Linee had to bite her lip to stop herself from crying. She wished she had a weapon. She wished she could disappear. She wished Ceranor were still alive and that she'd never come to this place, and—
Wishes are worth pebbles and earth. Her grandmother's voice filled Linee's mind; the old woman was fond of the saying. Actions bring you gold.
"Come out of your hiding, friend!" Ferius said, stepping deeper into the chamber. He still held his bloodied dagger. "Come and let us speak."
He came walking around the bed toward her.
Biting her lip so hard she tasted blood, Linee crept under the bed into the dusty darkness.
She could see Ferius's boots circling the bed. Somewhere outside, she heard men sing a song and laugh, and it seemed so strange to her that folk could find joy while her husband lay dead.
"Where are you, friend?" Ferius said. "Speak to me and you will not be harmed." His boots moved several paces away. She heard hinges creak. "Are you in the closet? No . . . Are you behind the table?"
Linee gritted her teeth and crawled.
Stay alive. Just stay silent and stay alive.
The voice rose behind her. "Are you . . . under the bed?"
His robes rustled.
Linee scurried out the other side of the bed, leaped toward the open door, and bolted outside.
"Friend!" rose his voice behind.
Linee ran. She leaped onto a stairway. She raced downstairs, heart thudding.
I have to find Sir Ogworth! I have to find his soldiers. I—
Across a hallway, she found herself entering the main hall of the Night Castle, the place where only moments ago, she had seen Ceranor meet his nobles.
Those nobles, all the dozens of them, lay dead in the hall, piled up upon the granite table. Their necks were split from ear to ear. Above their bodies hunched a host of Sailith monks, their yellow robes stained red. All raised their heads together to regard her, a flock of vultures turning from a carcass.
Tears filled Linee's eyes.
She turned away from the hall.
Through a labyrinth of stone and fire, Queen Linee of Arden ran, her heart pounding and blood staining the hem of her gown.
CHAPTER FIVE:
DANCE OF DEATH AND LIFE
Koyee entered the Hall of Dying dressed like a vulture of metal, leather, and glass.
Her outfit creaked and clanked as she walked, hiding every part of her. Leather robes draped across her, stiff as armor, brushing the floor. A belt heavy with buckles and purses jangled around her waist, holding vials and spoons and scalpels. A wide-brimmed hat topped her head, and gloves encased her hands, ending with steel fingertips like thimbles. Worst of all was her mask; it wrapped around her head, laced up at the back. Its beak flared out, full of spices to stifle the miasma of disease. Even her eyes hid behind glass lenses that turned the world into a smoky, wavering dreamscape.
When she passed by a candlelit window, she gazed upon her reflection. She didn't see a girl; she didn't even look human. A gangly, creaking bird stared back, a creature of both nightmare and mercy.
"For I am a Sister of Harmony," she whispered, her voice muffled inside her beak. "I am here to guide souls into death."
And what of my own soul? she wondered. Hiding here from the monks of Sailith, would she scar whatever purity and hope remained inside her?
As if to answer her thoughts, the anguished screams of the dying echoed down the hall. Koyee tore herself away from the window and shuffled onward, her boots thumping and her outfit creaking and clanking. She made her way toward the doors, stepped into the Hall of Dying, and beheld a nightmare she knew would forever haunt her.
The hall was as large as a temple. Hundreds of beds stood in rows, and upon them lay the devastation of the Sunlit Curse. Elorian men, women, and children lay writhing and moaning, their faces gray with fever, their bodies covered in oozing boils. Their teeth had fallen from bleeding gums, and their fingers had shriveled into black twigs. The plague had come upon the Timandrian ships, hidden inside rats, cats, and scurrying cockroaches; it had devastated Timandra ten years ago, the soldiers said, killing all those susceptible to its whispers. Now it tore through Pahmey, striking everywhere—from the towers of the wealthy to the huts of the poor.
"Sister," whispered the dying, hands reaching out toward her. "Mercy, sister. Prayer."
Koyee stood for a few breaths at the doorway, frozen. Several patients were no longer moving. The others were only moments from death, so frail they seemed like skeletons draped with skin. As strange as her costume appeared to her, the Sunlit Curse twisted these people into shapes far stranger, living death of pus and blood.
