Empires of Moth (The Moth Saga, Book 2) Page 14

  She sniffed, lowered her head to let her hair cover her face, and reached for another pan. "Then go now. Please. An omega cannot have friends or they will strike me again."

  Reluctantly, Hem rose to his feet and kept walking. When he looked over his shoulder, he saw the riders laughing again, pointing at both him and the omega. He tried to meet her eyes again, but her hair covered her face, and she wouldn't look his way.

  As he walked away, confusion tugged at Hem. Bailey was always talking about how the Elorians were noble folk, that Timandrians were cruel occupiers, that night was good and daylight evil. Suddenly Hem wasn't so sure. If that were true, why would these Elorians bully a woman? And why would Hem—a child of Dayside, the cruel half of Moth—try to protect her? Maybe the world was more complex than what Bailey believed. Hem didn't know. He had always simply followed Bailey around—sometimes out of loyalty, usually because she was tugging his ear. Yet now she was heading east without him, and Hem felt lost and afraid.

  "Hem!" rose a voice from across the camp. "Damn it, Hem, there you are. Come on, you lumpy loaf of bread!"

  Blinking his stinging eyes, Hem turned and saw Cam standing on the edge of the crater. The slim shepherd was gesturing for him to come closer. Hem nodded, hitched at his belt, and hurried forward. His armor clanked and his helmet wobbled, but he managed to avoid any other hostile encounters until he reached the crater's edge. He climbed and stood upon the brim beside his friend.

  "What were you doing down there, you great pillock?" Cam said, staring up from his meager height. "Don't you know we're heading north?" His voice dropped. "Suntai is getting angry and antsy to leave. Damn . . . that woman is scary when she's angry."

  Wincing, the shepherd looked over his shoulder and shuddered. Hem followed his friend's gaze and felt his own spine tingle.

  Suntai, the queen of the Chanku Pack, sat ahead upon a great white wolf. Her back was turned toward them, and her hair streamed in the wind, a white curtain strewn with slim braids. Her sword, bow, and quiver hung across her back, and several daggers hung at her side. Hem caught glimpses of her face in profile; it shone in the light of her lamp, white and hard like marble. Her face looked much like the face of her wolf, cold and pale and usually snarling. Hem would not be surprised if Suntai, in her rage, could rip out his throat with her own teeth. He gulped.

  Linee walked up toward them, hugging herself and shivering. She still wore her old royal gown, an elaborate construction of cotton, embroidery, and about a thousand jewels.

  "She wants us to ride wolves too!" Linee whispered, leaning toward Hem. "Can you believe it? I can't ride one of those stinky animals." Tears welled up in her eyes. "I want a carriage. I'm the Queen of Arden, and I demand a carriage, but that Suntai won't listen. She's just as beastly as the nightwolves." The young woman covered her face and trembled.

  Cam rolled his eyes. "Toughen up, lady! You're not a queen anymore, so forget about plush carriages and pampering. You're one of the Chanku riders now, so act like one, unless you want them to make you an omega. Have you seen what they do to omegas here? They're like the servants you had back in Arden, scrubbing pots and rubbing sore feet."

  That only made Linee cry harder. "But I don't want to be a servant. I want to be a queen again. Please, Camlin, can I share a wolf with you at least? I won't be as scared if we ride together."

  "Merciful Idar!" Cam said, raising his hands to the heavens.

  The talk of omegas stabbed Hem's chest; he was still thinking about the young woman he had tried to help. He turned around, stared back into the crater, and saw her there. Her tormentors were now tossing her pack from one to another, laughing as the girl tried to catch it.

  Hem winced. You're going to regret this, you stupid oaf, he told himself, his thoughts surprisingly speaking in Cam's voice. You know you shouldn't do this, you lumpy loaf. And yet he bit his lip and winced, and the words fled his mouth.

  "I'm staying with the pack."

  Cam was busy scolding Linee, saying something about how no, nightwolves did not have cute puppies, and no, she couldn't have one. When he heard Hem, he stopped in mid-sentence, turned away from Linee, and raised his eyebrows.

  "You what?"

  Hem looked at his feet. "I'm staying with the pack. I'm not going north with you." He looked over his shoulder again, seeking the omega, but she was gone, vanished into the crowd. "I'm going to go east with Bailey. She needs a friend. Torin's going south with Koyee, and you and Linee are going north, and . . . well, Bailey shouldn't be alone."

