A spring in his step and a whistle between his lips, he rounded a corner and beheld the Night Castle.
The pagoda’s five tiers loomed, each topped with a roof of blue tiles, its edged curving up to support bronze statues of dragons, snakes, fish, and other beasts. Arrowslits peppered walls of black bricks, and red lanterns shone within. Hundreds of Elorian soldiers had served and died here; some Timandrians now swore they could hear the ghosts of those old defenders, cursing them as they swept through the halls. Most of the Timandrian host, a horde of many thousands, camped outside the city in riverbank tents and huts. The king had taken residence here, and he had invited those closest to him to share his hall—his lords, his war heroes, and Torin.
I did not save King Ceranor’s life like my father did, Torin thought, approaching the castle. But if I can convince him to return home and end this madness, perhaps I can still save his soul.
Torin tightened his lips and nodded. Yes. After half a year of occupying this city, the kingdoms of Timandra—eight old enemies—fought united. The goal of this war—internal peace in Timandra—had been achieved.
“Now I must convince you to return home,” Torin whispered into the night.
King Ceranor was perhaps a conqueror, but he was no madman. He was no bloodthirsty killer like Ferius. He would listen to reason, Torin told himself. He would realize victory was achieved, that they could return home and leave Eloria to the Elorians.
Torin paused, a lump filling his throat.
And yet … if Torin returned home, would Koyee remain here? Would she agree to travel with him to sunlight? Torin’s heart sank. Here was Koyee’s home; could he truly ask her to abandon her people, to travel into the lands of her enemies?
Or … can I stay with her here in darkness?
Torin lowered his head and tightened his jaw.
“I must convince you, Ceranor, to return home, but I cannot go with you. I will stay with Koyee.”
His mind decided, Torin pursed his lips, nodded, and kept walking.
Before he could reach the pagoda, a scream filled the street.
Torin’s eyes widened.
A young Timandrian woman was running from the Night Castle, blood staining the hem of her blue gown.
Torin gasped. “Queen Linee?”
He had not seen the young queen, a woman only two years his senior, since invading the night. When spending the summer in Kingswall last year, preparing for this war, he had spent many hours playing board games with Linee, walking with her through the gardens and discussing types of flowers and birds. She had always seemed a happy, silly thing—naive perhaps, but good at heart, always smiling, her eyes bright and her golden hair flowing in perfect locks. She had reminded Torin of a butterfly, flighty and pretty and full of life.
Now she was weeping.
“Torin!” she cried, her hair in disarray, her eyes rimmed with red. “Torin, he killed him. Ferius the monk. He killed my Cery. He…”
Tears drowned her words.
Darkness covered Torin.
All his hope—of an end to violence, of a love with Koyee—vanished under a cold torrent.
Linee reached him, grabbed his shoulders, and clung to him.
“He’s after me, Torin. He’s after me!” She trembled. “He killed Cery and now he wants to kill—”
He wouldn’t even let her finish her sentence. Torin grabbed her hand and tugged her along with him. They raced into an alleyway just as the Night Castle gates slammed open. Torin spun around in the shadows, peered toward the castle, and saw a swarm of monks spill into the boulevard.
Ferius marched at their lead, bloodied hands raised to the sky. Behind him, his fellow monks held aloft the body of King Ceranor. A dagger was embedded into the king’s left eye. The right eye, still open, seemed to stare at Torin with pain.
“The Elorians have slain our king!” Ferius shouted, voice ringing across the boulevard. “Men of Timandra, the demons have struck! We will have vengeance! Soldiers of sunlight, hear my call, raise your swords, and march with me. Slay every demon you find!”
Torin watched, heart thudding and head spinning. He gripped his sword. Linee clung to him, trembling and still shedding tears.
“It wasn’t the Elorians,” she whispered and tugged Torin’s arm. “It was Ferius who killed him. I saw him. He’s lying. Please don’t let him kill me too.” She covered her face.
Torin held her, gritting his teeth and staring out to the boulevard. “I will keep you safe, Linee. I promise you. Now keep your voice low.”
