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

  "Who are they?" Jin whispered.

  "They come from the land of sunlight," said Shenlai, voice soft. The dragon hovered, facing the distant light. "They come here to burn, to conquer, to destroy. The city you see is Pahmey, the western jewel of your empire; it has fallen to their fire."

  Jin's eyes stung. He had never seen Pahmey before, but he had read about this city in books and scrolls. Its hundred towers rose gleaming from the inferno of sunlit soldiers. The banners of the day—sunbursts upon white fields—rose from their crests.

  "Timandrians," Jin whispered. "They're real."

  He had read about Timandrians too, but he had always thought them legends, creatures no more real than cave spirits or river wisps. Many of his teachers claimed that Timandra, the sunlit half of Moth, was only a myth. Others claimed it was real but that no life could exist in a land of such heat and fire.

  "This enemy will march across your empire, Jin," said Shenlai. "They will travel east. They will seek the capital and our palace. They will seek you too."

  Jin stared, eyes wide and stinging, and his heart thudded. "Can you stop them, Shenlai? Can you stop them like you stopped the assassin in the palace?"

  Shenlai lowered his head. "No, for I am but a teacher, not a warrior, not a leader. You will stop them." He turned his head toward Jin, his orbs gleaming with tears. "You will need all your strength and courage and wisdom. With them you can fight this enemy."

  "But . . ." Jin swallowed and felt tears on his cheeks. "But I'm weak. I have no arms or legs. I was born crippled. The masters say I'm cursed because my parents were siblings, and now I must suffer for their sin. How can I fight this army?"

  Shenlai moved his head closer, and the breath from his nostrils warmed Jin. "True strength is not of the body but of the soul. And your soul is strong. It is strong as mountains, as flowing rivers, as the night itself."

  "I don't feel strong." Jin lowered his head. "Will you fight with me? Will you always stay near? Some whisper that you're very old; I hear them. They say you'll die soon and reveal your secret." Jin's tears streamed. "Please don't die, Shenlai. Please always stay with me."

  Shenlai smiled softly, the wind fluttering his beard and mustache. "I am very old, Jin. It's true. And yes, my time will soon come." Jin's tears flowed, but Shenlai kept speaking, his voice soothing. "Someday soon my soul will fly to the stars, leaving my body behind. And you'll have to carry on without me. You'll have to use all your strength and all the wisdom that I see in you."

  Jin's chin pressed against his chest. "I don't want you to leave me. I love you, Shenlai."

  The dragon's head moved closer, and his snout nuzzled Jin, tickling him with that bristly mustache.

  "Death cannot kill love. Death cannot erase the joy of life. Good memories and love always stay inside you, a fire that burns forever and warms you even in the coldest, darkest night. That is why we have memories; they are a treasure loss cannot claim."

  With that, Shenlai turned in the sky and began flying back east, back toward the distant capital of Yintao. They flew for a long time over the plains and under the stars, leaving the fires of war behind . . . fires Jin knew would spread. They flew until they saw the lights of Yintao on the horizon, the city he ruled.

  "Shenlai, I don't want to return home." Jin lowered his head. "There is too much pain there . . . too many bad dreams. Can we sleep outside the city under the stars? I'm frightened and the starlight will soothe me."

  Shenlai laughed softly, coiling upon the wind. "You are the emperor."

  "I don't feel like one. I only feel like a boy. Not even a real boy. Please, Shenlai, let's sleep outside and I can lie upon your scales."

  Shenlai began spiraling down. The wind whistled around them. Hills rolled below, smooth like polished onyx, and Shenlai descended onto a hilltop. With gentle teeth, he pulled Jin out of his saddle and placed him upon his warm scales. The scales were hard as tiles but felt soothing to Jin, more so than his silken bed at home. Shenlai coiled up, enveloping Jin with warmth. The dragon's snowy beard draped over Jin like a blanket. His eyes, large orbs like crystal balls, gleamed as they watched him.

  "Many people in the palace will worry about you and miss you," Shenlai said, "but you can fall asleep here, and when you are sleeping, I will carry you home."

  Jin wiggled until he was comfortable and warm, but he did not feel safe. He was afraid of more assassins. He was afraid of the sunlit army in the west. And mostly he was afraid of his dearest friend dying.