Koyee sucked in air, inhaling the scents of spices inside her beak, a thick and tangy breath that would protect her from the curse.
Yet they are no monsters, she thought. They are my brothers and sisters, and they need me. The true monsters are those tall, fair Timandrians with their shining armor and endless cruelty.
She stepped into the hall and walked among the beds. The hands of the dying reached out. Their fingernails, blackened with disease, scraped against her robes. Their bleeding mouths opened and closed, begging for prayer, and their boils oozed. At every bed, Koyee paused and held out a bottle of silverdream, a milky medicine of mushrooms in deep caves. It would not cure these people, for there was no cure for the Sunlit Curse, but it could ease their pain. She dripped two drops into every mouth and whispered a prayer.
"The stars of the night will bless you, child of Eloria. The moonlight will glow upon you. We are the night."
Her words and medicine sent them into shivering, feverish sleep, their eyes moving behind their lids, their gums smacking, their curling fingers reaching out to those stars, awaiting their journey to the world beyond.
More creaks and clanks rose in the hall. Other Sisters of Harmony, humanoid birds with their beaks and hats, moved between the beds. The sisters prayed, soothed, and poured their medicine. They moved like clattering marionettes, wheeling out the beds of those succumbed to the illness, angels of death escorting famished, rotted bodies into the darkness.
As Koyee stood above a young girl, praying as the child's breath faded into stillness, tears splashed her lenses. She missed The Green Geode. She even missed living in the alleyways, scrounging through trash to survive. But inside her beak, she tightened her lips and raised her chin.
In The Green Geode, I played music for those who brought this curse upon us, she thought. Here I heal their victims. Here I suffer. Here I am noble.
The Sunlit Curse killed Madori the yezyana; a Sister of Harmony rose from the ashes, a phoenix of leather and glass.
After passing by every bed, Koyee left the hall and walked down dark corridors, nodding her beak at those sisters she passed. She had been serving in the Sisterhood for twenty turns now—not yet a moon—though it seemed like a year. In all this time, she had not even seen the faces of her sisters, for they dared not remove their beaks unless alone in their chambers.
She reached bronze doors where two sisters stood, their robes and beaks black, and they held not medicine but halberds of cruel, twisting iron. As Koyee approached, they nodded, opened the doors, and watched her through their glass lenses as she passed. Twice since Koyee had joined the Sisterhood, patients had tried to leave the hospice's eastern wing. Twice had these guards, sisters trained not to heal but to kill, slain the dying.
"Bless you, my sisters," Koyee said.
"Bless you, Sister of Harmony," they replied in unison, voices muffled inside their beaks. "Seek solace in shadow, for the sun rises."
She repeated the chant—the words of the Sisterhood—and stepped into a second hall. The doors closed behind her, sealing the screams, the pain, and the miasma of death.
In this new chamber, bronze baths stood full of steaming water. Soaps and brushes hung from pegs. Slowly, buckle by buckle, Koyee removed her outfit. She placed her brimmed hat upon a peg. She unlaced the mask that enveloped
her head, emptied the beak's spices into a bowl, and hung the device upon a rack. Finally she removed her thick robes and boots, remaining nude in the chamber of steam.
She stepped into a tub and scrubbed her skin raw, removing any hint of the disease that might have invaded her suit. She did not know what caused the illness, whether it was evil spirits, an invisible cloud of black magic, or a stench that invaded through the nostrils. Whatever the case, she would scrub every trace off, even as her skin turned raw and red. In wisps of steam and ripples in water, she thought she glimpsed Eelani bathing too, her invisible friend—no larger than her hand—scrubbing off the illness.
After toweling herself dry, Koyee dressed herself in the simple, white robes the sisters wore in their chambers. The silk caressed her skin, soothing the sting of the brushes.
She left the bathing chamber, walked upstairs, and entered her small chamber. It was no larger than her room in The Green Geode—a humble cube containing a bed, a table, and a chair, all forged of the same unadorned iron. A painting of Shenlai, the blue dragon of her empire, hung on a wall. Koyee sat on the bed, pressed her knees together, and trembled.
