Shadows of Moth

by Daniel Arenson

  Tam blushed to see both men and women sharing the public bath, for the Ardish separated their baths by gender. But Neekeya only grabbed his hand and helped him undress. He entered the pool quickly, hiding his nakedness behind ferns and steam until he was submerged. Neekeya entered the water beside him; it was piping hot and luxurious, and the steam plumed around her. The water rose to their shoulders.

  Neekeya waded closer to Tam and wrapped her arms around him. She pressed her nose to his. "We'll find aid here, Tam. I promise." She kissed his lips. "You'll see your family again, and we'll see Jitomi and Madori too. This war cannot last forever. I don't believe that the light of Radian will forever sear the world."

  After they bathed, servants brought them new outfits to wear: soft seeken tunics, a grayish-green fabric woven from lichen and leaves; leather shoes inlaid with beads; and new suits of armor, polished and freshly forged. Undressed, Tam stood out in Daenor with his pale skin and shy, foreign ways. But soon he stood before Neekeya looking like a true warrior of Daenor; like her armor, his breastplate and helmet were forged to mimic a crocodile's skin and head, and a crocodile-claw sword hung from his belt. A green cloak hung across his shoulders. He could have easily been a prince of Daenor, and Neekeya felt her cheeks blush to think that, if her father approved their marriage, he would become a prince of the marshlands.

  They met her father again in a courtyard west of the baths. The cobbled expanse lay within the jungle like a bald patch on a man's head. The marshes surrounded them—rustlings reeds, twisting mangroves, and ponds green with lily pads. Monitor lizards lounged in the water, occasionally emerging to sunbathe upon the cobblestones. Jabiru birds, as tall as men, wandered about on their long pink legs, pecking for food.

  A table was set out, its legs carved as claws. Lord Kee'an sat at its head, and Tam and Neekeya sat across from him. Servants brought forth a feast of roasted meats, stewed vegetables, and steaming stews.

  Neekeya drank from a clay mug of huckleberry juice, the blue liquid filling her with vigor. Bolstered, she stared at her father over the many steaming plates. "Father, I've not returned home only to bathe, to feast, and to see you again. I've come here with a warning. Tirus Serin has seized the throne of Mageria, as you must have heard. What you might not have heard is this: He musters many troops east of the mountains. For almost half a year, Tam and I traveled hidden across the wilderness of both Arden and Mageria, moving through the forests, surviving by hunting and gathering when we found no tavern or town. Whenever we stepped onto a road or visited an inn, we saw them—the Magerian troops. They no longer raise their old buffalo banners; they now hoist the Radian sigil, a golden sun hiding the moon. As they've attacked Arden, I fear they plan to attack Daenor."

  Tam was struggling to crack open a crab leg. He gave up, placed down the claw, and turned toward Kee'an. "My lord, my kingdom has fallen to the enemy. I've heard no word from my parents or from my brother, Prince Omry." His eyes flinched with pain. "But should Arden rise again, and should her people throw off the yoke of tyranny, I would see Arden and Daenor aligned against the enemy. I ask that you help fight this enemy. So long as the eclipse banners rise, no kingdom of Moth is safe, not in daylight or darkness."

  Neekeya swallowed a bite of spicy snake, the meat hot and springy. "Father, let us muster the warriors! Let the marshland clans gather, and let us march to glory. We will pass through the mountains, and we will cut through the enemy marshaling there, and we will march all the way to Markfir, capital of Mageria, and stick Serin's head on a pike." She rose to her feet, passion burning through her. "I will personally cut off his head. I have seen Serin upon the road. I battled his own daughter. He is a monster that cannot be tamed, only killed, and he hates Daenorians as much as he hates Elorians. He calls the nightfolk worms, and he calls us Daenorians barbarians. If we are barbarians, then let us show him our strength! He will not look down upon us as we crush the walls of his capital."

  Her chest heaved, and lust for battle filled her. She had spent many turns on the road, hiding in forests, in farmlands, sometimes in barns when they could find them. She craved no more hiding; it was time to march to war, tall and proud and swinging steel.