  "I hope you never die," he whispered. "And if you do, you don't have to tell me your secret. You don't have to tell anyone. I'll miss you when you're gone, Shenlai, but I promise to be strong and wise like you taught me. I love you."

  His eyes closed and he slept, dreaming that he could fly on his own, a new dragon of the night, and reach the sun and the moon.

  CHAPTER TWO:

  THE SUN AND MOON

  "He's my half-brother."

  Koyee stared into the mirror, the horror dancing in her eyes like yezyani upon a pleasure den's stage.

  "Eelani . . . Ferius is my half-brother."

  Several moons ago, Torin had taken her hand, stroked her hair, and revealed the secret to her, translating the words Ferius had spoken in Bluefeather Corner as she had lain wounded at his feet. She had laughed then, had shoved Torin back, had refused to believe . . . and every turn since, she had stood here in her chamber, staring at her reflection, those ghosts dancing.

  "The demon of sunlight. Ferius the Cruel. The monk who nearly slew us in Bluefeather Corner. Eelani . . . he was born of my mother."

  Her shoulder spirit was silent, and Koyee could barely feel the usual warmth on her shoulder, the weight—light as a feather—of her invisible friend. Since the battle, Eelani had been so quiet, so still, barely more than the hint of a whisper. Sometimes Koyee wondered if the spirit was crushed under the pain of this war.

  And what of myself? Koyee stared at her reflection, seeking tears, pain, even a wince or grimace. Yet her face remained blank. A triangular face, her forehead too wide, her chin too small. Three scars—one across her brow, one along her cheek, and one tugging her lip into a half-smile. Long, smooth hair the color of snow. Her mother had died years ago, and many said that Koyee shared her features.

  He has them too, she realized. Ferius too had the wide brow, the small chin. Her eyes were large and lavender, and Ferius had beady eyes—a relic of his Timandrian father—but Koyee had seen her mother in his face.

  "His shame drives him," Torin had told her. "He's so ashamed of his mixed blood, of what he calls impurity, that now he seeks to slay all Elorians—a vengeance against your mother and what he believes was her sin."

  Koyee turned away from the mirror. She stared at her chamber, the humble abode of a yezyana. Fur blankets topped a simple bed. A few silk dresses hung on pegs, dragons and stars embroidered upon them. Her flute and several books lay upon her bedside table. Her father's katana, the legendary blade Sheytusung, was hidden inside a rolled-up blanket under her bed. It was a simple place far from home. Perhaps this was her home now.

  She looked out the window and saw them outside—the Timandrians troops, conquerors of her city. Somewhere out there, among them, he waited for her. Somewhere he was thinking of her, seeking her, dreaming of crushing her with his mace, of hushing all whispers of his shame.

  "Ferius," she whispered. "We would've welcomed you into our family, even after Mother died. We would've given you a home with us—with me, my father, and Okado." She lowered her head and finally her eyes watered. "But you invaded our land. You slew our people. You would slay me, and you would slay all the children of the night if you could." She grimaced, reached for her sword, and drew the blade. "But I will not let you. I swear to you, my half-brother. I hide for now in shadow, a yezyana named Madori, but I do not forget you. I do not forget your sin. So long as I can wield this sword, deep within me I am still Koyee of Oshy . . . and I remember."

 
Shouts rose from downstairs in the common room.

  "Madori! Madori Mai! You will play your flute now. Madori Mai!"

  She blinked and squared her shoulders. She lifted her clay mask from her bed—the mask of Madori, a hidden musician, a living doll. She hid her scars behind it. She placed down her sword and lifted her flute. It was a costly silver instrument and it played beautifully, but she often thought it worth less than her old bone flute, which she kept hidden under her mattress. She had played that bone flute upon the streets, an urchin in rags, and it had saved her life; perhaps it was now too precious to play.

  As she stepped downstairs and entered the smoky common room, men cheered and tossed coins her way. They were soldiers of Timandra seeking ale, song, and women to leer at. She stepped onto her stage, and she played her silver flute for these men, but behind her mask she thought of Ferius, and she thought of her sword.

  * * * * *

  Torin frowned at his book and struggled to form the words.

