Daughter of Moth (The Moth Saga, Book 4)

by Daniel Arenson

  She refused to back down. She was half his size, a third his age, and as lowly as a worm compared to his power, but she faced him sternly.

  "Move aside, Professor Atratus," she said. "I'm here to speak to the headmistress."

  He raised his fist; it trembled, his knuckles white with strain. "Students are not to roam the university after hours. I thought that my punishments might have set on your the right path, but I see that you mongrels are truly rabid beasts."

  His hand lashed out and struck her cheek. Before she could leap back, he slapped her again, a blow to the second cheek, rattling her jaw. She stood still, too shocked to react. She wanted to attack him. She wanted to cry, to scream, to run, to shout for the headmistress, but she could only stand frozen, and she cursed herself for her paralysis.

  Atratus spat out spittle as he spoke, shaking with rage. "Since you obviously hate your chamber so much, you will sleep this half-turn outside in the rain." He grabbed her wrist and began tugging her down the hall. They burst outside into the cloister, the rain pattering against them. "You will remain standing outside until next turn, and if I ever catch you wandering again, I will show you no more mercy."

  She tried to free herself from his grasp, but he was too strong. He dragged her across the cloister, down a gallery, past the library and dining hall, and finally toward a craggy wall. They stepped through an archway, emerging into a grove of elms and birches outside the university grounds. It was a cold, wet place in the shadows of the mountains, overrun with brush, a place forbidden to students. Atratus finally stopped walking behind a twisting oak with a trunk like a face. There he released her wrist.

  She tried to run, to barrel past him. She knew that if she could only reach the headmistress, she'd have a sympathetic ear. But her legs would not budge. When she looked down, she found her feet sunken in the mud down to her ankles. Smoky tendrils wrapped around her legs, keeping her pinned in place.

  "Atratus!" she began to scream when more smoke invaded her mouth, muffling her words.

  "Spend a few hours outside the university," he said. "And think very carefully if you want to return. If I were you, when the spell is broken, I would wander deep into the forest, and I would live like the feral beast that you are. I cannot officially banish you, mongrel, not yet. But know this." He pointed a shaky finger at her. "If you do return, you will suffer. I will make you suffer greatly."

  He glared at her and lightning flashed, sparking against his hunched form and hooked nose, gleaming in his eyes like white fire. He spat and turned to leave. He vanished back into the university, leaving her outside in the rain.

  She could not move. She could not scream. She could only breathe through her nostrils, and lightning crashed again, hitting a nearby tree. Throughout the storm, she could hear the sounds of her friends calling for her, but she knew they wouldn't find her, not out there.

  It was hours before the spell broke, freeing her legs and releasing the smoke in her mouth. She fell to her knees in the mud and took a ragged breath. She tilted over, lay on her back, and gazed up at the sky. The last clouds were dispersing, and a single beam of light fell upon her. A rainbow glimmered for just a few heartbeats before fading away.

  Tears streamed down Madori's cheeks.

  What do I do? Do I flee Teel? Do I try to make my way home?

  She raised her head and looked at the university walls. The bells were ringing; a new turn of classes was beginning.

  "I can't return," she whispered to herself, trembling in the mud, weary and weak and so afraid. "Lari would attack me, or Atratus would, and . . ." She covered her eyes. "I can't do this, Father. I can't, Mother. I'm not strong like you two are."

  She closed her eyes.

  She couldn't do this.

  A faint hint of a caress, like a falling feather, tingled her hand.

  Madori opened her eyes, and there she saw it, resting on her hand—a duskmoth.

  She had seen duskmoths back home at Fairwool-by-Night; they were denizens of the borderlands, of the twilit strip that separated day from night. The animal was shaped like Mythimna, this world they called Moth, one wing white and the other black. A creature like the one tattooed onto her wrist. A creature like her, torn between day and night.

  "What are you doing here?" she whispered. "So far from home . . ."

  It twitched its feathery antennae. Perhaps, she thought, it was asking her the same question. Or perhaps it had come to comfort her, to remind her she wasn't alone. It seemed to meet her eyes, and she gently caressed its downy body.

  It took flight, rising in spirals, and she watched as it ascended into the blue sky, and tears streamed down her cheeks. Lying in the mud, she reached up to it.

  "Goodbye, friend. Be brave up there."