"Please, Shenlai the dragon," she prayed to that painting, "look after the ill in your kingdom. Please protect us from the sunlight."
She didn't know if Shenlai could hear. Perhaps dragons were simply myths, creatures for statues and paintings and unanswered prayers. And yet she prayed, for she was lost and afraid. She had lived on the streets of Pahmey, an urchin and thief. She had a chamber now and food and a sisterhood, but life in Pahmey was harder than ever, for the heel of Timandra was grinding them, and the skeletons of the curse forever danced in her mind.
She closed her eyes, and she saw them there: the dead and dying, skin draped over bones, cadaverous creatures dancing in a circle, holding hands, chanting to the sky, the dance macabre of the night.
How long before I dance with them?
A tap sounded on her window.
Koyee started and opened her eyes. For a heartbeat, she was sure those skeletons had arrived at her chamber, that they were knocking on her window, beckoning for her to join the dance. But then the tap sounded again—a pebble tossed against the glass.
The fear left Koyee like drawn curtains. A smile tingled her lips.
"Torin," she whispered, relief and love warming her like mulled wine.
He had been visiting her every hourglass turn, sneaking away from his barracks at the Night Castle. These visits were her shadow in the light, her dreams of joy in a world of death. Her smile spreading, she opened her window and leaned outside.
He stood below in the garden, disguised in the robes of an Elorian philosopher. When he pulled back his hood, he smiled at her. Lavender mushrooms grew around him, as tall as his shoulders, glowing with inner light.
There was some hope in the sea of pain. There was her friend. There was Torin.
She grabbed the rope she'd woven from her sheets and tossed it out the window. He looked around the garden, perhaps fearing Sailith monks in the shadows, then grabbed the rope and climbed. He entered her chamber, smelling of the city, an aroma of spice, oil, and wine.
"Have you been practicing the new words?" she asked him, speaking Qaelish. "Will you be a better student this turn? If you're a bad student, I'll slap you."
He snorted, but the sound was more affectionate than offended. "I good student," he said in clumsy Qaelish. "You good student of Ardish?"
It was her turn to snort. She switched to his tongue. "I speak Ardish very well. Sit on bed! Sit. Open book. Let me hear you read."
They perhaps had to meet in secret now, but she would not let him abandon his lessons. She had started teaching him her tongue, and by the moonlight, she would make him fluent. And in truth . . . though it made her cheeks tingle, she had to admit she enjoyed these lessons. She liked his company—the way his hand sometimes accidentally touched hers, the way he tried not to laugh at her jokes, and the way she laughed at his.
He opened his book of stories, and he read slowly, stumbling over some words but plowing on. This time he read a story about the three dragons of Eloria, all born from the same brood, who flew to the three Dark Empires to watch over them. When he finished reading, he looked at her with his mismatched eyes.
"Better this time?" he asked.
She nodded. "Better."
Before she could resist, she did something that surprised her, that made her cheeks tingle. She leaned forward and kissed his cheek.
At once she pulled back and looked down, blinking and blushing.
He nudged her with his elbow. "I like your kisses more than when you slap me for making a mistake."
She spoke softly, staring at her lap. "You'll get more if you're a good student."
He nodded. "Good. Reward for success. I prefer that to punishment for failure."
She dared to look up at him. She found his face close to hers, and she looked down again at her lap, though a smile tingled her lips.
His fingers caressed her hair, making her tremble. "And you speak my language very well now, and you deserve a kiss too." He kissed her ear.
She turned toward him, surprised at his audacity, and his face was so close that her lips brushed against his. It was only an accident—it had to be—but somehow she was kissing him, not just a peck on the lips, but a real kiss, their mouths open, their tongues touching, and his fingers caressed her hair, and he held her close to him.
"You must have been a very good student," she whispered, pulling back from him only an inch.
"My Qaelish feel stronger alrea—"
She did not let him finish his sentence. She could not bear for her lips to be away from his. She kissed him again, and this time their kiss was deeper, a desperate kiss, a kiss for some goodness in this pain, for some hope and love in war. His arms wrapped around her, and she sat on his lap, her legs around him, her hair curtaining their faces in a white cocoon.