  "Ceshe—shee—" he said, wincing.

  "Ceshuey!" said Koyee, tapping the book with her fingernail. "Shuey . . . like . . . seleshuey fen, remember?" She frowned at him. "Ceshuey."

  Sitting on the bed beside her, Torin placed the book down on his lap, groaned, and shook his head. It seemed a remarkably complicated word for such a small, humble creature as a spider; he wondered when he'd even need to say 'spider' in Qaelish, the tongue of this city.

  They sat in her bedchamber in The Green Geode, the pleasure den where she played her flute. From downstairs in the common room, Torin could hear the sounds of singers, musicians, and drunken crowds; Koyee herself had only finished playing moments ago. It sounded like a good time, and Torin longed to step downstairs and join the fun, but Koyee glared at him and slapped the book again.

  "Look at book!" She spoke in his tongue of Ardish, her accent heavy. "Try again. Or you never learn."

  Torin sighed. "These words are too difficult to pronounce," he said, reverting to Ardish too, his tongue of sunlit lands. "Was Qaelish invented to break men's teeth?"

  Koyee rolled her eyes and slapped his shoulder. "No! Qaelish is beautiful. Qaelish is . . . how you say . . . words of poem?"

  "Poetic?" Torin suggested.

  She nodded. "Poetic. In Qaelish we say laerin. Like . . ." She made a movement with her hand. "Like wind and water. Laerin. Like flute music."

  Torin looked at her in wonder. Her accent was thick and her speech slow, but in only six months she had picked up a remarkable amount of his language. He had taught her some himself; she had learned the rest by simply keeping her ears open on the streets, listening to the soldiers occupying her home. Meanwhile, Torin had spent these six months struggling to learn her tongue—the language of this empire Torin found himself lost in.

  "Laerin," he said hesitantly, struggling to wrap his tongue around the foreign word. "Qaelish laerin tesinda. Qaelish is a musical language."

  She groaned and shook her head, hair swaying. "No! Qaelish tesinda laerin. Like that. Not like in Ardish. First the . . . how you say? The main word. Then the . . . other word."

  "First the noun, then the adjective," he said, feeling rather clever now that he was speaking Ardish again. "I understand. In your tongue I would say: Qaelish language musical."

  She nodded and finally allowed herself to smile. "Yes! You learn. Slowly. You little stupid. But I teach you."

  Her words were sharp but her eyes were soft. As much as Torin marveled at her skill with languages, he marveled at everything else about her. Her lavender eyes gleamed, as large and oval as chicken eggs. Her skin was snowy white, her hair long and smooth like cascading milk. Three scars stretched along her face—one halved her eyebrow, the other trailed across her cheek, and the third raised the corner of her mouth. And yet Torin thought her beautiful; these lines did not mar her face, he thought, but made her seem more enchanting, fierce, and strong. Her body, clad in a blue silk dress, seemed just as alluring to him, lithe yet curved in just the right places, and—

  "Torin!" She jabbed her finger against the book. "You look here. Not at me. Look at book."

  He swallowed, nodded, and quickly returned his eyes to the book. He felt his cheeks flush. She had caught him admiring her too many times, and Torin cursed himself.

  I'm a soldier of sunlight occupying her city of the night, he thought. I cannot let myself think of her . . . like that.

  Yet by Idar's beard, for the past six months, he had barely been able to banish these thoughts from his mind.

  He flipped a page in his book, cleared his throat, and tried to keep reading. This was only a children's book, full of myths of old philosophers who would wander the darkness of Eloria, yet Torin still struggled with the words. Ardish was written with a phonetic alphabet, left to right, but Qaelish utilized a complex system of runes inscribed top to bottom. He read out loud, speaking the story of Xen Qae, the wise founder of the Qaelish nation, who could communicate with animals and speak with the stars.

  "Fenea—" he said, stumbling over a word. "Fenaexe—"

  She leaned close, and her hair fell from behind her ear, grazing his arm. When she pointed at the book, her fingers brushed against his. He looked up at her and met her eyes, and he was struck by how close their faces were; he would only have to lean forward for their lips to meet. He felt the heat of her body, a warmth like embers during a winter snowfall. She stared back, then lowered her gaze shyly and withdrew her hand. A soft smile touched her lips.