  Her father listened quietly, sipping from a mug and nibbling fried frog legs, stewed greens, and honeyed flamingo breast. He sighed and spoke in a low voice, and Neekeya heard the old weariness in him. "The Magerians have often looked down upon us Daernorians, it is true. All of Timandra has; even our northern brethren, Daenorians who live in the open plains, look upon us southerners with scorn, ashamed of their swamp-dwelling kin." He gripped his knife as if gripping a sword. "Yet if they march into our marshlands, the bogs will be their graves. We will fight them, Neekeya."

  She placed her fists upon the tabletop and leaned toward him. "It's not enough to defend our borders. We must march into their lands. We must join the other pyramids. We must enlist the aid of the Northern Daenorians; they have horses, chariots, great siege engines of war. We must attack."

  Before her father would reply, a smooth voice spoke between the trees. "Yet none will join you, lord and lady of the swamp. You are alone in this world."

  Neekeya spun toward the voice. She growled.

  A man emerged from the brush and stepped onto the courtyard. He wore fine silvery armor, and a jeweled crocodile appeared upon his shield. A saber hung from his belt, the hilt bright with gems. The man's light brown skin was perfumed; Neekeya would smell it even over the feast. She remembered the man she had encountered in the marshlands on her way here.

  "Felsar," she said, not bothering to mask the disgust in her voice.

  He nodded, a thin smile on his lips. "Prince Felsar. Your prince." He looked around him, lip curled in distaste. "I was told that the southern lords lived in palaces, finding some splendor even in the marshlands. I see only a decrepit pyramid—it should be torn down—and a courtyard of craggy bricks barely finer than a slaughterhouse floor." His gaze turned toward Lord Kee'an. "Ah, and here he is! The great Swamp Lord, Master of Mud." He turned toward Tam. "And the Hatchling of Arden, a baby raven who fled war in his homeland, forsaking his own kingdom to the buffaloes. A coward in the company of barbarians—what a feast this is!"

  A glint caught Neekeya's eyes; the prince's Radian pin. She spat toward him. "You wear the Radian eclipse upon your cloak, proudly displaying your treachery." She drew her sword. "I will have your head for this."

  The prince sneered and drew his saber. "I will teach you manners, girl."

  She scoffed. "With that needle you call a sword? I clean my teeth with larger toothpicks." She swung her own blade—a wide, doubled-edged weapon. "Come closer, prince, and I'll show you how we treat traitors in the marsh—"

  "Enough!" Lord Kee'an's cry rang across the courtyard. "Neekeya, sheathe your blade. Prince Felsar, I ask you the same. We are all Deneteki despite our differences. We will resolve these differences over a meal, not over spilled blood. Sit, Prince Felsar. Eat. Drink. And we will talk."

  The prince glared at Neekeya, hatred simmering in his eyes. His lip trembled with hatred. Finally he nodded, sheathed his blade, and walked toward the table but did not sit. He lifted a skewer of grilled scorpions, sniffed, and tossed it aside. A monitor lizard scuttled toward the meal and crunched the scorpions between its powerful jaws.

  "I will not eat this vermin you pass off as food," said the prince. "And I do not have many words to say to you, Master of Mud. I will speak simply so you may understand. You are an embarrassment. For centuries, we true Daenorians of the north had to suffer the swamps, the way a noble man would suffer the embarrassment of some twisted, parasitic twin growing from his torso. Yet we have found a way to join the true light of Timandra, to become an equal nation among the other kingdoms of sunlight. You say Deneteki? That is an old word, a word for barbarians, the word we used before we could read, write, forge metal, and live like proper men." Felsar's eyes flared. "Under the Radian banners, all are equal. All who serve Tirus Serin, the Lord of Light, will fi
nd grace in his court. I've come to these bogs to convey the order of my father, your king: Daenor will raise the Radian banners, and we will join Serin's empire in conquest of the night. A new order rises. All those who oppose it will perish. Daenor will not perish; we will join Radianism's great light."

  "Join? You mean serve the light." Neekeya shook her head sadly. "You truly think Serin will see you as equal, Felsar? He loathes Daenorians. He sees us as lower than worms—even you, oh mighty northern prince. Do you truly think you can join him? No. You can at most serve him as a slave, a useful tool, a trained animal for him to sic upon his enemies. But I will never join Serin. I will fight him, and if you stand in my way, I will fight you too."

  Neekeya bared her teeth, ready to fight. Even Tam now drew his sword and stepped forward, face red. Kee'an had to slam his fists upon the table, rattling the plates, to restore calm.

