Daughter of Moth (The Moth Saga, Book 4)

by Daniel Arenson

  Madori's heart seemed to sink down to her pelvis.

  "Professor Atratus," she muttered.

  The beak-nosed, hunched-over figure trudged across the stage toward the podium. The bald crest of his head shone, and what hair he did have—a ring around his back and sides like the feathers around a vulture's neck—shone with oil. He indeed reminded Madori of some great scavenger bird, here to sniff out rotten flesh. His black robes were so shabby they almost looked like a suit of feathers. The man's Radian pin shone in the light of the braziers, and Madori winced to remember their altercation at the trials.

  He wasn't happy to see me pass the Trial of Wisdom, she thought. And he won't be happy to see me here.

  "Class!" he barked when he reached his podium. He opened a few books and shuffled through them, then raised his eyes toward the tiers of seats. He cleared his throat—a horrible, gagging sound like a dying animal—and spoke in a voice that echoed through the hall. "You have come to study Offensive Magic. If any of you cannot tolerate pain, blood, or the gruesome damage our art can inflict upon the human body, I suggest you leave my university, return to your mother, and tell her you are a squeamish babe undeserving of true power."

  A few scattered, nervous laughs rose from the crowd. Madori's heart sank even further; she swore she could feel it beating down in her foot.

  Professor Atratus scanned the rows of seats, passing his eyes over each student in turn. "I see that this year, we have some students of excellent parentage." He let his eyes pause over Lari. "Indeed, the children of the purest pedigree are among us this turn." His gaze moved further along the seats, finally settling on Madori; that gaze changed into a withering glare. "And I see some among us are of . . . less distinguished heritage."

  Madori clenched her fists in her lap. She wanted to leap down and challenge the professor, but Tam placed a hand on her thigh, holding her in place.

  With a twitching sneer, Atratus tore his stare away from Madori and returned to his books and scrolls.

  He spent the next hour rattling off magical theories, barking out fancy words like "material bindings" and "particle trajectory" and "physiological claims." Throughout the class, Madori could barely keep up; her wrist ached from scribbling down notes she didn't even understand. Lari, however, seemed the model student. Sitting at the head of the class, she kept raising her hand, answering every question properly, then turning toward the back tiers to give her fellow students smug smiles.

  Throughout the class, as Madori kept furiously writing, Neekeya kept raising her hand. The tall Daenorian girl was practically bouncing in her seat, begging Atratus to answer his questions. Yet the balding professor wouldn't spare her a glance. His attention lay fully upon the Magerian students.

  We in the back tier are the outcasts, Madori thought, glancing at her sides. Along with her quartet sat other foreigners, all ignored.

  And no quartet is stranger than mine, she thought with a sigh, wondering how she'd ever pass this class. She could already see herself returning to Fairwool-by-Night a failure, flunked out of the university. Her mother would be furious, Madori thought. At first Koyee had not wanted to let her daughter—her only child—leave. Once Madori had insisted, shouting and kicking the walls, Koyee had agreed—on one condition.

  "If you leave to the university," Koyee had said, jabbing Madori's chest, "you return to me a model mage. You will not loaf around at Teel like you do at home, sleeping entire turns, collecting stray animals, and wasting your time. If you go there, you will graduate at the top of your class, or by the stars of Eloria, do not return home at all."

  As Atratus kept rattling out his lesson, Madori rubbed her sore wrist and heaved yet another sigh.

  "Madori Greenmoat!"

  The voice boomed across the hall and Madori started. Realizing she'd been lost in thought, she stared down at Professor Atratus.

  "I asked you a question, girl," the professor said, brows pushed low over his beady eyes.

  "I . . ." Madori's throat felt dry. "I'm sorry, Professor. May you repeat the question?"

  Students muttered among themselves. Lari snickered.

  Face turning red, Atratus grabbed a ruler and slapped his desk with a crack. "You will pay attention in class, girl, or this ruler will strike more than this desk. Do you understand?"

  Madori ground her teeth and swallowed down her rage. She forced herself to nod silently.

  With a disgusted grunt, Atratus left his podium and paced across the stage, tapping his ruler against his left palm.