She had never kissed a man until now. She had never cared for such matters, for kisses or love, and yet she tugged at his tunic, and his hands slipped under her dress, moving up and down.
When she removed her silk, she worried that he'd think her too skinny, think her breasts too small, for she was only a slim Elorian, and she must have seemed so plain to him. And yet she saw the approval in his eyes, and she smiled softly and pulled his tunic off, then ran her hands across his chest.
"Look, Torin. Your skin is golden and mine is white like milk. We're like the sun and moon."
He kissed her again, and she lay on her back and closed her eyes, and he loved her, this boy from sunlit lands, this man who had saved her in the alleyways, this soldier who was supposed to be her enemy and whom she had taken into her bed.
They moved together, and this was a dance too, and this was a dance of life. She closed her eyes, holding him tight, and let the joy of him flood her until she cried out. After what seemed like the age of stars, she lay beside him in her bed, trailed her fingers across his chest, and laughed.
"Why are you laughing?" he asked, his hand caressing her, trailing from waist to hip and back again, an endless movement like a boat upon the waves.
"Because you're silly," she said. "Because I'm scared but happy too." She kissed his nose. "Now go back to your castle, soldier of sunlight, and don't return until you learn another tale."
He left her with tangled hair, her blanket wrapped around her naked body. She stared at the open window and laughed again.
"Oh, Eelani," she whispered to her invisible friend. "Did you really watch the whole thing?"
Her shoulder spirit hopped upon her shoulder, and Koyee sighed, though her lips would not stop smiling.
CHAPTER SIX:
HIDDEN LIFE
As Torin walked back to the Night Castle, the Elorian fort where he was stationed, the smile wouldn't leave his face.
He was far from home. His enemies were growing stronger. The cruelty of conquest surrounded him. And yet as
he walked down the street, passing between soldiers in steel, his heart fluttered and he felt more joyous than ever before.
"Koyee," he whispered, tasting the name.
The cobbled boulevard climbed the mountainside. Buildings rose along its sides, their walls built of glass bricks, and lanterns hung from their sloped roofs. Elorians rushed quickly between shops and homes, heads lowered, their silken robes fluttering and their hands tucked into their sleeves. When Torin had first invaded their city, the locals had worn elaborate sashes of embroidery and beads; now they merely wore white scarves around their waists, the color of their mourning. A few gathered around a towering, communal fireplace, its iron grill shaped as bats, its flames rising ten feet tall. When they saw Torin—wearing the armor of their enemy—they scattered into alleyways.
Other Timandrian troops—all of them Ardish, the people of his homeland—stood at every street corner, holding spears and swords. When first invading this land, they had worn ravens upon their breastplates, the sigil of their king. Now, however, many soldiers sported sunbursts upon their shields and armor, the symbol of Sailith. Seeing these soldiers—his own countrymen—Torin knew he should feel grief. But not now. Not this turn. Again her memory filled his mind.
"Koyee."
He could still feel her slim, naked body pressed against him. She had seemed so delicate, so lithe, a dainty creature of faerie. Her hair had cascaded between his fingers, white and soft as silk. Her eyes had stared into his, large lavender orbs, full of shyness and love. Torin felt his blood stir anew. He wished he could return to her now—forget his duty to his king, forget his fellow soldiers, and spend his life with her in the hospice.
Invading the night brought me pain, fear, and endless shame, but it also brought me you, Koyee, he thought. Even in the greatest darkness some light shines.
A spring in his step and a whistle between his lips, he rounded a corner and beheld the Night Castle.
The pagoda's five tiers loomed, each topped with a roof of blue tiles, its edged curving up to support bronze statues of dragons, snakes, fish, and other beasts. Arrowslits peppered walls of black bricks, and red lanterns shone within. Hundreds of Elorian soldiers had served and died here; some Timandrians now swore they could hear the ghosts of those old defenders, cursing them as they swept through the halls. Most of the Timandrian host, a horde of many thousands, camped outside the city in riverbank tents and huts. The king had taken residence here, and he had invited those closest to him to share his hall—his lords, his war heroes, and Torin.
Empires of Moth (The Moth Saga, Book 2) Page 6