Moth

by Daniel Arenson

  She turned to see Nukari sneering at her, his eyebrows—painted green and purple—pushed down over angry eyes. His teeth shone in the lamplight.

  Koyee wrenched herself free. "My village!" she blurted out, loud enough that even the hookah smokers looked up and winced. "I must go there now. Dayside attacks! I must save them. I—"

  Nukari slapped her.

  His hand blazed against her face, knocking her head sideways, and Koyee gasped. Pain bolted through her, light flashed, and she nearly fell.

  "You will be silent!" he said. "You will not frighten our patrons, you filthy fisherman's daughter." He grabbed both her arms and began tugging her toward the staircase. "You will stay in your room until you learn respect."

  Koyee roared, tugged mightily, but could not free herself.

  "Release me!" she said. "Nukari, release me!"

  He struck her again, a blow that rattled her jaw, and dragged her onto the staircase. His one hand held her arm; the other tugged her hair. She screamed and struggled, but couldn't free herself. He reached her room, shoved her inside, and she fell to the floor.

  "You will stay here until you calm yourself!" he said.

  She leaped up and raced to the door.

  It slammed in her face, and the lock clicked.

  Koyee yowled, slammed against the door, but only hurt her shoulder; the door was forged of bronze. She yanked at the knob again and again but couldn't free herself.

  "Eelani, it's happening," she whispered and shook. "The Timandrians attack. They'll come here too. Maybe we can still save Oshy. Maybe some villagers lived."

  She ran toward the window and tugged at the bars, but they wouldn't budge. She peered outside, seeking aid from someone—anyone—but the alleyway below was deserted. What could she do? Scream for help? Would Nukari only barge in here and gag her?

  "We never should have come to this place," she said. "We never should have agreed to play here. We should have just . . . just run to Oshy, even if it took a full moon, even if we starved on the way. It would have been better than languishing here in a prison."

  She found tears on her cheeks, rubbed them away, and stomped her feet.

  "No, Eelani! No. Don't pity yourself. That won't help. I have a sword and I can fight. I will fight the Timandrians." She drew Sheytusung and watched the light glimmer against the blade. "I vow to you: Timandra will taste this steel."

  She rushed back to the window bars, tugged them again, and then banged against the door. Neither would budge. With a groan, she fell onto the bed, lay on her back, and stared at the ceiling.

  "We have to find a way out," she whispered. "What will we do, Eelani?"

  Her shoulder spirit scampered onto her chest; Koyee felt the warmth nestle against her. She stroked her invisible friend. Without Eelani, she would have gone mad, she thought. It was good to have a friend, even if she were just an invisible one most folk claimed was imaginary.

  "You've always been there for me, Eelani. You've always helped me. Maybe you can . . ."

  Koyee froze.

  She sat up.

  A trembling smile touched her lips.

  "Eelani!" she whispered. "You can go fetch the key. You know that Nukari keeps his keys in the blue bowl downstairs." She hopped off the bed, stepped toward the door, and lowered her hand to the ground. "Squeeze under the door, Eelani, and go downstairs. You're skinny enough to do it. Fetch me the key!"

  She could swear she felt the faintest of flutters, a hint of warmth that raised goose bumps, as Eelani scampered down her arm, squeezed under the door, and raced off.

  "Be quick," Koyee whispered, turned away from the door, and began to pace. She closed her eyes, remembering home: the song of the river, gently flowing, scattering beads of moonlight; the lanterns that swung from the boats, orange spirits that floated in the dark; her humble hut, a warm and cozy place of memory; and mostly her family . . . her brother, who'd left so long ago, and her father who lay buried beneath the Nighttower.

  Was it all gone now?

  She stared between the window bars at the towers of Pahmey, wonders of crystal and glass. This was a city of beauty, but it was not her home. She lowered her head.

  A scraping sounded behind her.

  She spun around to see a shadow dart under the doorway.

  A key slid under the frame.

  Koyee leaped forward and grabbed the key.

  "Did you bring it back, Eelani?" she said. She stared out the keyhole, wondering if another yezyana had brought her this gift, but could see nobody. When she looked at her shoulder, she thought she felt warmth settling down. Eelani was back.