He pulled her deeper into the alley shadows. The monks kept marching down the boulevard. They raised their maces and roared for blood.
“Death to Elorians!” one shouted.
“Sunlight rises!” shouted another.
Soon all their voices morphed into a single cry, the rage of one beast of sunfire. They marched down the street, swung their maces, and smashed windows and shattered glass walls. What few Elorians walked along the boulevard fled into homes and alleyways.
“Let the blood fill the streets!” shouted Ferius as behind him his monks paraded the corpse of King Ceranor. “Vengeance!”
Soldiers began streaming out from the Night Castle. These were no monks—they wore the armor of Arden, ravens upon their breastplates, warriors of the fallen king. And yet they too followed the new Sailith faith; new converts, they sported the sunburst upon their shields. They too chanted for blood.
“Death to Elorians!” they shouted. “The sun rises!”
Hundreds flowed onto the street, not marching in formation, not following a commander, but swarming as a mob, blind with hatred.
They are no longer soldiers, Torin realized. He remembered the mob that had slain Koyee’s father, mad with fear and hatred. These men were the same, but whereas a mob from Fairwool-by-Night had slain a single man, this force could massacre an entire city.
Linee tugged Torin’s arm. “Please, Torin, please. I’m scared. I want to leave. Can we please leave?”
Torin nodded, throat tight. “I think that’s a good idea.”
Outside the alleyway, soldiers began breaking down the doors of homes and shops. Screams rose from inside. Elorians pleaded for mercy and blood spilled into the street. Torin glimpsed a dozen soldiers drag an elderly Elorian man out of his shop; he recognized Old Meshu, a dyer of silks. The soldiers slashed his neck with a sword, then laughed as the blood sprayed their armor. They raised the corpse with cries of triumph.
“Vengeance! Vengeance! Death to Elorians!”
Torin turned away, nausea rising in him, and pulled Linee deeper into the shadows of the alley. They hurried around a few barrels, a stray cat, and laundry hanging on strings. Most other soldiers only knew the main streets of Pahmey, but Torin had spent many hours sneaking through the secret passages with Koyee.
“We have to find her,” he said, heart thudding in his throat. “We have to find Koyee. Oh Idar … Ferius will tear down every building until he finds her.”
They raced around a corner and down a narrow passageway, dusty glass walls at their sides and awnings forming a roof above. Rats scurried into holes. Linee stumbled along at his side, face pale and hair disarrayed.
“Who, Torin?” she said. “Who is that?”
“An…” He hesitated. “An Elorian woman. A friend of mine.”
Linee gasped and tugged his arm. “By the light, Torin! There’s no time to save … to save these creatures.” Fresh tears welled up in her eyes.
Torin grunted. “We are the savages here, not the Elorians. Or, at least, Ferius and his thugs are.” He glared at Linee. “The Elorians are humans like you and me, no different. We have to stop this … or at least save whomever we can.”
She shook her head wildly. “We have to flee this city! We don’t have time to be heroes. Please take me home. Take me back to Kingswall. Take me back to my palace where I’m the queen and none of this happens.”
Torin stopped moving down the alley, turned toward her, and held her ar
ms. From across the city, the chants of soldiers and the screams of Elorians rose in a din. The smell of blood wafted.
“Linee,” he said, looking into her eyes, “there is no more home for you in Kingswall. The king is dead. This is a coup. If you return home you’ll have no more palace there, and Sailith will seek you everywhere. Do you understand?”
She shivered but managed to nod, a tear on her nose. “But … maybe we can just … find a new palace? And a new garden?” She clung to him and placed her cheek against his shoulder. “What will we do, Torin? Oh, where will we go?”
He swallowed and sucked in breath between his teeth. He did not know.
“Somewhere safe,” he said. “I promise you: You will be safe.”
* * * * *
As they traveled through the labyrinth of alleyways, Torin’s mind worked feverishly. He needed to find Koyee. He needed to find his friends: Bailey, Cam, and Hem. Koyee would still be at the hospice, but what about his friends? Were they still in the Night Castle in the thick of the Sailith uprising? Were they patrolling the streets or pleasure dens, and if so where would they head?
