The sister reached out her arms; each hand ended with a leather glove tipped with metal thimbles, barriers against the diseased skin of patients.
“Come, children!” said the sister. “Enter the shadows. You will find safety here.” The strange vulture looked over her shoulder into the shadows of the temple. “Sister Xia! Sister Jinyu! Patients arrive; we will heal them.”
Two more Sisters of Harmony emerged from within, took hold of the wounded Elorians, and guided them inside. Seeing the blood on her gown, one sister tried to hold Linee’s arm and guide her indoors; the young queen whimpered and leaped back.
“I’m scared,” Linee said to Torin, her lips wobbling. “What are these creatures? They look like birds.” She shivered wildly. “They’re so ugly.”
“They will help you,” Torin said softly and touched her cheek. “Be brave. Not all those who are ugly are cruel. Not all who are fair of skin are fair of heart. The Sisters of Harmony will protect you. Enter their domain.”
Tears rolled down to her quivering lips. “Aren’t you coming with me?”
“I’ll join you soon. First I must save more. I must save whoever I still can.”
With another whimper, Linee allowed herself to be guided into the shadows of the hospice. The doors closed behind her, leaving only Torin and the spear-wielding sister outside.
Torin paused for a heartbeat, torn between seeking more Elorians to save and entering the hospice in search of Koyee. He took one step toward the stairs, meaning to race back into the streets, then looked over his shoulder at the sister who guarded the doors.
“One of your sisters is named Koyee,” he said. “A young woman with lavender eyes. Is she safe?”
The sister regarded him through her smoky lenses. With her clawed glove, she reached behind her head. She pulled off the beaked contraption of glass, metal, and leather, revealing purple eyes, long white hair, and a scarred face.
She smiled at him tremulously. “Are any of us safe now, Torin?”
Torin’s heart leaped. “Koyee.”
A lump filled his throat and his eyes watered, but they were tears of joy and relief. He took several great steps toward her, pulled her into his arms, and held her tight. Her suit felt hard and cold against him, but when he touched her cheek, she was soft and warm. Before he could stop himself, he was kissing her, a deep kiss that tasted of fear and love and tears.
“Thank goodness you’re safe,” he said. “Koyee, it’s madness out there. I’m going to find more people and bring them here.”
She bit her lip. “Torin, be careful. Don’t let them hurt you.”
“I won’t.” He kissed her again; her lips tasted of the spices inside her mask. “I’ll be back with more people. Goodbye, Koyee.”
She nodded, eyes damp. Torin turned, raced downstairs, and left her there outside a house of disease—the only safe haven in this city of blood.
CHAPTER SEVEN
OF CLAY AND COURAGE
Bailey raced up the exterior stairs toward the hospice portico, dragging the boys behind her. She glared over her shoulder at them.
“Hurry!” She snarled at the pair. “Stop stumbling over your boots and climb faster. We have to find the babyface.”
The boys stared back, eyes haunted and faces pale. Hem’s lip wobbled; the beefy baker looked ready to burst into tears. Half his friend’s side, Cam wrung his hands, his dark eyes darting from side to side. Bailey felt some of her rage seeping away. Despite their armor and swords, her friends from Fairwool-by-Night were no warriors, only frightened villagers. She let her voice soften.
“Just climb as fast as you can. Remember how we joked that the hospice is the only place Ferius would never slither into?” She looked back up toward its looming columns. “Torin will remember too. We’ll find him there.”
The three continued climbing the stairs, leaving the bloodied city streets behind. Bailey grimaced to remember the slaughter she had seen there. She had been patrolling outside the library as the convoy rode by, Ferius upon his horse, a hundred monks behind him. They had lifted the corpse of King Ceranor upon pikes, the moonstar of Qaelin etched across his bare torso.
“The Traitor King is dead!” Ferius had chanted, riding through the city, his thugs slaying any Elorian they came across. “Sailith rises and Eloria falls!”
Bailey kept climbing, dragging the two boys by the collar. For perhaps the first time in her life, she didn’t know what to do. She missed her grandfather and fear knotted her belly, but she would not show it. For now she just had to find Torin. She had to keep him safe.