  "A volunteer!" he called out. "Step down. I normally wait a month before allowing magic in my classroom, but I believe that this year, with such bright minds, we may begin early. A volunteer! Raise your hand." Several hands rose in the class—none from the back tiers. Atratus didn't even turn to look. Still pacing, he cried out, "Lari! Lari Serin, step down please, darling child."

  Lari rose to her feet, chin raised, a smug smile upon her face. She gave her fellow students a few nods, then strutted down the aisle and stepped onto the stage.

  "I'm here, Professor Atratus," she said, voice sweet.

  The stooped, balding man nodded and turned back toward the tiers of seats. He pointed his ruler at Madori.

  "You! Greenmoat. Step down onto this stage. Since you've been daydreaming, you obviously know all about Offensive Magic already. Down!"

  Madori glanced aside uneasily. Her friends winced, and Tam reached over to grab and squeeze her hand.

  "You don't have to go down there," he whispered. "Just mumble an apology. You'll look a fool but it'll blow over."

  Neekeya was struggling for breath. "Don't go," she whispered.

  Madori stared down at the stage. Pretty and prim, Lari stared up from below, giving Madori her sweet little smile. And Madori felt it: the old rage rising inside her, the anger that always got her into trouble.

  I once used this anger against you, Mother and Father, she thought. I'm so sorry. I miss you so much now.

  She inhaled sharply through her nostrils and rose to her feet. She balled up her fists and walked down the aisle, moving between the rows of seats. As she passed by, hundreds of eyes followed her. Not a breath stirred. Her innards trembling, Madori stepped onto the stage.

  You are the daughter of Torin Greenmoat, the great hero of the war, the man who united day and night, she told herself. You are the daughter of Koyee of Qaelin, the great soldier who led armies, who slew the tyrant Ferius the Cruel. She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. You don't have to be afraid of a bitter professor and a pampered girl.

  "Lari," said Professor Atratus, "I do believe it's time for a little demonstration of Offensive Magic. My fellow professors tell me you've been demonstrating levitation, transformations, and bindings to your classmates. Will you now demonstrate some . . . real magic?"

  Lari nodded and stared at Madori, her eyes full of cruel delight. She spoke to Atratus, but she never removed her eyes from Madori. "Gladly."

  "Excellent!" said the stooped professor. "Of course, to demonstrate hurting another human, we need a human to hurt." He looked at Madori. "But I think in this case, a mongrel will suffice."

  Madori sucked in breath with a hiss. How could he speak like that? She wanted to march out of the lecture hall, to find the headmistress, to demand she discipline this professor for his bile. Yet she simply stood frozen. What could Headmistress Egeria do, after all? Take the word of a village girl? Like it or not, Professor Atratus had power here at Teel, and he had power across Timandra; as a member of the Radians, proudly displaying their pin, he served Lari's father, perhaps the most powerful man in all of Moth.

  Madori growled. So I'll play your game, Atratus. And I'll defeat you at it.

  Swinging his ruler, Atratus nodded toward Lari. "Now, Lady Serin, please explain the principles of magically attacking a foe."

  Chin raised, Lari recited as from a book. "The Three Principles of Magic still apply: choose, claim, change. Advanced mages often choose human flesh or bone as their
material. Once claimed, they can change this material—bending or shattering bones, tearing flesh, twisting the body into death. However, in the heat of battle, war mages often choose a faster, simpler approach. They choose particles of matter floating in the air. The air is full of matter—gasses, dust, dirt, smoke, even invisible metal." Lari smiled wickedly. "A mage can form a storm in the air, striking her opponent with a might greater than any mace or hammer. Advanced mages can even animate the particles into astral, striking beasts with minds of their own."

  Madori bared her teeth and raised her fists. All of Professor Atratus's words—and all the words she had read in her books last turn—cluttered inside her head. She had learned something about forming a shield of air; she could swear it. She mumbled to herself, trying to claim the air around her, to weave it into a dense, soupy force field. Sweat beaded on her brow. Nothing seemed to happen.

  "Excellent, Lady Serin!" the professor said. "Now demonstrate."