  Tongue thrust between her teeth, Koyee placed the key into the keyhole, turned, and heard the lock click. Biting her lip, she twisted the doorknob as slowly as she could. The door creaked open, and Koyee thrust her head out into the hallway. She saw nothing but shadows and a single lantern.

  She tiptoed down the hallway, holding her breath, her sword sheathed across her back. Her heart nearly stopped as she climbed downstairs, but she forced herself onward. When she emerged into the common room, she pressed herself against the shadowy wall. Smoke filled the place; it would hide her.

  "Now hush, Eelani," she whispered. She dropped to her hands and knees and crawled between the beds. The smokers lay slumped upon the mattresses, arms dangling to the floor, their fingernails long and curling. Smoke swirled everywhere and Koyee struggled not to cough. As she crawled, she glanced up toward the bar; Nukari stood there, counting coins and grumbling of cheap patrons. Koyee crawled around another bed, glanced up again, and saw Lilika dancing upon a stage. The tall, golden-eyed yezyana looked down and met Koyee's gaze. Koyee's heart thrashed and she froze, sure that Lilika would alert their master, but the dancer only smiled and winked.

  Holding her breath, Koyee scuttled forward the last few feet, reached the front door, and burst outside onto the street.

  She ran a few feet down the road, then had to pause. Her head spun, and she inhaled a deep breath of fresh, cold air. For so long—almost two moons—she had languished inside the Green Geode, inhaling smoke and perfume. For a few heartbeats, she could only stand on the street, breathing deeply.

  Then, with a determined nod, she ran again.

  She raced past glittering shops of glass, columned theaters of gold and silver, and temples of light and song. People cursed and yelped and moved aside. Her heart pounded and she grimaced as she ran, arms pumping.

  Her lungs were blazing and her legs wobbling when she reached Minlao Palace. The same old guards stood there, tall and clad in white robes, their faces painted with coiling silver strands.

  "Hello, daughter of Eloria," they said, pleasant as always. "Welcome to—"

  "I have to get through!" she shouted. She ran toward the palace doorway only to slam against the guards who moved to block her passage.

  "Certainly, friend," said one. He unrolled a scroll and unpinned a ribbon. "Take this yellow ribbon and—"

  "I don't have time for that!" Koyee shouted. She tried to shove past them again, and when they blocked her way, she pulled her hair with frustration. "The Timandrians attacked my village, and—"

  When the guards only smiled pleasantly, Koyee let out a loud, long groan. She spun around and raced away.

  There had to be somebody who'd listen, who could help!

  She raced down more streets, sweat dampening her new dress of black silk, until she saw the Night Castle ahead—the great pagoda where the city's soldiers lived. Golden statues topped its five tiers of sloping, green roofs. Arrowslits covered its brick walls. Guards stood outside its gates, covered in armor of steel scales, their shields emblazoned with the moonstar. Helmets topped their heads, the visors shaped as spirits and demons. Katanas, their hilts wrapped in blue, green, and black silk, hung at their sides.

  "Timandra attacks!" Koyee cried, running toward them. She hoped that her own katana—and perhaps her fine new dress—would impress them enough to listen. "News comes from Oshy. The village burns."<
br />
  She stood panting before them, but the guards only stared at her silently, faces hidden.

  "We need to send men west!" Koyee cried. "Maybe we can still save the village. Let me speak to your lord!"

  Still they said nothing, and when she tried to push between them, they blocked her passage. With another scream, eyes burning, Koyee left the castle and raced down the streets.

  "What do we do, Eelani?" she asked. "By the stars, what do we do?"

  Her spirit hopped upon her shoulder and Koyee knew the answer. She would do what her father would. She would not rely on others. She would not beg for help from strangers. When Timandra had attacked Oshy the first time, he had gone out himself to face them, a single man with a single sword.

  "I will defend Eloria," Koyee swore to herself. "If nobody else will fight with me, I will fight alone. I will wield the same blade he did. If I die, I die proud."

  She wiped her brow, took a deep breath, and kept moving.