At the thought of him, her eyes dampened. Since the plague had ripped through Fairwool-by-Night, killing so many, Torin had lived under her roof. A year younger, a little shorter, and nearly blind in one eye, the boy had seemed pitiful, a lost puppy she had brought into her home. Since then, he had grown into something else. In the shadows and blood of the night, she had watched him become a man. A friend. A brother at arms. Perhaps even …
She swallowed. Perhaps even what? A man she could love? Bailey laughed mirthlessly. Such thoughts had been filling her mind too often of late; again she shoved them out, snickering at herself.
“When I find you, Torin, I’m going to beat you up for making me worry so much about you.”
She crested the last few steps, hurried between two columns, and stepped onto a shadowy portico. Flagstones spread toward a pair of stone doors.
Bailey froze.
He stood across the portico, maybe fifty feet ahead. Torin. In his arms, he was holding the young Elorian woman. Koyee. Their lips were locked in a kiss.
Bailey stared, feeling like the columns were crashing around her.
“I’ll be back with more people,” Torin was saying to the girl. “Goodbye, Koyee.”
He parted from her, turned from the hospice doors, and hurried away. After a few steps, he saw Bailey and the boys standing between the columns. His eyes widened and relief swept across his face. He ran toward them, pulled all three into a great embrace, and squeezed them.
“Thank Idar!” he said. “Bailey! Boys! I’m glad to see you here. It’s a damn nightmare out there. I brought two wounded Elorians into the hospice, but … by the light, they’re killing so many.”
When seeking Torin through the city, Bailey had imagined squeezing him in her embrace, kissing his cheek, mussing his hair, then slapping him a few times for making her worry, only to then smile and kiss him again. Now she only stood stiffly in his arms, and a strange coldness filled her, and the image of him kissing Koyee kept dancing in her mind.
This is no time for jealousy, you woolhead! she scolded herself. The city is drenched in blood, and Torin is only a winky-eyed babyface besides. Stop acting like a stupid, lovestruck girl.
She pulled away from the embrace. The four friends, once the Village Guard and now occupiers of the night, stood between the columns, faces pale, armor splashed with blood. For a moment, all four could only stare in silence. The three looked at her—Hem with his plump cheeks and wobbling lip; Cam with his sharp features, his normally mocking grin gone from his face; and Torin, once a soft youth, now a grim and silent soldier.
Bailey grimaced and looked at her feet.
They look at me for guidance, she thought. The oldest, loudest, tallest, and bravest one of the group, she had always been their leader. Back in the sunlight, she had run at their lead through the forests, swam ahead of them in the river, scolded them for torn clothes or dented armor, praised them for a song well sung or a tree well climbed, and even comforted them through the sadness of lost pets, wilted crops, or broken hearts. Here too, she knew, they wanted her leadership. They wanted the brazen Bailey Berin, daughter of their mayor, to lead them through the shadow.
But things were different here. She could perhaps lead the boys up trees, through fields, and across rivers, but how could she lead them through blood and darkness? This was too big for her. She was the granddaughter of a mayor, destined to rule a village of five hundred souls.
Here in Pahmey, hundreds of thousands were suffering, dying, desperate for aid; how could she be a leader here?
It’s too big for me, she thought, throat tight.
“Bailey,” Hem ventured, his voice meek and shaking. “What do we do now?”
She forced herself to swallow the lump in her throat. She tightened her lips, nodded, and glared at the three boys.
“What do you think we do?” she said, hands on her hips. “We do what Winky did. We sneak more Elorians into this hospice.” She stared at the babyface. “You saved two? I bet I can save twenty.”
He barked a mirthless laugh. “Everything is a contest with you, isn’t it?”
She nodded and jabbed a finger against his chest. “You know it is. Now come on!” She grabbed his hand and began dragging him downstairs and away from the hospice. “We’re going to save whoever we can. Boys! You too. Winky and I will head along the east road; you two lumps go west. Grab whoever you can and smuggle them here—under your cloaks, inside barrels, I don’t care how, just get people into this hospice.”