  Lari nodded, smiling primly. "Gladly."

  The girl's face changed. Her smile turned into a snarl, and her eyes blazed with hatred. Her hands rose, collecting the air into a dark ball of smoke. With a growl, Lari tossed her missile.

  The projectile hurtled across the stage toward Madori.

  Shield yourself! cried a voice inside her. Block it with air!

  But she could not.

  The smoky ball, large as a melon, crashed into her chest.

  Madori cried out in pain and slammed down onto her backside.

  The ball shattered, breaking up into smoky serpents. The tendrils wrapped around Madori's chest, squeezing, constricting. She couldn't breathe, and tears budded in her eyes. She tried to grab the tentacles and rip them off, but her fingers passed through them. Her ribs tightened; she felt like they might snap.

  "Madori!" somebody shouted somewhere above; she thought it was Tam.

  Lying on the stage, she saw nothing but the smoke, and then through the unholy fog, she saw Lari's face—cruel, smiling, her hands raised like claws. As the girl curled her fingers inwards, the smoky tendrils tightened further around Madori, and she screamed.

  Why wasn't Professor Atratus stopping this? Tears streamed down Madori's face. She wanted to die.

  He'll let me die, she realized. Lari is going to kill me and I'll die here upon the stage as they laugh.

  She gritted her teeth.

  No.

  She thought of the scars along her mother's arm. Her mother had fought this magic before and triumphed.

  I am the daughter of a great heroine, a woman who fought the forces of daylight and defeated them. I can defeat Lari.

  Through the fog of pain, the words from her books returned to her.

  She chose her material.

  She claimed the smoky tendrils that constricted her.

  She screamed, lashing her hands, tugging the serpents off like a woman tearing off chains.

  The tendrils left her body, and Madori sucked in air. She leaped to her feet, lashing the tentacles of smoke forward like whips.

  The magic crashed into Lari, wrapped around her, and knocked her down onto the stage.

  Madori rose to her feet, snarling. She tried to cling to the magic, to tighten the smoke around Lari, to crush the girl and snap her ribs. But the magic vanished from her grasp like dreams from wakefulness. The smoke dissipated.

  Lari lay on her back, moaning. Silence filled the lecture hall. When Madori looked at the rows of seats, she saw her quartet companions on their feet; Tam stood halfway down the stairs, mouth opening and closing silently, as if he had been rushing down to protect her.

  An angry wheeze sounded behind her. Madori spun around and gasped.

  She had seen Professor Atratus mad before, but not like this. His face flushed red, and sweat beaded on his bald head. His nostrils opened and closed as he breathed raggedly, and his fingers curled like talons.

  Madori took a step back. The man's rabid glare seemed almost as powerful as Lari's magic.

  "I did not allow you to do magic, mongrel," he hissed, each word labored.

  Madori found her rage. She met his gaze. "I had to defend myself."

  With a howl, Professor Atratus raised his hands. The smoke, which had dispersed, coalesced into dark ropes. The bonds wrapped around Madori's ankles, pinning her feet to the ground. More smoky ropes wrapped around her wrists, pinning her left arm to her side and tugging her right arm toward Atratus. She struggled and tried to break these magical bindings, to claim them too, but she could sense this magic was stronger than Lari's. She could not free herself.

  Sneering, Atratus took a step closer toward her. His lips curled back to show his yellow teeth. "You will not perform magic in my class without my permission, mongrel. You will be punished now. Three lashes of my ruler upon your hand."

  She tried to pull back, but she might as well have broken through iron chains. His ruler whistled through the air and cracked against her outstretched palm.

  Madori bit down on a yelp.

  He struck her again, and two weals rose against her palm. Her hand was still sore from holding the iron wishbone, and this punishment was like tossing oil onto dying embers. Tears budded in her eyes.

  He swung his ruler a third time, and Madori nearly passed out from the pain, but she would not scream. When he released his magic, and the magical chains left her, she placed her wounded hand under her armpit. It tingled and burned, reminding her of the pain of holding the iron wishbone.