  All around her, the city bustled as usual. Shoppers wandered through markets. At street corners, buskers played lutes, juggled glass balls, or breathed fire. The poor scuttled around barefoot while the wealthy rode upon palanquins, carriages, or bluefeathers with clacking beaks. The scents and sights and sounds of Pahmey swirled around Koyee as usual. Nobody here knew of the danger. Nobody knew of her thrashing heart.

  When she reached the city gates, she found them wide open; people were leaving and entering, paying their tolls. Outside, the ships of traders and fisherman sailed. Only five guards stood at the gates. Koyee ran toward a staircase that climbed the city wall. She raced up, hair damp with sweat, until she reached the battlements and gazed out upon the night plains.

  "Girl!" shouted a soldier, clanking toward her. A helmet hid his face, and a cloak draped across his shoulders. "Get back down into the city. Only soldiers may stand up here."

  Koyee ignored him, looked west toward the distant dark lands, and a chill ran through her. She gripped her sword, and the wind blew her hair.

  "Now I'm a soldier too," she whispered. "Now we must all fight."

  The man took another step toward her, fists clenching. Across the battlements a hundred other soldiers stood in armor, holding spears and bows.

  "Girl, I am warning you," he said. "You must—"

  "The fire rises," she whispered, staring into the west, and took a shuddering breath. "The river burns."

  The guard grabbed her arm. "Girl, I told you, you . . ."

  He froze, turned to follow her gaze, and his grip loosened. Koyee stared with him. Along the horizon, an orange glow rose like the dusk. Upon the distant waters of the Inaro River, a line of fire coiled like a red worm into a vein. Her pulse pounded in her ears, but Koyee could hear distant cries, trumpets, and drums.

  "The sun rises," the soldier whispered and released her arm.

  Koyee drew her sword and stared off the battlements. She shook her head. "The sun stays in Timandra. Its demons flow forth." She raised her chin, squared her shoulders, and forced a deep breath. "War is here."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO:

  GIFTS OF THE NIGHT

  Ceranor leaned over his ship's prow, stared down the river, and beheld a distant cluster of glass and light. He sucked in air and gripped the railing.

  "A city," he said. "A city in the night."

  For years, his face had done nothing but frown. Now a smile twitched the corners of his lips and creaked his skin.

  From here, miles away, he could see no details. The glow ahead looked like a jewel discarded upon a black blanket, shards of green and pink and silver rising like crystals. Ceranor could have hidden them with his thumb. All around this glowing nexus, the darkness spread into the horizons, endless miles of lifeless plains and hills under a starry sky.

  "A beacon of light in the darkness," he said softly into the night wind. "Here is our prize."

  His ship, the River Raven, sailed smoothly along the river, the current taking them toward the distant lights. The water was a mile wide; sailing along the northern bank, Ceranor could only glimpse the southern lands when moonlight glinted against boulders. He sailed ahead of his fleet, and when he looked behind him, he saw a hundred ships following, the Ardish navy in all its might.

  "My king," said Torin, coming to stand beside him. "We cannot repeat what happened at the village. We cannot slaughter these people mindlessly, soldiers and civilians alike."

  Ceranor turned to look at the boy. It had been ten hourglass turns since they'd burned the village, and Torin still seemed shaken. Rather than stare at the distant city in delight, the boy's eyes filled with shadows. His face seemed milky pale in the moonlight, and even the lamps that hung from the River Raven's masts, casting warm light, could not hide his pallor.

  "You have my word." Ceranor nodded. "What happened at the village was unfortunate. We were too eager to fight; we destroyed when we should have conquered. But this city . . ." He looked back at the distant lights and inhaled deeply. "This city is a great prize—not to crush, but to cherish, to keep safe. This will be a place of jewels and gold and wealth. Do you see the little lights on the river? Those are ships, Torin. Elorian ships bearing the treasures of the night. They will be ours."

  Torin said nothing, only stared ahead, face blank.

  He has no lust for conquest, Ceranor thought. He is still a gardener at heart; he feels lost in a barren land where no tree, flower, or grass can grow.

  Ceranor thought back to his own youth. When he'd been eighteen, the same age as Torin now, he'd fought his first battle, an ugly affair in the southern jungles of Naya. Their horses and carriages had gotten bogged down in the swamps. Mud had filled their armor and insects had laid eggs in their skin. The southern warriors, clad in tiger furs, had ripped through the Ardish infantry. Ceranor had marched south a callow youth; he returned to Arden scarred and hardened, mourning the loss of his friends, his heart tempered like his blade.