They clanked and clattered downstairs. Fire blazed inside Bailey, searing her fear. This was better. This was a plan. This would make her forget Torin kissing that … that …
No. She gnashed her teeth. Don’t you think about that now, Bailey Berin, or I’ll slap myself right in the face.
They hurried downstairs and into the square again. Blood smeared the cobblestones. An Elorian family lay dead, arrows in their backs. Emerging from a narrow road lined with shops, several Elorian children tried to race across the square toward the hospice; a Timandrian knight rode his horse in pursuit, cut the children down, then turned to ride back onto the road. Elorians fled before him.
Bailey snarled and gripped her sword. She tugged Torin’s hand.
“Come on, Winky! Down that road.” She turned toward a second road, this one lined with glass homes and mushroom gardens. “Boys! You head down that way. We meet back at the hospice doors.”
She raced down the road, dragging Torin behind her. Cam and Hem hurried down the second path. As Bailey ran, nausea rose inside her. The corpses of Elorians littered the streets, slashed with swords, beaten with clubs, and trampled with hooves. The knight ahead was galloping down the road. Other Timandrians, these ones marching afoot, were smashing the doors and windows of shops. They laughed as they plundered, scattering pottery, hourglasses, musical instruments, and mushrooms across the street.
“The savages cower like rats!” one soldier said and smashed a window. He peered inside. “Nightfolk, nightfolk, come out to see the light!”
His companion, a soldier missing two teeth, laughed and kicked a stray cat. “Where are they? Have we killed them all? I want more to kill.”
As Bailey and Torin approached, the soldiers—there were about a dozen of them—turned toward them. They laughed and gestured at the ruin of the street. Shattered glass and smashed goods lay everywhere. Several corpses bled.
“You’re too late,” said one soldier, laughing. “We killed them all, we did.” He kicked a corpse. “Help us find more. I reckon these nightfolk are hiding in every house.”
A few soldiers stepped into one shop and began to topple shelves. A creak sounded above, and Bailey looked up to see two Elorian children—they looked no older than five or six—peering down from a shop’s attic. Their gleaming eyes widened with fear, and they retreated from the window.
Torin met her gaze; he had seen them too. The soldiers around them, however, were too busy ransacking, smashing, and biting into mushrooms.
“I saw a couple!” Bailey said. Torin gasped and she shot him a withering stare. “I saw two Elorians.”
The soldiers turned toward her, blood on their weapons, their eyes thirsting for more. She pointed down the road.
“They went there, around the corner. Little sneaky ones.”
The soldiers hooted and laughed, nudged one another, and turned to run in pursuit.
“More vermin to kill!” one called.
“More cockroaches to crush!”
Hooting and laughing, the soldiers raced around the corner, disappearing from view. Bailey let out a shaky breath. She grabbed Torin’s hand again.
“Let’s get them into the hospice; the attic won’t hide them for much longer, not if they keep peering outside.”
Torin looked around the street, face ashen. For a moment he only stood staring at the corpses; ten or more lay across the street. Finally he tightened his lips, nodded, and moved toward the shop.
They stepped into a room of torn parchment, smashed clay, and blood. This had once been a pottery shop; bowls, jugs, and mugs lay shattered across the floor. Two corpses, a man and woman in blue silk, lay with slit necks. Bailey clenched her jaw to stop from vomiting. The sound of weeping children rose from the attic, though Bailey was tempted to dart outside, race through the streets until she found Ferius, and stab him dead.
She sucked in breath between her teeth. Ferius rode with hundreds of soldiers; here two children needed her. Fists trembling, she waded through the broken pottery toward a staircase. Torin moved at her side, eyes dark and mouth a tight line.
They climbed a narrow stairway, opened a trapdoor, and emerged into an attic full of uncooked clay wrapped in cloth. The two children saw them and cowered into the corner, shivering and begging. Bailey couldn’t understand all their words—Torin was better at Qaelish than her—but she didn’t need to.
They’re begging for their lives.
“We here for help,” Bailey said, speaking in Qaelish, which she had only been studying for several months; the words felt stiff and clumsy in her mouth. Though her eyes stung, she smiled gently and reached out her hand. “We help. Come.”