The hospice is where we must go, he decided. Koyee is there, and if Bailey and the boys have any sense, they’ll make their way there too. Only a few hourglass turns ago, he had joked with Bailey how the hospice—with the plague raging inside its halls—was the safest place in the city, since Ferius dared not enter it. He had spoken those words in jest, but now they might be true. Would Bailey remember the conversation and head there now?
Torin kept moving, darting from alleyway to alleyway, avoiding the main streets. Stray cats fled before them and bats fluttered above. Discarded scarves, broken pottery, and fish bones littered the cobblestones. Few people normally traveled these alleys, but as Torin and Linee raced here now, dozens of Elorians ran to and fro. One woman, clutching a gash upon her belly, stumbled into a house. An elderly man fell onto the cobblestones, his mouth smashed and bleeding.
“Please, sir!” An Elorian child faltered toward Torin, his arm a dripping mess. “Please, sir, mercy.”
From the city streets, more screams rose, boots thumped, and swords whistled. When Torin peered out into a boulevard, he saw Timandrian soldiers laughing as they smashed windows and looted jewels within. Their boots stomped upon the corpse of the shopkeeper. Shards of glass lay strewn across the street like scattered diamonds.
“Please, sir, mercy,” begged the Elorian child in the alley. He turned toward Linee. “Please, my lady, don’t kill us.”
Torin approached the cowering boy and held his hand. “Come with me. We’ll get you somewhere safe.” He turned toward Linee, who stood staring with wide eyes. “Linee, help the elder rise! Quickly. I know a safe place.”
As Torin held the child’s hand, Linee looked at the fallen elder. She shivered and grimaced, but approached the old man and helped him rise.
“What do I do, Torin?” she asked in a whisper.
“Help him walk. We’re taking them to the city hospice. Few people dare enter that place; it’s full of the plague.”
Linee looked ready to burst into tears again. “And you want us to go there?”
He glared at her. “The plague is safer right now than these streets. Come on.”
They hurried along the alleyways, a queen and soldier of sunlight, taking with them the two wounded Elorians. All the while, the screams rose across the city. Whenever they passed the mouth of an alley, they witnessed the slaughter. Shattered glass, smashed doors, and corpses littered the streets. A discarded shoe lay in a corner. A basket lay fallen, its mushrooms scattered. Everywhere Torin looked, the monks led mobs of soldiers, smashing, killing, destroying.
Torin’s eyes stung. Worry for Koyee and his friends burned within him. He forced himself to move on. Right now people depended on him. Right now he had to save as many as he could. He kept moving on through the shadows, holding the wounded child’s hand, as behind him Linee helped the bleeding elder hobble forward.
It seemed ages before they reached an alley’s end, peered around a bronze brazier shaped as a toothy spirit, and saw the Hospice of Pahmey loom across a square.
Koyee is in there, he thought, throat burning. Stay safe. Stay put. I’m coming.
“That is where we go,” Torin said to his companions.
Linee stood at his side, her gown and hands splashed with blood. Her shivering had finally ended, and though red still rimmed her eyes, they were now dry. The wounded old Elorian leaned against her, his teeth knocked out; Linee held him wrapped in her arms.
“But … that means crossing this square.” She winced. “It’s lit with lanterns.”
Torin stared, eyes narrowed, listening. The din of screams, cheers, and smashing glass still rose across the city, but no sound seemed to rise from the square ahead. When Torin peered around the brazier, he saw only a single cat scurry along the cobblestones. Across the shadows, the hospice rose like a tombstone for a god, its columns dark, its doors and windows closed. At his side, the wounded child whimpered and clung to Torin’s leg.
“The Sunlit Curse,” the boy whispered. “It dwells here.”
Torin nodded. “The soldiers fear to walk near this place. We’ll be safe inside.” He took a step into the square. “Follow. We—”
Shouts rose.
Hooves thudded and light blazed.
Torin whipped his head to the left. From a boulevard, a dozen monks emerged, riding horses and brandishing lanterns. Ferius rode at their lead, the lamplight painting his face a demonic red. Ropes ran from the horses, dragging the mangled corpses of Elorians like mules tugging plows. As the procession rode forth, the corpses trailed along the square behind them, smearing the cobblestones with blood.
