The Moon Rogue

by L M R Clarke

  Nestled in an ancient stone dwelling, the Temple of Dorai’s location was an open secret. It was an unremarkable building in a narrow street of broken cobbles; only those invited were welcome to cross the threshold.

  Few city folk craved such an invitation. Bandim snorted and rounded the final corner on his journey. The Light was dying, and so was his father. If this sunset was to be Braslen’s last, Bandim needed to be ready to act.

  Outside, the temple was unimpressive. Inside was different, all thanks to Bandim’s devotion. Since finding the love of the Goddess Dorai through high priestess Johrann Maa many cycles before, Bandim had funneled gold into the hands of Dorai’s priestesses. Instead of the derelict monstrosity it had once been, the inner chambers were lined with black stone, smooth and perfect. What once had been dilapidated catacombs from a civilization long gone was now an underground palace fit for an emperor. The floor sloped into the embrace of darkness, what the followers of the Light called evil.

  Fools, Bandim thought as he thrust open the doors, startling a young attendant. The believers in Nunako looked to the Arc of the Sky. They trusted in her, thinking the Light would consume the Dark. Accepting an offered mask and taper, Bandim descended into the temple proper. Little did they know, it was the Dark that swallowed their brightness. The Dark would always prevail.

  The meager light flickered, sending shadows dancing across the smooth walls. Today would bring the reckoning for Bandim and his beloved Johrann. His wondrous priestess would harness her powers. With Father soon breathing his last, the stage is set for her—for me. My moment has finally come.

  Masked figures, male and female alike, drew back as he approached, bowing in deference. Face covered or not, they knew who he was. They didn’t question him as he swept through the underground caverns and into the altar room.

  He fell to his knees before the five-armed effigy of the Goddess—three arms on the left, only two on the right.

  The statue stood proud and condemning. In four of the god’s hands were the tenants of belief in Dorai: a spade for work, a book for knowledge, a shield for defense, and a sword for battle. The final arm was outstretched, one long claw pointing at the onlooker. The sixth arm was gone, wrenched from its socket by the goddess herself, sacrificed to protect the True Believers.

  As soon as Bandim’s knees hit the stone, a voice bade him rise again.

  “An emperor does not fall on his knees,” it said. Out of the shadows stepped Johrann Maa, high priestess of the Dark. “You are part of her. You are the Goddess’ Hand.”

  She was a strange creature with unusual coloring: armor of purple and skin of blue, and unusually tall, as tall as himself. No one in the world is like my Johrann, Bandim thought. She was entirely unique. Her eyes, grey and flecked, pierced through him. Though she was many cycles older than him, she didn’t look it. Bandim’s mouth went dry every time he saw her.

  He rose again and climbed the few steps to the altar. This time, Johrann went to her knees. The tips of her horn crest tapped the floor. Her fronds were tightly bound, not a single one out of place.

  “Rise, dear Heart,” Bandim said, reaching for her. “I’m not emperor yet.”

  Johrann rose, silent as a shadow, keeping her hand in his. Even in the darkness of the altar room, her eyes glimmered as they met his.

  “You’re at the foot of your throne, my prince,” she said. “It won’t take long to ascend the last few steps.”

  Bandim kissed the backs of her armored knuckles. “Not until my father dies.”

  Johrann inclined her head.

  “As you wish,” she said. “Your brother’s life has been in my grasp since he was a hatchling and your mother asked me to save him.” She lifted her chin and stared, her eyes hard as stone. “Once I cut your brother’s thread, your mother will regain her senses. With life returned to her body and gone from his, she will live anew. There is no way around this, Your Grace. They are bound together, a life for a life. That is the way.”

  Bandim held her look, his yellow gaze steadfast.

  “I understand,” he said. “My mother is a nuisance, and undeserving of a place in my empire.”

  Memories of her absence crashed into him like waves, and Bandim winced. It had never been fair, being left without a mother. His cousins had mothers. The younglings of other kingdoms and queendoms had mothers. He didn’t even have the luxury of a dead mother to be mourned and comforted over.

  All Bandim had was an absent father, and a brother who looked the same. He didn’t even have his individuality. He was just Bandim, the younger. Bandim, the spare. Bandim, always lesser than Mantos.