The children only cowered deeper into the shadows. Tears flowed from their violet eyes, large Elorian eyes for seeing in the darkness. Their lips shook. One was a boy, the other a girl; neither seemed older than six.
“Please,” the girl begged, shivering as she hugged a rag doll shaped like a dragon. “Please, my dragon is scared. I want my mama. Where is my mama?”
Bailey lowered herself onto her hands and knees, crawled forward, and smiled.
“What doll’s name?” she asked, hoping they could understand her accent.
“Shenlai,” said the girl. “Like the real Shenlai in the east. He’s scared and he wants our mama.”
“Can I pat him?” Bailey asked. When the girl nodded, she reached out and patted the dragon’s silken head.
From outside, the thud of boots and shouts of soldiers rose again. A distant scream of pain tore across the street. Torin stiffened beside her, armor clanking.
“Bailey, we have to go,” he said.
She nodded and smiled again at the young children. “Shenlai be very brave. You two be brave too. Hold our backs, under…” She couldn’t remember the Qaelish word for cloaks. “ …under back blankets.”
With a few more smiles and soothing words, she got the little girl to cling to her back, hidden under her cloak. The young boy piggybacked onto Torin, similarly hidden. When they stepped outside the shop, they saw an Elorian man race along the street, yowling with fear. Five Timandrian soldiers ran in pursuit, laughing, their swords drawn.
Bailey closed her eyes for just a moment, steeled herself with a deep breath, and began to walk across puddles of blood. Torin walked at her side. Under their cloaks, the children clung silently to their backs.
“Back to the hospice,” she said. “Then back to the streets. Again and again.” She growled and tasted tears on her lips. “Thousands will die, but we can save a few. We can save a few.”
They made their way down the road. Around them, the screams and blood flowed across the city.
CHAPTER EIGHT
INTO DARKNESS
They kept arriving—two refugee children, then a family, then a pair of young women, then an elder hobbling on a cane. Every hour, Torin or one of his friends rushed into the hospice, sneaking an Elorian under a cloak, inside Timandrian
robes of wool, or—in the case of one toddler—even wrapped inside a blanket.
Standing in the hospice cellar, Koyee had removed her Sisterhood mask. Clad in her leather robes, she rushed from person to person. She tended to wounds. She dried children’s tears and whispered comforts. She stroked hair and prayed.
“Be strong, children of Eloria,” she said, throat feeling so tight. “We are the night.”
The cellar was cramped, a place for storing food, vinegar, and bandages, a place of shadow lit by only several candles. Fifty or more Elorians now hid here, bloodied, shivering, some weeping. Between shelves and chests, their eyes stared at her, gleaming in the dark. They repeated the words of their people—not just of this city, not just of their empire of Qaelin, but the words shared by all Elorians, dwellers Moth’s dark half. “We are the night.”
The door burst open. As she did every time, Koyee started and reached for her sword, sure that Ferius or his thugs had invaded the hospice and found them. But it was only Torin and Bailey, faces flushed, leading in three more Elorians—children in torn clothes who huddled together, splashed with blood. Koyee rushed forward and began tending to the wounds. Only moments later, Cam and Hem entered the chamber too, leading several more city folk. The cellar was full to the brim.
“It’s bad out there,” said Cam, the short and slim soldier—he stood barely taller than Koyee. “We were by the library and…” His face paled and his words trailed off.
Hem—the largest man Koyee had ever seen—covered his face. “Ferius was there. He’s horrible. His yellow robes were all red with blood, and his warriors were with him, monks in crimson armor. They … they…” Hem too could no longer continue.
Koyee narrowed her eyes, stepped forward, and placed her hands on the boys’ shoulders; Hem’s shoulder was taller than her head.
“What?” she said. “Tell me.”
Cam swallowed and wiped sweat off his brow. “At first, I thought Ferius and his followers only wanted to let out steam—to plunder, smash, and destroy for a turn—and then things would go back to normal. But … oh Idar. He stood upon the library steps and raised his hands, and he shouted to an army of soldiers. He ordered them to kill every Elorian in this city. Liquidation, he called it. ‘Leave no Elorian alive!’ he shouted, face all red, blood on his hands.”
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