“Behold the justice of the sun!” Ferius cried; his horse dragged the corpse of a woman, her face crushed into a red pulp. “Behold the punishment of Eloria.”
Torin cursed and leaped back into the alley, pulling the child with him; the boy wept and clung to him. Linee and the elder held each other, eyes closed. They waited in the shadows until the ghastly procession rode by and vanished down another street.
Like feral cats scuttling from hideout to hideout, they hurried into the square. Torin held the wounded child close; Linee held her hobbling charge. As they moved, Torin kept staring from side to side, breath held. Three roads led into this square, and in each one, he glimpsed the slaughter; hundreds of troops were now moving down the streets, tugging Elorians from their homes and slitting their throats. With every step, Torin expected more monks or soldiers to burst into the square and attack, plague or no plague. The hospice couldn’t have been more than a hundred yards away, but that distance seemed endless now.
As they stepped over the trail of blood Ferius and his monks had left, the grisly ghost of their slaughter, Torin grimaced and Linee whimpered. Behind them, the chants of soldiers rose louder. They quickened their pace. A few more steps and they reached the hospice steps.
Most of Pahmey was built of glass and crystal, but the hospice’s stairs rose harsh, stony, and cruel as a dead mountainside. As they began to climb toward the columns that loomed above, Torin glanced over his shoulder back at the square. He cursed.
An Elorian family—seven or eight souls—burst out from a street and began running across the square. One of them, a grimacing woman, held a dripping wound on her belly; her children ran at her sides, and her husband shouted and urged them on. They had taken only several steps into the square when bowstrings thrummed behind. The Elorian family fell, pierced with arrows. Two children managed to rise and limp on, arrows in their shoulders; a second volley slammed them onto the cobblestones. In the road behind them, Timandrian troops laughed and pointed at the dead.
“The savages die like cockroaches!” one shouted.
His friend snickered. “Look, there are more on the hospice stairs.”
The soldiers stared across the square. Torin stared back, holding the Elorian child with one hand, the hilt of his sword with the other
. The murderous soldiers, still holding their bows, looked directly at him across the bloodied expanse.
“Get away from there!” the soldiers called to him, daring not leave the road. “Soldier of sunlight—that’s the hospice there! The plague lives inside. Come here; join us.”
Torin stared at them, frozen.
Join them? His eyes stung. He had joined this army a year ago. He had joined to … to what? To save his friend Bailey from the dungeon? To serve his king? To fight an invisible enemy, a demon that lived only in sermon and nightmare? He winced, feeling close to tears. Yes, he had joined them, and he had killed for them; the blood of battle still stained his hands.
But no more, he thought. No more will I join you, my fellow soldiers of sunlight. He breathed raggedly, each breath burning. Now I am the night.
Chest tight and eyes blurred, he spun away from the square. Leading his companions, he stepped between columns and into shadows.
Across a portico they reached towering stone doors. A Sister of Harmony stood here, clad in her robes of leather and metal, wide brimmed hat, and beaked mask. She stared through lenses, eyes nearly invisible behind the smoky glass. She blocked the doors, holding a spear.
“Open the doors!” Torin said. “These people need help.”
The humanoid vulture of leather, glass, and metal stared at him, tilting her head. She looked at his side, seeming to regard the shivering queen, the wounded Elorian man, and the bleeding child.
“What happened?” she said, voice a ghostly whisper inside her mask.
Torin panted. “The Sailith monks have slain King Ceranor. They are slaughtering everyone they can find—Timandrian nobles and Elorians alike.” His throat burned. “Please—protect these people behind your walls. The enemy fears this place. I bring with me Queen Linee of Timandra, hunted by the monks, and two wounded city folk. Please, Sister of Harmony, harbor them.”
The Sister of Harmony stared at him a moment longer; he could hear her gasp, a hiss like steam, behind her beak. She turned toward the doors and shoved them; they creaked open on hinges the size of her head.
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