  But then he found Dorai, her comforting words, and her sixth arm wrapped around him. And he found Johrann Maa. She gave him comfort too, and for the first time, Bandim heard what he had always wanted to hear. She said he was special.

  “You have been chosen, my sweet,” she had crooned in his ears. “Dorai will make you her vessel. One day, all her power will be yours, and you will show the world that you are the rightful emperor.”

  That was what they worked towards. That was the reason Bandim lavished the temple with gold. That was why the converts to Dorai grew in number, their good news spreading in shadows, until there were more of them than the fools of the Light could comprehend. The One True Goddess would return to the world, and Bandim was the vessel who would save them all.

  Of course, it hadn’t always been that way. When at first Johrann had revealed it was she who’d saved Mantos and taken his mother away, Bandim’s blood had boiled. He had been ready to cleave off her head.

  “I’ll kill you!” he’d said, an adolescent newly gendered—the same as his brother, not even striking out in difference as a female.

  But she had held him to her, cooing and shushing, until his rage turned to tears.

  “It was an error,” she said, “something I did when the arrogance of youth was still upon me. And I’m sorry, my dearest Bandim. It’s my fault you were denied your throne. Now I’ll do everything to make sure you get it back, and the power of Dorai, too. Isn’t it written in the Book of Divine Tears that ‘the servant will err once but will bring greatness to the vessel? The One of Two, pushed aside, will rise like flame, and the goddess will inhabit him’? I am the servant, and you are the vessel. I have erred my once. I will not err again.”

  Returned from the rush of memory, Bandim leaned into Johrann’s touch as she brushed her claws against his masked cheek.

  A set of feet clattered along the hall outside. The steps grew closer and louder until they skidded to a halt outside the chamber. After a moment, there was a steady knock.

  Johrann blinked, her gaze shifting from the door to Bandim. “I must change to my Masvam colors.”

  Bandim inclined his head. No one knew of Johrann’s truth except him. Her colors, blue and purple, still struck as strange. Sometimes, she said, the folk could only take so much oddness. It was better to feed them morsel by morsel, until they listened even when the hand that fed them was empty.

  Johrann closed her eyes. There was a whirl of warm wind, and he watched the slow sap of blue and purple from her body, to be replaced by the Masvam norm of brown and gold. She looked like any other female now, though taller. My Johrann, Bandim thought. My magical Johrann.

  She brushed down her dark robes and permitted entrance.

  A temple novice stumbled in, clad too in dark robes. Her head, covered in deference to the goddess, was bowed.

  “My prince, my priestess,” she said, breathless. “News from the palace. The emperor... He’s dead.”

  At once, Bandim and Johrann’s eyes met. She said nothing. For a moment, Bandim stayed still, allowing the words to ebb and flow in his mind. He’s dead. A slow smile crept across his face. He’s finally dead!

  Then he schooled his expression and turned to the novice. “Get out.”

  The female scurried away, leaving them alone once more. Bandim grasped Johrann’s hands, holding them in a vice grip.

 
“It’s time,” he said. “Today the Light’s demise begins, and the Dark will paint a sable sky above all nations.” He pressed the backs of her talons to his lips, savoring the moment. “Do it, my love. Start my journey. First an emperor, and then a goddess. Bring it to me as you have promised.”

  “I will, Your Grace,” she said, squeezing his hands in return. “For you, and for the truth of Dorai.”

  Releasing him, Johrann turned to the five-armed effigy of Dorai and closed her eyes. Remaining silent, she lifted her hands.

  There was no great fanfare. There were no swirling lights. There was simply the warm wind. Bandim thought, The Dark is silent. The Dark is pure. His breath came in shallow waves as he watched and waited. At last, his life’s desire would be fulfilled. Mantos dead for once and for all, and me in the seat of power, ready to bring the truth of Dorai to all the folk of the world!

  Johrann turned to him again.

  His breath hitched. Her eyes glowed red. Her lips stretched with a leer. Her voice came as a delighted whisper.

  “It is done.”