  The lie made sense to him, and as he spoke, Hem convinced himself that it was true—that this was the reason he would go east. Not because of an omega girl with big, pretty eyes at all.

  "Bailey—needing a friend?" Cam said, eyebrows rising so high they nearly fell off. "Bailey—the girl who'd twist our ears, kick our backsides, and wrestle us into the mud if we so much as sang a bad note at the pub?" Cam guffawed. "What's wrong with you? This is our chance to get away from Bailey."

  "I know, it's just . . ." Hem wouldn't raise his eyes. "I think it's the right thing, all right?"

  Cam's eyes widened. "You're serious, aren't you?" He shook his head, crossed his arms, and looked away. "Well, fine then. Choose Bailey."

  Hem winced and reached toward his friend. "Cam, it doesn't mean that I don't want to go with you. I just—"

  When Hem placed his hand on Cam's shoulder, the smaller boy shrugged it off and took a step away.

  "I said go, all right?" Cam took two more steps away, turning his back toward Hem. "I don't care what you want."

  "Well, all right then." Hem twisted his fingers uncomfortably. "I guess I'll leave."

  "I guess so."

  Biting his lip, Hem turned back toward the crater. The pack was beginning to ride out, heading east. Across the other side of the crater, Hem could see Torin and Koyee heading in another direction, several riders dragging their boat along the plains. He took one step away, then looked back toward his friend.

  Cam was watching him, and Hem lost his breath. Tears shone in the young shepherd's eyes.

  "Cam—" he began, reaching back toward him.

  "Go!" Cam roared, face red. "Go, I said. Go to your friend Bailey. I don't care. You and I have only been best friends for . . . what, our entire lives? So fine. I guess it's time for you to grow up and find your own way." Cam glowered. "Just . . . damn it, be careful out there, all right? Just listen to Bailey. If I'm not there to get you out of trouble, she'll have to."

  Suddenly tears filled Hem's eyes too. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and noisily blew into it. "I promise."

  Cam looked ready to shout again, then stepped forward and grabbed him, squeezing Hem. "You're a dumb loaf, do you know that?"

  Hem nodded. "That's what everyone tells me. Goodbye for now, Camlin old boy. It won't be too long and we'll meet again in the east."

  He released his friend, then turned to Queen Linee; her eyes were damp too. He took her hand in his, kissed it like in the stories, and felt his cheeks flush. Mumbling under his breath, he turned and left them there, heading back into the crater.

  The riders were all seated upon their wolves now, heading eastward. Hem spotted Bailey in the distance, riding at the head of the pack. Hoping they had a nightwolf to spare, Hem ran after her, his pack and blankets jumping across his back.

  Goodbye, Cam, he thought as he ran. Goodbye, Torin. It hurt to say goodbye. But now a girl needed him. Now was his time to be a hero.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN:

  THE PAINTED BUFFALO

  As Torin sat in the boat, watching Koyee sleep, he could not stop the memories.

  It was peaceful here upon the river. Aside from the fish that glowed in the water, he and Koyee were the only living souls for miles around. Dark, silent plains spread left and right, rolling into shadows. The stars shone above, brilliantly white, blue, and lavender, a painting that sprawled across the firmaments. A cold breeze blew, scented of distant r
ain, ruffling his cloak. When first entering Eloria, Torin had found the place frightening, but now he thought the night beautiful.

  And yet, even here in this silence and solitude, the blood danced before his eyes.

  He saw it again: the corpses in the gutters, the soldiers driving swords into children, the thousands dying as he rushed from street to street, struggling to save whoever he could.

  I wanted to save more, he thought. I wanted to save a city. But I only saved fifty souls. He closed his eyes. I failed. Thousands perished.

  He took a shuddering breath, opened his eyes, and looked at Koyee. She slept peacefully on the boat floor, wrapped in furs, her cheek upon her palms. She was so frail, so pale, beautiful even with the scars across her face.

  By Idar, how could she be half-sister to Ferius, that twisted beast? He sat beside her. One child of light, one of darkness. A brother of evil, a sister of good.