  Trembling, her cheeks wet, she forced herself to take a deep breath.

  Another.

  Again.

  Her father's words filled her, as warm and comforting as mulled wine: To survive, you only have to breathe the next breath.

  "But how can I?" she whispered. "How can I even breathe when their magic can suffocate me?"

  She saw her parents again in her mind. Her father's face was humble and kind, his eyes warm—one eye green, the other black, eyes torn between day and night like she was. She saw her mother too. Koyee's face was paler and sterner, but her eyes were just as loving, large Elorian eyes like Madori herself had. In her mind, they both embraced her, enveloping her with love.

  "You fought a great war," she whispered to them. "Perhaps I don't face fleets of warships, armies of knights, or great battles like you did. But I'm fighting my own war here, a personal war, and one I'll need all your strength and wisdom for." She knuckled her eyes. "I promise you, my parents, I will fight. I will win."

  She rose to her feet. Her knees shook but she took another deep breath, steeling herself.

  "I'm like a duskmoth," she said. "I'm torn between day and night, and I'm far from home. But I will fly."

  She walked back to the university, wet, muddy, afraid, and more determined than ever.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN:

  BLOOD AT HORNSFORD BRIDGE

  They rode across the wilderness, two men in a horse-drawn cart, and beheld the might and terror of the Radian menace.

  "By Idar's flea-bitten bottom," Torin cursed and tugged the reins, halting Hayseed. The nag snorted and pawed the earth.

  Sitting beside him, Cam smiled bitterly. "I told you it was big."

  Torin grimaced. "The Palace of Kingswall is big. The fortress my wife is building is big. This?" He gestured ahead. "This isn't a big fortress, my friend. This is more like a city."

  Hayseed sidestepped and nickered, and the cart swayed. The slender king clutched his seat and nodded. "Aye, a city of nothing but soldiers bred for hatred."

  Sunmotte Citadel rose upon a hill, surrounded by a circular moat, farmlands, and valleys. Behind the water soared the castle wall, topped with battlements, archers, and Radian banners. Towers rose at regular intervals along the wall, each a palace unto itself. Behind the battlements peered the tops of more towers and keeps—a complex so large Torin thought it could rival all of Kingswall. As if the soaring battlements didn't sufficiently unnerve him, he saw many troops mustering in the fields outside the citadel—ten thousand or more soldiers stood there, armed with spears and swords.

  Hayseed whinnied. Torin stepped out of the cart and stroked the old nag, seeking to comfort himself as much as her.

  "Serin isn't playing games here, my friend," he said to Cam. "This isn't just the fortress of a lord. This isn't just an army to guard his home. He's preparing for war."

  The king nodded grimly. He too stepped out of the cart, shook his legs, and pointed northeast. "And our homeland lies just a couple miles away."

  Torin followed his friend's gaze. Across grassy fields flowed the Red River, the rushing border between this kingdom of Mageria and their homeland of Arden. The ancient Hornsford Bridge spanned the water, half-a-mile long, built of ancient bricks.
A fortified gatehouse rose at each side. The Magerian gatehouse was large as a castle, its two towers displaying the banners of Radianism—a sun eclipsing the moon—alongside the banners of Mageria—a buffalo upon a red field. Across the bridge, the Ardish gatehouse was smaller—a single, humble tower—its battlements displaying Arden's sigil, a black raven upon a golden field. Beyond the gatehouse rolled Arden's countryside, bereft of its own citadel or army. An empty land. A vulnerable land.

  "Camlin, old boy," Torin said, "we're facing an armored knight with a bread knife."

  Cam sighed. "A bread knife? I'd settle for a bread knife." He gestured toward the lonely guard tower on the Ardish side of the bridge. "That's more like a wooden spoon. Maybe even a napkin."

  Torin grunted. "We move forces here. As soon as we reach Kingswall, we muster men. We send them west."

  "What men?" Cam rubbed his temples. "Torin, my dear, it seems half the lords in my kingdom are loyal to Serin; they're raising his banners and receiving quite a bit of his gold. And those lords who are loyal to my throne? They wax poetic of an end to war, of peace on earth, of never more lifting arms and watching Moth bleed."