  "Hear me!" said the Lord of Eetek. Suddenly he no longer seemed a weary old man. His old pride returned to him, and he stood tall, shoulders wide, back straight. "Hear me, Prince Felsar. You are young; you barely remember the last war. But I am old. Twenty years ago, I joined another so-called Lord of Light. I joined Ferius, ruler of the Sailith faith. I sailed with him into darkness with many ships. I fought the Elorians under the stars." His voice shook. "I fought that war hoping to forge an alliance with the rest of sunlight, to prove our worth to our fellow Timandrians. I killed Elorians for them. I spilled the blood of innocents, and their blood still stains my hand. And still the other children of sunlight mock our ways, see us as weak, as benighted, as uncivilized. Only a generation has passed, and already they ask us to spill Elorian blood again." Kee'an raised his chin and drew his sword, a mighty blade, five feet long and bright in the sun. "Never more will we join the forces of evil. We bowed before Ferius, killed for him, shattered our soul for him. Now we will stand against this new tyrant. Now we will redeem our honor. Leave this place, Prince Felsar! Return north and tell your father that we in the marshlands will not bend the knee."

  The prince stepped closer to the old lord. Rage twisted his face. "You speak treason! You owe allegiance to my father, your king. The swamp is not its own kingdom, free to choose its wars."

  "I am a free man," Kee'an replied simply. "And I choose the path of justice, not of service to evil."

  "Treason!" The prince drew his sword, leaped forward, and swung the blade. Kee'an parried, and the two swords locked. The prince screamed, spraying spittle. "We will have your head for this!"

  Neekeya and Tam snarled and stepped forth, blades drawn. The prince spun from side to side, glaring at each in turn.

  "We do not bow before our enemies," Neekeya said. "We slay them. And you've made yourself our enemy."

  The prince spat at her. "You cannot defeat Emperor Serin, fool. Thousands of Magerians muster to your east beyond the mountains. How can you hope to stop this swarm? Thousands of troops serve my own father; they marshal to your north, and when they hear of your treachery, they will crush you. In the south, the desert warriors of Eseer already raised the Radian banners; they too will march upon you. You are nothing but rebels to your own crown, and the noose tightens around you. The swamps will fall, and Daenor will serve the Radian Order, and—"

  Kee'an swung his sword. The iron crossguard slammed into the prince's head, knocking him to the ground. The prince lay limp, moaning, blood trickling down his forehead.

  The Lord of Eetek looked at Neekeya and Tam. His eyes were hard, his voice stern. "For twenty years, I have sought peace, yet now war is upon us again—not only with the enemy beyond our mountains, but with our own kin to our north. Felsar will remain with us in chains. And the marshlands will fight!"

  Neekeya had spent the journey here praying to raise arms, to fight her enemies. Yet not like this. Not her father alone, a rebel to their own crown. A tremble seized her knees.

  She looked at Tam and saw the same fear in him, but she saw strength too. He stared back at her, his sword drawn.

  "We defeated Serin in battle before," Tam said softly. "We will defeat him again."

  She nodded but little hope filled her. When they had faced Serin on the road outside of Teel, only ten troops had protected the emperor. Now myriads prepared to invade. Neekeya's breath shook in her chest, and her sword swayed in her grip. The trees rustled and the birds sang on, unaware that they soon might burn.

  CHAPTER SEVEN:

  LOST SON

  Jitomi stood at the prow of the Do Tahan—the Salt Spirit—staring across the dark sea toward the coast of his homeland.

  "The Isle of Steel and Salt." His voice was so soft the wind nearly drowned it. "Land of the Eternal Flame. Blade of the Night. Ilar."

  Ilar—the great island-empire in the night. Ilar—a land of warriors, fortresses, and flame. Ilar—perhaps the greatest military power in the world. Jitomi had not seen his home in over a year, and he dreaded his return.

  Rain fell and wind shrieked. The sea was rough and the Do Tahan, a geobukseon ship, rose and dipped and swayed. Many rowers oared to the beat of a drum, their faces wet with rain and sweat, and their long white hair fluttered like banners. Two battened sails, their silk painted with Red Flame sigils, aided the rowers' efforts, pushing the ship toward the island. Ahead of Jitomi loomed the figurehead, an iron dragon that doubled as a cannon. It was shaped as Tianlong, the last dragon of the night and a symbol of Ilar.

