody, his blood pumping, he lost his breath.
An Elorian woman stood ahead on the boulevard. She was not a soldier; she wore no armor, only a black silk dress. Blood and cuts covered her, and she held a katana. Her oversized purple eyes met his gaze, then moved to stare at the dozens of soldiers around him.
"I am Koyee of Eloria!" she called out to the advancing Timandrians. "I am a warrior of the night. I am a huntress of the moonlit plains. This is my city. This is my land. You cannot enter. Return to the day! This city is forbidden to you. You cannot enter. We are the night!"
Serin had always thought the Elorians weak, sniveling creatures, nefarious and pathetic.
Here he saw strength. Here he saw beauty.
At that moment, Serin loved his enemy.
His comrades jeered around him, mocking Koyee. His king—the proud Ceranor—led men forth to slay the girl. But Serin could not fight, barely move.
She's beautiful, he thought. She intoxicated him, more alluring than wine, than killing an enemy. She was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen.
Then the battle flowed over the city. Swords rang. Arrows flew. Blood splattered the glass buildings of Pahmey. And she vanished.
And he killed.
Serin marched through the streets, slaying all in his path. He cut down Elorian soldiers. He cut down women, children, leaving a path of dead, slaying all those weak worms, seeking her—the only one who had stood up, had challenged him, had faced him with defiance. The single strong, noble, beautiful Elorian he had seen. Koyee.
"Where are you, Koyee?" he whispered, slicing through the fleeing enemy.
The city fell that turn. The banners of sunlight rose. The blood of Eloria washed the streets.
"Return to me," his betrothed pleaded in her letters. "Return to me, my sweet Tirus, so we may wed in the bright gardens of Kingswall or the proud halls of Markfir."
Ora sealed all her letters with a kiss, an
d Serin—a soldier in Occupied Pahmey—tossed the scrolls into the fire.
For months he lived in the Night Castle, a pagoda claimed from the defenders of Pahmey. For months he patrolled the streets of that city, keeping the Elorians in line, hunting down any who dared resist the conquerors of sunlight.
For months he sought her.
"Koyee," he whispered whenever he lay down to sleep in the Night Castle. "The Girl in the Black Dress."
He was not alone in seeking her, of course. The Sailith monks, led by the squat and cruel Ferius, searched every warren for Koyee—the girl who had wounded Ferius himself in the battle. None found her.
She must be dead, Serin thought as he lay in bed, as he patrolled the streets, as he dreamed of her. Or perhaps she fled the city. She is gone. His throat tightened. And I must return to my betrothed in the sunlight, to a lesser woman.
The desperation clawed at him. Serin was not a drinker, not a smoker, but that turn he needed to forget, to drown his worries in ale and the hintan spice the Elorians puffed in their dens. Clad in his armor, he walked along the cobbled streets. Houses of opaque glass bricks rose at his sides, their tiled roofs curling up at the edges. Many lanterns shone, their tin shaped as laughing faces, and eyes glowed inside bat houses of iron and silver. The towers of the city's crest rose above, glass beacons of light. Public fireplaces, their grills shaped as dragons, roared at every street corner. Few Elorians walked the streets these turns—a few men and women, clad in silken robes and embroidered sashes, hurried between houses on slippered feet, quickly vanishing into shadows. Most shops were closed. Most taverns had boarded up their doors, refusing to serve the enemy. All but one place.
"The Green Geode," Serin said, staring at the place. His soldiers had spoken of it in hushed tones. From the outside, it seemed a simple building, not even constructed of glass but simple dark stone. The Green Geode was a rock in a field of flowers. This neighborhood sprawled near the city's crest, a place for the wealthy, and the other buildings here were grand, their columns soaring, their lanterns bright, places of welcoming light and song. Through their wide glass windows, Serin could see Elorian dancers and actors entertaining the Timandrian troops. But Serin cared little for dances or plays; he sought only forgetfulness. He would find forgetfulness in what the Elorians called "pleasure dens"—places for lost souls.
He entered the Green Geode, this little nook in the shadows. Once inside, he understood the den's name. While the outside was crude rock, green light washed the inner chamber. Crystals hung from the ceiling. Lanterns blazed upon the walls. Several Timandrian soldiers sat at tables, drinking ale and wine, and some even smoked hintan from hookahs—the Elorian spice that softened the mind, that erased memories. The purple spice bubbled in glass vials, and green smoke wafted through the air.
Upon stages stood the yezyani—Elorian women trained in the arts of dance, song, music, and seduction. They wore scanty silks that revealed more than they hid, and jewels shone upon them, little glass vials that trapped the light of angler fish. Two of the yezyani swayed upon one stage, dancing seductively. Another performed with marionettes. The third, clad in an indigo qipao dress and a clay mask, played a flute.
Serin's eyes narrowed. He stared at the flutist.
His heart burst into a gallop.
Her mask hid her face, but Serin knew that proud stance, that flowing white hair, those lavender eyes that gleamed within her mask's eye holes.
"Koyee," he whispered.
She met his gaze, then looked away, playing on. Serin sat at a table, but he no longer craved to forget. He ordered no wine, no spice, merely sat and watched and listened.
Beautiful, he thought, mesmerized. A beautiful song. A beautiful woman.
"You are the only one who resisted me," he whispered, thinking back to his first turn in Pahmey, to marching through the gates and seeing her defiance, her sword, her flashing eyes.
He knew that he loved her—hopelessly, eternally.
