Empires of Moth (The Moth Saga, Book 2) Page 3

  Other soldiers, cheeks red with booze, catcalled at Koyee and reached out toward her, but she ignored them. She kept playing, eyes closed, until the soldiers grunted and turned to call out toward more receptive yezyani.

  "You don't belong in a place like this, Koyee," Torin said softly, his voice drowning in the din.

  He had seen her fight against armies, a single woman with a sword. He had seen her courage and wisdom. And yet . . . a young orphan girl, only seventeen, unwed, the monks of Sailith hunting her . . . where else could she hide but here?

  At the thought of Sailith, Torin grumbled and clutched the hilt of his sword. The monks of sunlight had almost killed him and Koyee during the invasion of this city. Since then, the Sailith Order had spread through Pahmey like rot. Their banners rose upon the old temples of starlight. Their monks presided in columned halls, judging Elorians to die for crimes as petty as busking on the streets or daring to meet a Timandrian's eyes.

  "And they're hunting you, Koyee," Torin whispered. "Since you wounded Ferius, he hasn't stopped hunting you."

  As if to answer his thoughts, the main door creaked open behind him.

  Torin spun toward it and his heart sank.

  "Speak of demons," he grumbled.

  In the doorway, holding a lantern, stood the monk Ferius.

  Short of frame and broad of shoulders, Ferius stared into the pleasure den, lip curling. His beady, far-set eyes narrowed in disgust, as if he were staring at a rotten carcass. His black hair was receding from a broad, thrusting brow, slicked back like some oily rag. He seemed to Torin like a hairless, rabid dog prepared to strike. In the past six months, the monk's superiors—aging preachers of hatred from the capital—had mysteriously fallen to Elorian daggers, rotten meat, and other accidental deaths. Though still a young man—not yet forty—Ferius now ruled the Sailith Order, a group of hundreds of monks and countless worshipers among the Timandrian host.

  Ferius sniffed—a loud, dry sound like a bellows. "So this is a . . . pleasure den." He wrinkled his nose. "Looks more like a den of disease and debauchery."

  Bringing a handkerchief to his nose, he took a step deeper into The Green Geode. He brushed his yellow robes as if trying to remove the smell of the place. With him came his bodyguards, three men clad in crimson armor, sunbursts upon their breastplates, their faces hidden within helmets. Here were the bloodsuns, warriors of Sailith, a force Ferius had founded in the darkness after his battle with Koyee. Monks in armor, their faith forbade them to bear blades, and so they wielded flanged maces to crush bones. Rather than their old yellow robes, they wore mustard cloaks over steel plates. Since his injury, Ferius never traveled anywhere without these devout thugs at his side.

  The cheering died across the den. The dancers froze upon their stages. Even Koyee, masked upon her pedestal, paused with her flute an inch from her lips.

  "What are you doing here, Ferius?" Torin said, unable to curb his own sneer. He walked between tables toward the monk. "Return to your temple; this is a place for soldiers, not the Sailith."

  Ferius's lips stretched into a cruel mockery of a grin, a twisted mask of small teeth and a darting tongue. His eyes blazed with amusement.

  "You think you are safe, Torin the Gardener, child of sunlight who slithers in shadow." Ferius licked his chops like a snake about to swallow a mouse. "You think are safe, perhaps, thanks to that King Ceranor whom you serve as ward." Ferius leaned closer, breath hissing against Torin's face. "Yet you are not safe, child. Not here in the dark. Not under the light of Sailith. Your king cannot protect you forever. The fire of Sailith will burn you . . . and it will burn that girl you hide. Yes, gardener. I know that you hide her. I will find her. Perhaps the king protects your blood, but he will not protect the precious Girl in the Black Dress."

  Torin shoved the monk back. "Stay away from me, snake. So long as Ceranor lives, you are nothing but his dog." He gripped his hilt and drew a foot of steel. "This is no lair for Sailith. Leave this place. Leave or I'll shove this steel into your belly of bile."

  At his sides, Ferius's bodyguards raised their maces. The iron gleamed red in the lamplight as if already bloodied. Armor creaked, and Torin drew the rest of his blade. All sounds died; not a note wafted and not a man seemed to breathe.