  Looking at Koyee sleep, her chest rising and falling and her lips mumbling sleepy nonsense, Torin thought that in all the fire, blood, and pain of the world, there was still some goodness. There was still some hope so long as Koyee—kind, outcast, brave Koyee—lived and fought.

  "So long as you're with me," Torin whispered, "this is some good in the world, and there is some good in me. I took a life, but I saved life too; you will always be my beacon in the night."

  And . . . was she more to him now? Torin's blood heated to remember the last time he'd visited her chamber in the hospice. An urge came upon him to lie beside Koyee again, here in this boat, to kiss her, undress her, make love to her with only the fish and stars to see.

  While he contemplated her fair skin and silvery hair, the memory of Bailey's kiss came unbidden to his mind, and his blood boiled even hotter. While Koyee warmed him like a mug of mulled wine, comforting and intoxicating on a cold autumn, Bailey was fire. The memory of her lips blasted through him, powerful enough to make him shudder. While Koyee was slim and fair like a faery maiden, Bailey was all curves and mocking smiles, flashing eyes and full lips and—

  Torin shut his mouth and shook his head wildly.

  "What am I doing?" he wondered aloud.

  Bailey was his friend! She had taken him into his home when they'd been only children; she was more foster-sister to him than . . . than . . . well, than whatever these thoughts were now making her out to be.

  Torin slapped his head, vowing to banish such thoughts from his mind—of both Bailey and Koyee. Right now, with war raging across the night, he had to focus on his quest. He would think only of reaching the southern island-nation of Ilar, forging an alliance, and fighting against the bastard Ferius and his followers.

  Koyee stirred and opened her eyes to slits. "Torin? Did you say something?"

  "Sorry, Koyee. I was talking to myself."

  She smiled sleepily and sat up, her hair in tangles. "I do that too. Well . . . I talk to my invisible friend, Eelani, though I think she's real. Not everyone believes it." She yawned, stretching out all four limbs, and checked the hourglass beside her. "Oh no! I slept for too long."

  She rose to her feet, stretched, and hopped about upon the Water Spider. The rowboat was built for twenty soldiers; only the two of them now stood upon it. Most of the boat was taken up by their supplies. Their food and drink were a mix of Elorian and Timandrian goods—pouches of mushrooms alongside jars of strawberry preserves, packs of salted stonebeast meat alongside pork sausages, and jugs of mushroom wine alongside kegs of ale. Since they had left the Chanku Pack two turns ago, Koyee had seemed happy to eat nothing but mushrooms, whereas Torin didn't know how he'd survive once their sunlit supplies ran out. They had weapons and armor too: wolf helms and shirts of scales, a katana and a longsword, a bow and arrow, knives and throwing stars, and the oil and sharpening stones to maintain the blades.

  "We have enough supplies for a small army," Torin said, gazing at the hill of food, drink, and weapons.

  Koyee grinned. "Well, I've seen you Timandrians eat; you gobble up enough for an army, each man alone. No wonder you people are so big. And besides, it'll be a long journey." She reached into a pack, produced a scroll, and unrolled it, revealing a map. "We'll be spending a good moon on the water."

  She sat down, placed the map on a bench, and secured its corners with an hourglass, a dagger, and two jars of pickled squid. Torin sat beside her, gazing at the inked rivers, mountains, and craters of Eloria.

  "An entire month on the water," he said in a whisper. He could barely imagine such a distance.

  A month alone with Koyee, he thought, raising his eyes and looking at her. That familiar tingling filled him. She was sitting cross-legged, leaning forward and admiring the map, a soft smile on her lips. Torin thought her hair looked very soft and smooth, and he longed to touch it, to kiss her lips again, to hold her in his arms like he had back in Pahmey.

  Was that a single moment of passion? he wondered. Or will she . . . be my woman? The thought spun his head, almost comical.

  Torin had kissed a couple girls back home; he had shared a quick peck on the lips with Leeya, the rye farmer's daughter, and an awkward mess of a kiss—noses banging—with Perry Potter, an older woman who then went off and married somebody else. With Koyee it had felt different, infinitely more real and yet infinitely more mysterious and ephemeral.

  She looked up at him, saw him staring, and tilted her head. Feeling his cheeks flush, Torin quickly returned his eyes to the map. He pointed at a strand of silver ink.