  Torin grumbled. "Moth will bleed whether they want it or not. And they won't be there to staunch the wound." He narrowed his eyes. "Let's go home, Cam, but I'm not crossing that bridge. Not if you pay me with my own fortress. We ride south. We'll cross the river at Reedford; that's where Madori and I crossed over."

  Cam raised an eyebrow. "Reedford? But my dear lad, Reedford is boring." He gestured ahead and grinned. "Here we get to inspect Serin's forces up close." He tugged at his rough, woolen cloak and scratched his stubbly cheeks. "We're no King Camlin and Sir Greenmoat here. We're simply two weary travelers seeking a way home." He climbed back into the cart. "Come on, Tor old boy, it'll be an adventure. Like in the old days."

  Torin grumbled. "The old days weren't an adventure; they were a bloody nightmare." He rubbed his stiff neck. "And we were younger."

  Yet he too climbed into the cart, and they began to move again.

  The bridge still lay a couple miles away, and Hayseed was a slow old horse. Cam had wanted to buy two quick, sure-footed coursers at Teelshire; he had sold his own old horse at the town, as the beast had been too weary for a quick ride back. But Torin had refused. How could he sell Hayseed, his daughter's old friend? Madori was gone for years; the least Torin could do was keep her favorite horse—even if it meant the journey home would take twice as long.

  He sighed. The journey home? No. He was perhaps returning to Arden, his kingdom, but not to his home. Not to Fairwool-by-Night, and not to his wife.

  "The first time I traveled to Kingswall," he said softly, "I went there with Bailey to stop a war. Now we travel there to raise an army."

  Cam nodded as the cart bumped down the pebbly road. "The two actions are not contradictory. We raise an army to stop a war. An army along your borders can bring peace more readily than the hearts of men. Hearts cannot be trusted; steel can be."

  Torin raised an eyebrow. "Look at you, King Camlin. You almost sound like a military leader. Where is the young boy who fought for peace?"

  "He grew up." Cam grunted and scratched his chin. "Idealism was fine when we were youths, just kids in a war the adults led. But we're the adults now. Idar's Warts, Torin. I actually have gray hairs now, do you believe it? I pluck them out, but they just grow back, and perhaps they bring me some wisdom. Let Tam and Madori be the new preachers for peace. Let us adults prepare for war."

  Torin scratched his temple; he had been finding a few white hairs there himself. "I envy Koyee. She's always had white hair. Doesn't have to worry about plucking a thing."

  Cam barked out a laugh. "The woman never ages anyway. You and I . . . we're halfway through our thirties already, and we're starting to show it." He reached over to pat Torin's hint of a paunch. "But that wife of yours; she still looks like a youth. People might think she's your daughter."

  "I already have one daughter, and she causes enough trouble herself." He lowered his head, sudden pain overtaking him. "Damn it, Cam. Don't talk about our age. Not because I'm scared of growing old. But because—Idar damn it—I wish they could have grown old with us." He let out a sigh that sounded dangerously close to a sob. "That old loaf of bread and that braided madwoman. They should have been here with us now."

  Cam nodded sadly, but suddenly a smile spread across his face. "Hem would probably be even larger at our age; he wouldn't fit on this cart, that's for sure."

  Torin smiled to remember the old baker's boy. "He could pull the cart, that one. And Bailey, well . . . I bet you she'd insist that she's a true warrior and could run the whole way. Scratch that; she'd charge toward Sunmotte Citadel and take on Serin's army single-handed."

  "You don't think she'd have mellowed with age?" Cam raised his eyebrows. "We've mellowed."

  Torin shook his head. "She'd be as crazy as always. I miss her. I miss them both. It's funny, isn't it? They say time heals all wounds. What a contemptible lie."

  As they drew closer to the bridge in the northeast, they were also drawing closer to the massive fort in the northwest. Serin's army stood only a mile away now, the sun glinting on thousands of spears. Every soldier, it seemed, wore a full suit of plate armor; back in Arden, only knights wore the expensive armor, while common soldiers wore the less efficient—but cheaper—chain mail or leather armor. The Radians not only had many horses but chariots too, their wheels scythed. Smaller than Torin's cart and much swifter, several of the vehicles raced around the field, their riders shooting at targets with bows. Behind these drilling forces, the walls of the fortress loomed taller than palaces, brimming with many troops.