  With a snort, Ferius waved his bodyguards back. "No, my warriors. The boy is a pet of his king. I will let him live. Death would be a kindness to him." Ferius licked his teeth. "I want him to live to suffer. When we find this Girl in the Black Dress, the savage he was willing to die for, he will watch her burn." Ferius met Torin's gaze, and the monk's eyes blazed with fervor and bloodlust. "Yes, you will watch her suffer, boy. Her death will be slow. She will die not in a great pyre, no . . . but linger for ages of agony. And you will hear her every scream."

  Torin sucked in his breath, remembering the Elorian—Koyee's father—whom Ferius had burned at the stake. The stench of smoldering bones still filled Torin's nightmares. To see Koyee burn too . . . it would fill Torin with a pain that would consume him. For a moment, he could only stare at the monk in horror; in Ferius's eyes, he saw visions of burning flesh, Koyee and thousands of her fellow Elorians screaming in the Sailith fire.

  I won't let that happen, Torin thought, grinding his teeth.

  "You have three guards with you," Torin said, refusing to break the stare. "Fifty soldiers loyal to King Ceranor sit behind me. You have five hundred monks in your halls, the Elorian temples you stole and converted to your twisted faith. My king commands a hundred thousand troops. I warn you now: Leave this blade or you will taste my blade again. Yes, Ferius. You've tasted my steel before. I see the scar on your cheek has not healed."

  Ferius raised his hand to touch the white line; Torin had given him that wound last autumn, fighting in the square while Koyee lay bleeding at their feet. Torin wished he had finished the job then.

  "A single monk of Sailith shines with more light than a million soldiers lost in darkness," Ferius said. Finally he broke the stare, turning to gaze across the room. "Dancers and singers perform upon these stages. Yet I think them closer to harlots. See how their silks barely cover that weak, sickly flesh of Elorian pallor. They disgust me." He brushed past Torin, moving closer to examine the yezyani who stood frozen upon their stages, watching him. "I wonder if one among them is the creature I seek."

  Torin's heart thudded. Koyee no longer wore a black dress but blue silk. She no longer held a katana but a flute. A mask hid her face. And yet cold sweat trickled down Torin's back as Ferius moved from yezyana to yezyana, his eyes narrowed like a butcher scrutinizing fowls to choose one for beheading.

  "Ferius, the king commanded you slay no civilians, and these women—"

  Ferius snickered. "Women, are they? I call them creatures. The Elorians have no men, no women, no children. They are not human. They are not even animals. They are demons to be burned in our sunfire." The monk came so stand before Lilika, a tall and beautiful yezyana who sang for soldiers. "This one is too tall and fair." He turned toward Atana, the impish puppeteer. "This one is too short and scrawny, a pale little worm." He looked at two dancers next, then finally turned to stare at Koyee. "Ah . . . and what have we here? An Elorian of the right size, her face hidden behind a mask. I wonder . . . do three scars hide behind that mask?"

  Koyee stood still upon her stage, flute in hand. Her mask was blank, but her body spoke of tense fear and anger; she seemed ready to pounce onto Ferius and attack with tooth and nail.

  Visions of her father burning in his mind, Torin stomped between tables of soldiers, grabbed Ferius's shoulders, and tugged him back.

  "Leave the yezyani alone," he said, clutching Ferius's collar.

  Ferius sneered, spraying saliva. "Yezyani? You speak their tongue now, boy? Beware . . . for if I deem you a demon too, even your king could not protect you. Perhaps I will burn this creature upon her stage, and after you see her death, I will burn you too."

  Torin shoved the monk.

  Fe
rius stumbled backwards. His back hit a table, and mugs of ale fell and shattered.

  Around the pleasure den, men leaned back and sucked in their breath. Ferius's bloodsuns advanced, maces in hand. Torin growled and raised his sword, placing himself between Koyee and the monks. Snarling, Ferius pushed himself off the table and lifted his own mace. Torin dared to hope his fellow soldiers in the den would fight with him, but the men only moved toward the walls, watching as Torin stood alone before the monks.

  And so we fight again, Torin thought, heart pounding and breath quick. The four monks—Ferius in his yellow robes and his bloodsuns in crimson steel—advanced toward him. I will not let them touch you, Koyee.

  He was prepared to swing his sword when the doors banged open again.

  Cold wind blew into the pleasure den, extinguishing a lamp.