  MANTOS

  On the balcony, Mantos stood in abject silence. Newly clad in white, he waited as the sun slipped below the horizon. Only a few moments before, the thread of Braslen Tiboli’s life had finally worn through. The death was silent, a simple stilling of the heart and a final exhalation. Mantos had gripped his father’s hand as he slipped away. It was peaceful, but it brought Mantos nothing but torment.

  He’s gone. Now rule falls upon me, not as a crown, but as a chain to bind me. Father, I wish you could have lived forever and spared me from this torment.

  Wishing is for fools, Mantos.

  His father’s words echoed in the depths of his mind. Mantos’ heart ached, not just for his father’s absence, but for everything that was to come. I don’t want to walk this path...but I have no choice.

  As the sun set and the moons shone bright, the stationed courtiers looked up. As their eyes fell on the prince clad in white, the first shout rose.

  “The emperor is dead!”

  Despite the grief that threatened to topple him, Mantos remained steady, silent. The first wail was joined by another, then another. Below, the courtyard brightened with candles, lanterns blossoming like vines. Through it all, Mantos stood. The dark cloak of night fell upon the city. Sounds of mourning drifted from below. After a time, when the sky was black, the Temple of Light flared orange and red. Our colors, Mantos thought. The colors of duty. Of a power that’s now mine. Flaming tongues sang the emperor’s demise. They rose to the Arc of the Sky. To the Light.

  Mantos’ eyes brimmed, but he dared not shed a tear. He didn’t have that privilege any longer. On gaining the crown, he lost much. As emperor, he must do what the empire expected him to do. He must be their leader, their everything...

  There was a sudden tightness at his throat, like an invisible hand grasping his neck. Tears spilled unbidden as his chest heaved, unable to bring in air. He stumbled, fell on one knee, grasped at the balcony rail with scrabbling claws. His eyes blinked and swam, and something deep within him stretched. Tightened. Something was ready to snap.

  Father? Is this death?

  Without fanfare or swirling lights, Mantos crumpled.

  His thread was cut.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Emmy

  Closing her eyes, Emmy counted to three as a familiar and unwelcome figure entered Madame Krodge’s Apothecary. Before she opened her eyes again, Emmy began a silent chant. Still your tongue. Don’t say anything. It should have been easy, but it wasn’t.

  Mr. Amra Bose strode straight to the counter, other customers stepping aside to let him pass. He was middle-aged, perpetually puffed by his own self-importance, wearing clothes typical of the husband class. He wore colorful fabrics, draped from the shoulder and kept in place by brooches of colored glass. The hem of his cloak was pinned by enamelwork, raising it from the common filth of the streets. His horns were polished and his scales shone: the picture of a perfect husband.

  Bose laid his elaborate hat on the counter and peeled off his gloves, one claw at a time. His two companions, other husbands that trailed on his spiked tail, hovered at his shoulders with their chins stuck high in the air as Bose unsheathed his final claw and slid the gloves aside.

  Bose drummed his talons on the counter. “Well?”

  The sight of his smug face made Emmy want to retch. Regardless, she stretched her lips into a thin smile. “How may I be of service today?” she asked. The words threatened to break her teeth.

  “Madame Bose is returning from Linvarra tomorrow, providing all is well,” Bose said. He turned to appreciate his companions’ sympathetic nods and added, “The goddess be blessed. You know what it’s like. Home from fighting in King Eron’s service, bravely protecting us from the Masvam threat. She deserves to be looked after.”

  Mr. Bose’s eyes widened, and he brought one hand to his thin lips. He glanced over his shoulder before returning his watery gaze to Emmy.

  “Oh, I misspoke,” he said. “You don’t know what that’s like, do you?” He chuckled. “Despite coming of age, you’ve still never entered the service. Krodge paid the Coward’s Tax for you, so you’ve never risked your life to keep the wicked Masvams out.” Bose grinned, showing two lines of sharp teeth. “Well, I suppose not all females can be as good and brave as my beauteous wife. There are always...exceptions.”

  He looked Emmy up and down, mouth curling in disgust.