  Torin's spirit will be forged here, Ceranor thought. He is soft now, and he is afraid, but this land will make him a man.

  "I wish your father were here with us, Torin," he said to the boy. "The men loved him. I miss him. I know you do too." He placed a hand on Torin's shoulder. "I cannot bring him back, but I promise you—in this battle, I will watch over you as a father."

  Finally Torin looked at him, eyes haunted. "What would my father say if he were here? Would he celebrate this conquest, or would he ask you to sail back home?"

  Ceranor leaned across the railing. "Torin, if we sail back now, we will not have a home to return to. Mageria nearly crushed us in the last war; their wizards have since been mustering more magic. In the north, the snowy barbarians shouted for war. In the south, the jungle warriors craved our blood. This war sent them all into the night." Ceranor swept his arm across the barren landscape. "They now march across lifeless plains; they find only rock and dust to conquer. But this city ahead . . ." He pointed at the growing cluster of light. "If the Ardish fleet can capture this city, we will have its jewels, its steel, its gold. Those of its warriors who lay down their arms will be allowed to serve us. Arden will emerge victorious, the greatest kingdom of Dayside. No more will our enemies threaten us. No more will our commoners, hungry and afraid, demand the blood of their king. Arden will be safe."

  "And Eloria will crumble," Torin said softly. "Thus will we buy our safety—with the defeat of another race."

  Ceranor nodded. "That is how the world has always worked, Torin. The mighty raven leads his flock by pecking the weaker birds. There is only security in strength. There is only might in conquest. Gardeners foster flowers, greenery, and butterflies. Kings must deal with blood."

  Torin opened his mouth as if to speak and then shut it. His eyes narrowed and he stared over the king's shoulder. He pointed upward.

  "My king! A light in the sky."

  Ceranor turned, looked into the night sky, and frowned. A light indeed shone there, but it was not as distant as the moon or stars. Whatever it was, it came gliding from
the east, heading toward their fleet. Ceranor's eyes had spent five decades gazing upon a sunlit world; it took a moment to focus on what floated above.

  "It looks like a boat," he said, unable to hide the awe from his voice. "A boat in the sky."

  Only it wasn't a boat, not truly. Instead of a hull, it had merely a large basket. Instead of sails, it was topped with a round patchwork of cloth; it looked like a great, upside down sack. A single Elorian stood in the basket, and a fire burned beside him, filling the round patchwork with light. The vessel glided to fly directly above them, a good thousand yards above.

  Ceranor understood.

  "A spy," he said, grabbed his bow, and nocked an arrow. "A spy in a flying demon ship. Men, shoot it down!"

  He fired his arrow. His archers shot around him. Ceranor stared upward, scowling. The demon ship, however, flew too high. The arrows arched and came falling down; they vanished into the river.

  As the men shot more arrows, the flying vessel turned and began drifting back toward the city.

  "Whatever sorcery they use," Ceranor said, "it gave them a good look at us." He clutched his bow. "Dark magic cannot save them, not from our might. Their eyes in the sky will only foster their fear." He stared toward the city, jaw tight. "Look, Torin. Towers appear."

  As the fleet sailed closer, details emerged. It seemed to Ceranor that a wall surrounded the city, a black ring. A hill rose within, its towers rising, tall and thin and lit. Upon the hilltop, a central tower rose silver and bright; a dome topped it like a moon. Smaller towers clustered all around, green and white and blue. The structures seemed made of crystal and glass; they glowed with inner light. The river ran south of the city, dotted with lanterns; a hundred or more ships sailed there. The village had given Ceranor little treasure; only a few sacks of crayfish, some coins, and a handful of jewels.

  But this place . . . this place will make me an emperor.

  Ceranor turned to face his men. Two hundred soldiers crowded the deck of the River Raven, clad in steel and bearing swords, shields, and bows. Hundreds more waited in its hull. Twenty thousand more troops sailed behind his flagship; the fleet stretched a mile along the river, its hundreds of masts rising like a forest, their lanterns bright.