  Three figures—one tall, one beefy, and one short—stood in the doorway, the street lamps bright behind them.

  "I told you boys!" said the tall figure. "You had to turn left at the fish market."

  The beefy figure whined. "I did turn left! This whole city is a labyrinth. Why did Torin have to pick a tavern so far away? Can we get something to eat now?"

  The short figure groaned. "Hem, we could have eaten hours ago, if you hadn't—ow, Bailey!"

  The tall figure grabbed the others by the ears and tugged, dragging them into The Green Geode. As they stepped inside, the lamplight fell upon them. The glow illuminated Bailey Berin, a tall young woman with flashing brown eyes, two golden braids, and pale armor. Twisting their ears, she dragged forward Cam and Hem, two younger boys from her village, now soldiers in her service. When the three saw the monks ahead, their eyes widened.

  "What in the name of Idar is going on here?" Bailey demanded. She released the boys and drew her sword. "Ferius! I told you that no monks are allowed in here." Her eyes moved to Torin, then widened further. "Winky! And I told you—stay away from these thugs. Do you really think you can fight them alone, a scrawny boy like you?"

  Torin stood with his sword raised, not sure if he felt more relief or annoyance. The monks, who had been advancing toward him, grunted and spun between him and the new arrivals.

  Within heartbeats, his three friends—his dearest, closest friends in the world—were standing beside him, their swords drawn. Bailey sneered and sliced the air with her blade. Even the lumbering Hem and the diminutive Cam, hardly the fiercest soldiers in this army, managed to look somewhat menacing as they brandished their weapons.

  Ferius hissed at them like a snake. "So you cannot fight your own battles, boy." The monk spat; the glob landed near Torin's boot. "Still you hide behind the skirts of your gangly female friend." He sneered at Bailey. "The girl who fashions herself a warrior has not yet tasted pain. But she will. She will burn among the heathens."

  Bailey growled. "Come and try to burn me, snake." She swung her sword, forcing the monks back a step. "We end this here."

  Ferius's lip curled so far back it nearly touched his nose. With a grunt, the monk spun on his heel.

  "Come, my paladins of sunlight," he said to his men. "We will not brawl in a tavern like lowly peasants." He looked over his shoulder, giving Torin an evil glare. "We will deal them our justice, but not here in the shadows. All those who seek to protect the creatures will stand trial. They will confess their sins within our halls, and we will smell the sweetness of their flesh burning for Sailith."

  "Yeah, you keep walking away!" Bailey called after him. "Go and hide, Ferius! If you ever set foot here again, I will show you no more mercy. Run, dog! Run with your tail between your legs."

  "Bailey, don't goad him," Torin said, placing a hand on her shoulder, but he had to confess—the sight of the monks leaving the tavern, their pride wounded, swelled his chest.

  For another moment, silence filled The Green Geode.

  Then a soldier grumbled and gulped down his ale. Another began to sing a drunken song. Soon the yezyani were dancing and singing again, and the pleasure den returned to its former state of song, drink, smoke, and lights.

  Bailey slammed her sword back into its scabbard and shook her fist at the door. "It's almost too bad he fled. I rather wanted to stick my sword into him."

  Torin stared at the door grimly. "He'll be back with more of his thugs. Instead of three men, he'll return with a hundred." Belly sinking, he turned toward Koyee and gazed upon her. Through the holes in her mask, her eyes met his. "We have to get you out of here, Koyee. We're leaving. Now."

  CHAPTER THREE:

  THE SISTERS OF HARMONY

  As Torin dragged her down the street, Koyee tried to resist, planting her feet firmly on the ground.

  "Torin!" she said, speaking in his tongue. "I no scared of him. If my half-brother come back, I fight him." The foreign words of Arden, his kingdom of sunlight, still felt awkward around her tongue, but she had mastered his language better than he spoke hers, and so she plowed on. "I wear mask in Green Geode and I have . . . how you say . . . little sword?"

  She caressed her poniard, which she kept strapped to her thigh under her silken dress. Many a time, she had stroked that hidden blade, dreaming of shoving it into Ferius's throat. Her katana she kept inside a rolled-up blanket that now swung across her back. Should Timandrian soldiers catch her with a blade, they would place her against the wall and slice her throat. She had seen enough Elorians murdered on these streets to keep her weapons concealed.