  Torin and Cam fell silent. The air felt too hot, too thick; Torin could barely breathe it. He cursed Cam for convincing him to take this route.

  "They'll stop us," he whispered. The soldiers were still distant, but Torin couldn't speak any louder. "They'll send riders to the road. They'll think us spies."

  "We are spies," Cam said. "Sort of. But no, they won't stop us. That bridge there—costs an entire silver coin to cross. How do you think Serin pays for all that fine armor, those chariots, those high walls?" He patted his purse. "Bridge tolls."

  "Bridge trolls?"

  Cam groaned. "You're either losing your hearing or developing a penchant for bad jokes. Both are worse signs of aging than white hairs or paunches."

  Perhaps the Shepherd King was right; no soldiers appeared to stop their passage down the pebbly road toward the bridge, and if the armies saw them, they gave no sign of it. Before long the cart turned eastward, leaving Sunmotte Citadel behind. They trundled toward the river. An arched gateway led onto the bridge, framed by two guard towers, each large enough that, removed and placed upon a hill, it could have proudly housed a lord. Several soldiers stood upon the towers, holding crossbows, while several more stood beneath the archway.

  Torin tugged his hood low over his head. Cam did the same. Hunched forward, clad in old wool, they hopefully looked like nothing more than two weary, common travelers. The guards at the gate stood sternly, clad in black plate armor, their faces hidden behind their visors. Their breastplates bore two sigils—the buffalo of Mageria on one side, Radian's eclipse on the other.

  "Halt!" said one, voice echoing and metallic inside his helm, and held out his hand. "Stop for inspection."

  Torin tugged the reins, and old Hayseed slowed to a halt, snorting. Several soldiers marched forward, their plate armor so well-fitting and well-oiled it barely made a sound. Moving with the urgency of starving men seeking food, they began to inspect the cart—lifting blankets, rummaging through packs, and sniffing at jugs of water.

  "We're only two simple travelers returning home," Torin said, affecting a lowborn accent. "A friend of ours—we took him to a see a healer in Teelshire. Aye, they got real healers there, not like back home—magical healers, they got at Teelshire." He shook his head and tsked. "Still, all in vain. Our friend died on the road before we could
even reach Teelshire; all we could do when we got there is bury him. He was a dear friend, but I told him, I did, if he kept drinking spirits every morning and night, he'd soon come down with—"

  "Silence," spat out a soldier. "We have no patience for peasant tales. Why didn't we see you cross from Arden? I never forget a face."

  Torin sighed inwardly. A couple decades ago, in the war, he'd have charged at these soldiers with sword and shield, his friends at his side. He wasn't sure if that meant he was wiser or less brave; perhaps a bit of both.

  "We crossed down south at Reedford," Torin said. "They got a nice inn there, they do. The smoothest ale you could taste. Do you like ale, friend? We got three casks in the back; feel free to take the small one for your troubles."

  One of the soldiers stepped toward Torin and lifted his visor, revealing a hard, frowning face. The man's eyes narrowed. "Look at me," he demanded.

  Torin gave the soldier a quick glance from under his hood. He held out a silver coin. "Here we are, our bridge toll, and that's real Arish silver, it is. Bite it if you like." Torin reached for his riding crop. "Now we hate to take up your time, so we'll just—"

  Before Torin could tap his horse, the soldier grabbed Torin's wrist, stopping the crop.

  "Wait a moment." The soldier leaned in, and his eyes widened. "I know you. One green eye, one black! We met in battle in the war. Torin Greenmoat, you are! Lord Serin said you might be passing here. He commanded us to bring you to him. You'll have to come with us."

  The other soldiers—there were four of them—heard and stepped closer. Cam winced but Torin forced himself to laugh.

  "Aye, I get that all the time. I always curse my eyes. Everywhere I go it's Terin Greenboat, Terin Greenboat—whoever that is. It makes a man weary. I—" He jerked his hand free and swung his crop. "Hayseed, go!"

  As the horse burst into a gallop, tugging the cart onto the bridge, Torin grabbed the katana he kept hidden behind his feet—the same sword he would wield in the war. He drew the blade with a single, fluid movement and swung it across the cart's side. It clanged into a soldier's helmet, knocking the man back. Cam drew and swung his own hidden blade, knocking back another man, while a third soldier leaped away from Hayseed's hooves.