  Emmy tried to let her mind escape her body, to flee from the pulsing thoughts that invaded like knives. The effort was futile. All she could think of was pulling Bose over the counter by his nose slits and... Best not think about it. Heart pounding, she balled her claws into fists. “What is it that you need from me?”

  “If there’s no one else available to assist me,” Bose said, glancing over her shoulder into the rooms behind, “I suppose I can put up with you.”

  Emmy clenched her jaws. There wasn’t anyone else, and Bose knew it. Emmy was the only one who worked in the apothecary—apart from the mistress upstairs, of course. It had been that way for all of Emmy’s sixteen cycles.

  “I hoped you’d have some powdered garba root,” Bose continued, “but I’m sure that, as usual, you don’t.” He turned to his companions again and rolled his eyes. “One does appreciate the great power of a healing paste mixed with such a rare commodity, but...”

  “Actually,” Emmy said, “I ordered some just for you, as you’re always telling me how useful it is. It’s fifteen bickles per measure.”

  She kept her face as straight as possible, but on the inside she was grinning. Bose’s mouth opened and closed several times as he contemplated the information, knowing other customers were staring at the back of his head.

  “Well... I...”

  Emmy’s face twitched. Bose cleared his throat, trying to regain composure.

  “Madame Bose, of course, didn’t mention any wounds. She writes to me so often. I would know immediately if there was something wrong, even if she didn’t say so outright. Thus, I shan’t need your overpriced goods.”

  His companions shook their heads and tutted as other customers murmured. In truth, fifteen bickles was an agreeable price for a valuable commodity.

  “I would be pleased if you would, instead,” Bose continued, “provide me with five measures of sicklestem juice.” He simpered. “I add it to Madame Bose’s tea for its relaxing properties.”

  Before she could respond, Emmy forced her tongue into her mouth and clamped down with her teeth. Sicklestem juice was hardly just relaxing. It made a powerful sleeping draught. It could kill. There should have been a law to control the sale of it, but there wasn’t.

  Without speaking, she spun around. She couldn’t say anything. Emmy the Moon Rogue was enough of a villain in the town of Bellim already. Taking a deep breath, she looked for the sicklestem juice.

  Behind the counter stood Emmy’s pride and joy. Stretching across the length of the shop was a set of g
lass-fronted cupboards that cost the moon. Each vertical sweep was organized into categories. There were sections for medicines and remedies, of course. Others were for cooking, or for cleaning. The most colorful shelf was devoted to buttons, thread, and beads.

  Krodge’s provided everything a husband needed to make a comfortable home for his wife. Roots, juices, sap, dried insects, live insects, fungi, herbs, animal bones... The list went on. Everything was locked in an ordered prison, behind glass doors more valuable than most of the contents. Krodge coveted extravagance. To the old crone, nothing was more important. Emmy suppressed a shudder. She herself was at the bottom of Krodge’s list of things to covet.

  Emmy lifted a thick-bottomed decanter from its perch and turned back to Bose. “Has sir brought his own phial?”

  Mr. Bose smirked and reached into his bag. His claws moved with ease at first, but soon began to scrabble. His face twisted with frustration, then darkened with embarrassment. “In my haste to prepare for Madame Bose’s return, I have neglected to bring one.”

  Emmy smirked. “Very well,” she said, “you may buy a phial for one bickle, or you may borrow one for three cren, to be returned tomorrow.”

  Mr. Bose’s eyes bulged. “Scandalous prices.”

  His compatriots nodded in agreement. However, when Bose looked away, they cast anxious glances at Emmy.

  This was too rich. She held the decanter aloft, swirling the amber liquid, and raised an eyeridge. Bose glared at her before he huffed his answer. “Fine. I shall rent one.”

  As she had expected—the little miser. Emmy fetched a thin phial. She measured the sweet-smelling nectar, corked it, and placed it on the counter. “That will be one bickle and a cren.”

  Glowering, Bose reached for his purse. He tossed two coins—the bickle large and thick, the cren thin and pierced with a hole—across the counter. “There.”

  Emmy, with painful slowness, set each on her money scale in turn. She stopped short of testing them with her teeth. Bose’s face was in a satisfactory blaze of fury. Satisfied, Emmy bowed. “Thank you for your custom.”