  Across the miles of black, salty waters stretched Yakana Peninsula, a tongue of black rock reaching into the sea. Clouds hid the moon, but many lanterns rose along the peninsula, their lights orange and red. Jitomi could make out the walls that lined the landscape, topped with parapets and turrets and banners. Beyond these battlements rose narrow houses, minarets housing archers, and pagodas with several tiers of red roofs. At the seaside edge of the peninsula, rising high above both the town behind and the water ahead, rose the ancestral home of his family: Hashido Castle. Seeing the black, jagged fortress perched like a demon above the water, Jitomi shuddered and swallowed down a lump. It was home, but it was also a place of dark memories.

  "Good to be home, son?" said Captain Sho Hotan, an old man with a long white mustache, tufted eyebrows, and wise blue eyes. He came to stand beside Jitomi, the wind whipping his silken blue robes, and gazed toward the shore.

  Jitomi sighed. "No. My father never wanted me to leave, to study magic. He called it the trade of an old, superstitious woman. After fathering several daughters, he hoped his only son would become a great warrior, a heir to his power. I thought to become a powerful mage—to prove to him that mages could be powerful—and yet now I return after only a year, a failure, a—"

  He bit down on his words. Why was he telling all this to Sho Hotan, a man he barely knew? He felt like a fool, spilling his secrets to a stranger. Perhaps fear of seeing his father again made him foolish.

  The wind whipped him, thick with rainwater and saltwater, and Jitomi tightened his black cloak around him. He missed his friends. He missed them so much his belly twisted and his chest ached. If Tam and Neekeya were here, he would feel braver. And if Madori were here . . .

  His heart gave another twinge. He thought of the last time he had seen Madori, how she had scolded him, fled him into the darkness, shattered his soul with her talk of separate paths . . . but not without also kissing him. Not without giving him that memory of her warmth, the love and light he had still seen in her eyes.

  If she came home with me, a half-Timandrian, I don't think my father would even scowl. His heart would crack and he'd fall down dead. And perhaps that would only make things easier.

  He sighed. With the Radians mustering for war, he needed his father's help. The old lord held sway in Ilar's imperial court. He commanded many troops, and Empress Hikari heeded his counsel. Jitomi would need to convince the man that Magerians prepared to invade, that Ilar had to send troops into Qaelin to stop the attack. If Jitomi failed, the night would burn. Yet how could Jitomi speak sense to a man who loathed him, who thought him lower than
the old women who washed his clothes?

  As they navigated closer to the shore, Jitomi wanted to ask the captain to turn back. He wanted to dive into the water and swim away. He wanted to be anywhere but here, returning to this empire he had fled. He could try to find Madori, to walk whatever path she took, or he could even travel to find Tam and Neekeya, or perhaps he could still find his sister Nitomi in the wasteland of Arden, the last place he had heard from her.

  No.

  He forced himself to take deep breaths.

  If I cannot enlist Ilar to fight this war, Madori will die in the Radian flames. Tam, Neekeya, my sister—all will perish in the inferno of war. I must do this. I need my father's help.

  The Do Tahan navigated into the port, entering a calm harbor between two breakwaters. Many other military ships floated around them: triple-tiered panokseons with a deck for rowers, a deck for cannons, and a deck for soldiers; lumbering geobukseons, vessels similar to the Do Tahan, turtle ships with many oars and dragon figureheads that belched out smoke; towering atakebunes, floating fortresses covered in iron plates, pagodas upon their decks, their panther figureheads made for ramming into enemy ships. Civilian vessels navigated these waters too: the junk ships of Qaelish merchants, the small rowboats of fishermen, and cogs shipping everything from iron ore to silk. Their lanterns shone all around, and their sailors stared—eyes almost as large and bright—as the Do Tahan headed toward the pier.

  Jitomi had been only a babe when the Timandrians, led by the monk Ferius, had attacked this empire, slaying many. Most of the enemies had attacked Asharo, the great capital city, which lay northeast from here, but some had landed upon Yakana Peninsula, and the wreckage of their ships still lay upon the rocks. If Serin attacked, igniting a second war between day and night, he wouldn't be a simple monk leading a rabble. Serin would be the greatest general in Timandra leading a trained army of killers. Would even these military ships, and the tall walls that rose ahead, be able to stop his light?