When her song ended and she stepped off the stage, he approached her. She tried to leave the common room, to climb upstairs to her chamber, but he blocked her way. His bulky, armored form was twice the size of her slim, silk-clad body.
She stared up at him. Through the mask holes, her eyes narrowed.
"Move," she said, speaking in Ardish, her accent heavy.
For a moment, Serin did not know what to say. He simply stood, blocking her passage.
How do I speak to her? How do I tell her how I feel?
"Move!" she said again.
He reached out to touch her hair. "My dear, I would very much like a private song. Would you play for me in your chamber?" He hoped she understood his words. He pulled a silver coin from his pocket. "I will pay you. I—"
She recoiled from his touch, her eyes flashed, and she shoved him aside. She spoke through her mask, voice brusque, accent thick. "No. Go away."
Rage flared in Serin.
How dare she refuse him? He was Sir Tirus Serin, a great lord, heir to Sunmotte! His father commanded armies. His coffers overflowed with gold.
"Do you know who I am?" He grabbed her wrist, refusing to let her climb the stairs. "Do you even understand my words?" He tugged her closer to him. "I am Lord Tirus Serin! If I tell you to play for me, you will obey. You—"
She slapped him.
Her hand connected with his cheek so powerfully it stunned him. Before he could react, she kicked him swiftly in the chest, knocking him back. He tripped over a chair and fell down hard onto his backside. Mugs of ale tumbled off a table and spilled across him.
The hall erupted with laughter.
Timandrian soldiers brayed, cheered, and pounded the tabletops. Upon the stages, the other yezyani giggled. Koyee fled upstairs, cursing, and everywhere the laughter rose. Serin sat on the floor, drenched in ale. He had banged his tailbone; the pain was so great he couldn't stand. The great lord, the great soldier—dripping wet, humiliated.
"Beaten by a woman!" cried out one soldier and roared with laughter. "Smacked down by a little Elorian lass half his size!"
Serin's eyes stung with tears. He stared around the room, and there he saw him, sitting at the back—Torin Greenmoat, his cousin. The young soldier was not laughing like the others; Torin stared at Serin with something far worse than mirth. He stared with pity.
Rage exploded through Serin, and he rose to his feet, only to slip in the ale and crash back down onto the floor. More laughter rose.
"Let me help you," Torin said, approaching. He tried to help Serin up.
"Let go of me!" Serin screamed. He shoved Torin aside. He leaped back to his feet, grabbed a table for support, and all but raced through the room. He stumbled out into the street to the sound of laughter.
Serin stood in the darkness, ale dripping from his hair, and spun back toward the Green Geode. Through the door he heard the yezyani sing again.
I loved you, he thought. I loved you, Koyee, and you . . . you did this to me.
He clenched his fists. He tossed back his head. And he bellowed in rage.
With that, Serin spun around and marched down the street, marched through the city, marched outside the gates and into the open night. He boarded his family's ship. He said nothing as they set sail, only stood at the stern, staring at the lights of Pahmey grow smaller in the distance, then fade beyond the horizon.
He returned to the sunlight, and he married his betrothed, and he fathered Lari, and he watched his father die, and he inherited Sunmotte, and he claimed the throne of Mageria, and he founded an empire, but Serin never forgot her. Never forgot the humiliation he suffered in the night.
"And now you are fallen, Pahmey, city of shadows," he whispered, staring at the smoking sinkhole. "You hurt me, so I destroyed you. And I will destroy you all."
He looked around him. His soldiers—a massive army of a hundred thousand—were not mocking him, were not laughing, were not jeering. They were chanting his name. They were killing for him. Before him, the sinkhole gaped open l
ike a dark soul—the magic Serin himself had developed in the depths of his dungeons, a magic the mages of the last war had lacked, a final solution to the vermin of the night.
"And you will suffer more than all, Koyee," Serin whispered. He clutched her locket in his hand, its edges digging into his palm. "You will regret what you did to me."
"Radian rises!" the soldiers chanted. "Radian rises!"
Serin allowed himself a single, small smile.
CHAPTER TWENTY:
BLOOD MARCH
Pain exploded across Madori's face.
"On your feet, mongrel!"
The voice was distant, muffled, echoing as in a dream. But the pain was real. It blazed across her cheek again, then drove into her back, and Madori cried out. Tears flooded her eyes.
"Get up, half-breed, or stay here and die in the cold."
Pain drove into her side again, and she gasped and opened her eyes.
I'm alive, she thought. Stars, I'm alive.
She coughed and tasted blood in her mouth. When she blinked, bringing the world into focus, she couldn't see the stars above, only dust and smoke. Magerian soldiers were staring down at her, Radian eclipses upon their breastplates. One of the men, his gruff face covered in stubble, raised his hand above her. Blood stained his fingers—her blood, she realized.
"If it were up to me, I'd leave you here in the dust." The man spat onto her; the glob hit her forehead and trickled down her face. "Emperor Serin wants you to live." The man's face split into a cruel grin. "Though he didn't say we couldn't shed some of your blood on the way."
He backhanded her again, and Madori yowled. Blood flew from her mouth, and she growled and leaped to her feet, ready to attack.
Chains clattered around her ankles and wrists, and she slammed back down onto the ground.
The Magerian soldiers roared with laughter. When Madori blinked, she saw that dozens of them stood around her. Ignoring the pain—every last inch of her hurt—she tried to summon her magic, to claim and heat their armor, to blast them with air, or to set their hair on fire. But she was too weary, too hurt.
Shadows of Moth Page 17