  "Is this the Inaro River?" he said. "Where we sail now?"

  She nodded and tapped a point on the strand. "We're about here, two hourglass turns south of the Chanku crater. We'll sail all the way south across the plains of Qaelin." She traced her finger down the map. "In under a moon, if we oar along with the current, we'll reach the southern Qaelish port of Sinyong." She smiled, revealing bright teeth. "I've heard traders speak of Sinyong. They say it's a great city of wonder, its towers more beautiful than those of Pahmey, its streets wide, its people learned and wise. They say that glowing birds fly between its pagodas, and that its philosophers study the stars."

  Her eyes shone, but Torin didn't share her sense of adventure. He would be happy never seeing another city of wonders. More than anything, he wanted to return home to Fairwool-by-Night, to tend to his gardens, and to forget about this war and bloodshed. He'd be happier seeing his humble old cottage than any fancy towers. In his dreams, Koyee returned home with him, and they lived together in Fairwool-by-Night. Flowers bloomed in the gardens, Cam's sheep grazed peacefully, and the smells of Hem's baking bread filled the village. Torin cared little for magical towers, glowing birds, or markets of wonder; he loved the peace of home, a warm fireplace, and a mug of mulled wine, ideally with Koyee snuggled up under a blanket at his side.

  Yet he could not speak of these things to Koyee; he knew he'd only stutter and his cheeks would blush, and he worried that she'd mock him for his humble dreams. After living in Pahmey, a great city, would she find his village dull? Instead, he only traced his finger farther south along the map.

  "And from Sinyong, we'll have to navigate the sea," he said. "It looks like . . . by Idar, the sea's as wide as the distance between Oshy and Pahmey. I hope we still have enough supplies." He looked at their pile of food, then back at the map. "And then . . . what's this city on the coast of Ilar?" He squinted; reading foreign words in Qaelish still stumped him sometimes. "Asharo?"

  Koyee's eyes darkened, the smile left her lips, and she hugged herself.

  "Asharo," she repeated in a whisper, the voice of a woman speaking of ancient evil. She reached across the bench and grabbed the hilt of her katana.

  "I take it . . . not as pleasant a place as Sinyong," Torin said.

  Koyee shook her head. "I've never been there, but my father fought there in the great war between Qaelin and Ilar." She looked up at him, eyes haunted. "Not all wars are between day and night. We in the darkness of Eloria have fought amongst ourselves—great, terrible w
ars that have claimed the lives of many. Too many times did the Ilari warriors raid the southern coasts of our empire. My father sailed south with Qaelin's army. They crossed the sea. They reached the walls of Asharo. A demon world, my father called that city." She shuddered. "The walls were black. The towers behind them rose dark and jagged, endless battlements manned by endless warriors. The Ilari rode strange creatures of shadow, their teeth bright; like cats they were, but the size of nightwolves. The armor of the Ilari was just as black; they blended into the night, and they attacked by the thousands. Many of my father's friends died." She caressed the katana. "He slew many with Sheytusung, his sword. The Ilari will not have forgotten the blade that felled so many of their sons. I pray to the Leaping Fish and to all other constellations that we can make peace with Ilar." She stared deep into Torin's eyes as if peering into his soul. "The Ilari are horrible and mighty. With their help, we can defeat the sunlight. Yet they are just as likely to slay us before we dock our boat."

  Torin couldn't suppress a shudder. "So . . . yes, definitely not as pleasant as Sinyong."

  She slapped his chest. "Be quiet and go get our books. It's time to practice a new language."

  Torin raised his eyebrow. "A new language?"

  For the past six months, he'd been speaking with Koyee in Qaelish, her language, mixed with a good dose of Ardish, his mother tongue. They both knew just enough of each language to mix them into something they both understood. Torin jokingly called their speech "Qaelardish," and he was finally enjoying being able to converse freely with Koyee.

  She nodded. "The Ilari speak their own tongue. It's similar to Qaelish and shares many words, but you'll have to learn the differences. My father taught me some; I need to learn too." She scuttled across the deck, reached into a chest, and produced a leather-bound book. "We have a long time on this boat. We will learn."

  With a sigh, Torin settled down beside her, the book lying between them.

  The boat flowed downriver.

  The hourglass turned.