  And yet, while the streets were dangerous, she had always felt safe in The Green Geode. Since the enemy had conquered Pahmey with fire and steel, the pleasure den had served as an oasis of calm, a place of music and drink where even Timandrians—murderous soldiers who had slain so many—drank and sang and, for a few hours, could be nothing but boys who missed home, seeking distraction in the bottom of mugs and the beauty of yezyani.

  "A poniard won't help if Ferius returns with a hundred monks," Torin said, leading her by the hand. "And he will. He's been seeking you for six months—the Girl in the Black Dress, the one who wounded him. He now knows you play in The Green Geode . . . or suspects it, at least." He looked at her, his one eye green, the other black. "You can never return."

  They walked down a cobbled street lined with braziers. He wore the armor of an Ardish soldier; she still wore her blue silk, her face hidden behind the clay mask yezyani often wore when performing plays or dances. If she walked alone along these streets, she knew that soldiers would harass her, rifle through her pack, leer and snicker, and might even attack. But with Torin at her side, all other Timandrians she passed—these tall, burly soldiers of sunlight, so much larger than slim Elorians—barely spared her a glance. It was not uncommon for Timandrian soldiers to walk with Elorian women on their arms, especially not yezyani, professional comforters of local and foreign men. Already some Elorian bellies were swelling with the children of Timandrian men.

  "Torin!" she said again, trying to free her hand from his grip. "I no scared of him. Let him come back." She snarled. "I stabbed his leg last time. Next time, I stab his heart."

  He stopped walking, though he still held her hand. In his eyes, she saw haunting memory and pain. It wiped the smile off her face and chilled her belly. She touched his cheek. His skin was still darker than hers, though with every moon in the endless night of Eloria, it grew paler.

  "What wrong?" she whispered.

  He lowered his head, took a deep breath, and looked around the street. A group of Timandrian soldiers stood outside a nearby pottery shop. A knight rode down the street upon his horse. Only three Elorians could be seen—young women rushing home from the market, mushrooms and fish in their baskets, quickening their steps as the Timandrians catcalled and jeered. Koyee heard one soldier mumble, ". . . too scrawny, these savage girls are, but I'd take the short one to my barracks."

  Eyes darkening, Torin led Koyee into an alleyway. The facades of a teahouse and a barbershop flanked them. Two stray cats—animals that had come unbidden aboard the Timandrian ships
—hissed in the shadows and scurried deeper into the darkness.

  "Koyee, Ferius is . . ." Torin began, and even though he spoke his own tongue now, she could tell the words pained him. "He is more dangerous than you know. Especially now that he rules the Sailith Order. He's capable of evil you cannot imagine." He squeezed her hand. "I told you that he's your half brother, but . . . I haven't told you everything. It hurt too much. Oh, merciful Idar."

  She caressed his cheek. "What is it, Torin? You can tell me."

  He clenched his jaw and could not meet her eyes. "I was there when he died. Your father." Finally he looked up and met her gaze, and she saw the ghosts within them. "I saw him burned at the stake. The man who judged him, who lit the fires, who murdered your father . . . was Ferius. And if he can, Koyee, he will murder you too. He will murder everyone in this city. Please don't goad him. Hide."

  Koyee felt as if the alley—no, the entire city—crumbled around her. All the lights of Pahmey, from the lanterns in the boulevard to the gleaming towers on the hilltop, seemed to vanish, and even the stars lost their shine.

  Stars above, my father . . . I fought the man who killed him and . . .

  A snarl rose deep inside her, fleeing her lips like steam. She ground her teeth. She reached into her rolled up blanket, grabbed the hilt of her sword, and shoved past Torin.

  "I will kill him now," she said, eyes burning. "I will find him and . . . and . . ."

  The rage and pain flowed over her. She no longer knew where she stood. She felt arms wrap around her, and she tried to free herself, but they held her firmly. She struggled. She kicked. But he kept holding her, her Torin, the boy who was her friend, the boy who had saved her, and she let him hold her. She let him stroke her hair. She trembled against him until she could see again.

  "We will kill him someday," Torin said. "I promise you. You will be avenged. I will not rest until Ferius sees justice for his crimes, until my people are cleansed of his poison. But not now. Not in this city. Not like this. He's too strong now, and if we face him, we will die."