  "Fenae xeluan," she said. "A hundred kisses." Now her cheeks were those to flush. "This is story of how Xen Qae met his wife, the beautiful Madori. I am named after her when I play flute." She met his gaze again, then blushed deeper and looked away. "I must play flute again now. I must go downstairs."

  She quickly rose from the bed, turned away from him, and left the chamber.

  Torin remained sitting on the bed, and a sigh rolled through him. Six months ago, he had marched into this city with a host of a hundred thousand Timandrians, his people of sunlight. Six months ago, he had slain a man, watched thousands die around him, and brought the wounded Koyee to this very chamber for healing and safety. Since then, he had returned to this chamber every hourglass turn, seeking her company. He told her that he wanted to learn Qaelish, that she was the finest teacher he could find, but the truth he kept hidden.

  I keep returning here to see you, Koyee, he thought, gazing at the door. To look into your eyes. To feel your fingers when they accidentally brush against mine. To hear your jokes, talk to you about animals, and make you smile. Because I—

  He shook his head wildly. Again these thoughts had come unbidden to his mind. Koyee might be intelligent, beautiful, and kind, but she was also Elorian, a daughter of the night. He was Timandrian, a soldier occupying her land. She was forbidden to him, and he vowed he would never return to this chamber again—the same vow he made every visit, the same vow he knew he'd break again.

  He rose to his feet and cracked his neck. He wore the steel and colors of Arden, one of Timandra's eight kingdoms of daylight. His steel breastplate was engraved with a raven, sigil of his people, while vambraces and greaves covered his limbs. A checkered cloak of gold and black draped across his shoulders. His sword hung at his side; he had not parted from this weapon since invading the night, and he often thought of it as a fifth limb, a part of him he hated but could not rid himself of.

  He had joined this army almost a year ago, and yet he still did not feel like a soldier, only a gardener. Often he missed his gardens back home—the rustling euonymus bushes, his flowerbeds of many colors, and the trees he grew from seed to sapling. But that was back in Timandra, the sunlit half of the world. No plants could grow here in Eloria, a land of eternal night. Often Torin wanted to run, to make his way upriver, to return to sunlight and start a new life away from this war. But always he stayed.

  "For you, Koyee," he said, gazing out the window at the city of Pahmey, this great hive his people had conqu
ered. Timandrian troops marched along the streets, swords drawn, thugs in steel puffing out their chests as Elorians cowered before them. "I promised to protect you. So long as danger marches along these streets, I will stay with you."

  He left the chamber, walked down a hallway, and made his way downstairs into the common room.

  When first arriving in The Green Geode, this pleasure den among the towers of Pahmey, he had found a lair full of bearded, frail spicers—men addicted to hintan, the purple dust they paid their fortunes for. Back then, the spicers had lain upon mattresses, smoking from hookahs, filling the room with green smoke. All that was gone. The city of Pahmey had new masters now, and The Green Geode served new patrons. A hundred Timandrian soldiers sat at tables where once mattresses had lain. Where spicers had once smoked in stupor, soldiers now drank ale and wine and cried out lustfully at the women performing on stages.

  The yezyani of The Green Geode wore flimsy silks, their faces painted, their jewels gaudy. Professional performers and flirts, they danced, sang, played music, and one—an impish little thing named Atana—made marionettes dance. Soldiers hooted from the tables, tossed empty mugs their way, and called for the women to sit on their laps or warm their beds. The yezyani laughed, batted their lashes, and winked at the crowd; promptly coins were tossed toward them.

  All but Koyee, that was. She stood upon a pedestal, a single calm pillar in a storm. A clay mask hid her face, painted white, for men across the city still sought the Girl in the Black Dress, the one who had slain so many Timandrian soldiers. On her pedestal, however, Koyee became only a masked musician, a ghost of sound. She held a silver flute to her lips and played soft, sad music that nearly drowned under the roar of the crowd.

  "Come here, little woman!" cried one soldier, a scruffy man with a yellow beard and red face. "Come play here on my lap."

  Another Timandrian soldier guffawed. "He's a drunk! Ignore him and join me in my chamber. Elorian men are weak as boys; I'll show you a real man."