  "Now return to your seat, half-breed," Atratus said. "Be thankful I only struck you three times. Next offense it will be thirty. To your seat! And after your classes this turn, you will report to the kitchens, where you will spend half a turn scrubbing pots and dishes. Understood?"

  Madori nodded silently, not trusting herself to speak; she felt that if she tried to answer, she would either shout or cry. Holding her throbbing hand under her armpit, she climbed the stairs and returned to her seat. She could feel everyone's eyes upon her, especially Lari's.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN:

  A WHISPER FROM HOME

  Her palm was still throbbing, three welts upon it, as Madori made her way down the corridor to her next class.

  The rest of her quartet walked around her, forming a protective ring. Tam especially was fuming, his face red, his fists clenched at his sides.

  "My father will hear of this," he said, barking out the words, as they moved down the columned corridor. "Who does that Atratus think he is? My parents donate to this university. Hundreds of books in the library are their gifts." He growled. "I'll get this Atratus sacked, I will, and I don't care what it takes."

  "Tam, please," Madori whispered. "Lower your voice. It's all right."

  Many other students were walking to and fro around them, not just first-years but older students too, clad in the lavender, gray, and orange robes denoting their seniority. The last thing Madori needed was for anyone to hear Tam's threats and report to Atratus; that would goad the old dog to new heights of fervor.

  Neekeya too fumed. Her eyes were wide with rage, her teeth bared. "My father might not have donated to Teel, but he's a mighty lord and warrior, and his magic is far more powerful than Atratus's. He gave me a magical quill that can write curses to hurt anyone. I'm going to write a curse to knock Atratus's damn hands off!" She took the quill from her pocket and her expression became woeful. "I only need to learn how to use it. I think I might have broken it."

  Madori doubted the "magical artifacts" Neekeya had received from her father—the quill, the ring, the sword, and dozens of others—had any magic at all. But at least Madori now knew: I have magic within me. Her hand still throbbed, and the humiliation still burned through her, but a hesitant smile tingled upon her lips.

  I used magic. I defeated Lari.

  As they walked down the hall, Madori raised her chin, letting that pride swell her chest. She knew she would face Lari again, and Madori vowed to study hard, to become stronger and stronger.

  I came to Teel to learn healing
, Madori thought, but you, Lari, you will force me to become a warrior too. And you will rue your choice to make me an enemy.

  It took a while, but after exploring several corridors and chambers and making a few wrong turns, Madori's Motley finally found their next classroom—a sterile little chamber high up in Ostirina, the northwestern of Teel's four towers.

  As Madori stepped inside with her friends, she breathed in deeply and her smile widened. It was finally time for the class she had awaited—Magical Healing.

  A dozen other students were already here, seated at pale stone tables. Madori was relieved to see that Sunlit Purity was not attending this class. Of course Lari and her friends would have no use for healing magic; they seemed to care only for destruction. Madori sat down with her quartet at the last free table, opened her book, and caught a glimpse of her wounded hand. The welts were ugly and red and still hurt. Between them spread the faded scars from the iron wishbone.

  "Students! Students, settle down."

  The high, wavering voice drifted from the doorway. An instant later, Professor Yovan stepped into the chamber—the same professor who had supervised the battle with the wishbones, sending Torin a roast ham to atone for Madori's ruined hand. The elderly man's long, white beard rolled down to his feet, and his tufted eyebrows thrust out like the brims of hats. He seemed well into his eighties—even older than the bald, mustached Professor Fen, the teacher of Basic Principles. The greybeard reminded Madori of old Mayor Kerof, her great-grandfather, who had rocked her on his knee when she had been a girl. Dear old Grand Grand, as Madori called Kerof, had passed several years ago; old Professor Yovan, with his flowing beard and long, thin fingers, gave her the same sense of elder wisdom and grandfatherly love.

  The students, already rather settled, turned their eyes toward the aged professor. Yovan made his way to his desk, slapped a hand against it, and announced, "Healing! Yes. Healing. Healing, healing healing . . . Magical healing, to be exact." He stroked his beard. "Magical Healing is about using magic to, well . . . heal." He cleared his throat. "And that is what I shall teach you!"