Empires of Moth (The Moth Saga, Book 2) (16 page)

Someday
I will kill you, you little worm,
Ferius thought, staring at the babe, the child of his mother and her
new, Elorian husband.
I
will burn you dead, Okado.

His
mother was speaking to him, tears on her cheeks, but Ferius ignored
her. He sat sullenly, refusing to look at her large, lavender eyes,
at her white hair, at her milky skin. She had married another. She
had given birth to a better child. Ferius hated her as much as he
hated himself. His eyes stung and he hugged himself, staring away
from her.

"Ferius."
She touched his hair. "Oh, my sweet Ferius, what did—"

"Don't
touch me!" he said. "Take me home. Do not speak to me."
He dug his fingernails into his palms. "This is your fault."

Holding
an oar in one hand, she tried to touch his hair again.

Ferius
struck her.

His
hand slammed into her cheek, and she whimpered and cowered. The babe
Okado woke and wept.

"You
made me!" Ferius screamed, tears flowing, voice shaking. "You
bedded a sunlit demon! You gave birth to a freak. This is your fault.
All your fault."

She
wept and Ferius grabbed the oar from her. His arms shook as he
steered the boat to the riverbanks. He climbed out, still wet and
shivering in the cold, and glared at his mother, at a woman he hated.

"The
people of Eloria call me a freak," he said. "You will
suffer. Your lands will burn." He screamed hoarsely. "I
will travel to sunlight . . . and I will return with the fire to burn
you all."

He
turned away.

He
ran along the riverbank, heading toward the dusk.

"Ferius!"
his mother cried behind him, still sitting in the boat. "Ferius,
please!"

He
ignored her. He ran as fast as he could, barely able to see through
his tears. He ran past the village. He ran out of shadow. He ran into
the dusk, a land of glimmering lights like a thousand lamps.

He
ran until he emerged into the blinding, searing, all-consuming light
of endless day.

He
kept running.

He
ran through sunlight that burned his skin and blazed in his eyes. He
ran through landscapes of swaying colors, of growing things, of life
everywhere—sprouting from the earth, flying in the sky, scurrying
away from his boots. He ran through dreamscapes of fantasy—past
towering creatures with thin brown bodies and feathery green hair,
over rugs of emerald fur that spread across hills and valleys, and
under a sky of blue emptiness with no star or moon.

And
everywhere . . . everywhere the sun.

"God
of light," he whispered, lying in the green, staring up at the
great yellow eye. "My lord of heat and unforgiving justice."

It
burned his eyes. It burned his skin. And Ferius lay, laughing,
worshiping the inferno above, the eternal flame of Timandra.

The
river flowed here too, not silver under moonlight, but blue under the
blaze of that fiery sky lord. Ferius caught fish. He ate raw flesh.
He laughed and drank and ran onward, moving ever away from darkness.

When
the monks found him, their robes yellow like the sun, he was a frail,
mad thing, a miserable wretch that lay tattered on the riverbanks,
laughing and feasting upon the animals he caught. His skin was
peeling, his bones jutting, but still he laughed and worshiped his
lord.

"Child
of sunlight," the monks said, kneeling around him. "Share
our wine and bread."

He
blinked at them and laughed again, for they looked like him. Their
skin was darker, their frames taller, but they had his eyes. The
small eyes of sunlit lands.

"I
am Timandrian," he whispered between chafed lips.

The
men nodded. "You are a child of light. Sailith will bless you."

They
gave him food they called bread—a round thing like a mushroom, soft
and filling and buttery.

"Who
is Sailith?" he asked between mouthfuls, sitting on the
riverbank.

The
men in yellow robes smiled. "Sailith is light. Sailith is fire.
Sailith is the dominion of daylight and the fall of night."

Ferius
bolted upright. He leaped to his feet and snarled. "The night
will burn. The savages of darkness will drown in light."

The
monks looked at one another, then back to him, and their smiles
vanished. They nodded. "The darkness will burn. Join us, child
of sunlight. Join our temple . . . and help us fight the evil in the
east."

I
will not help you,
Ferius
thought, crushing the bread in his fist. He looked back toward the
east, seeking the distant land of shadows, but it lay too far to see.
The bread crumbled, and he drove his fingernails into his palms.
I
will lead you.

And he led them. Through light.
Into darkness. To endless flame.

Twenty-five
years ago, you found me starving on the riverbank, Sailith,
he thought, inhaling the smoke.
You
gave me life. And now I give you fire.

He stood on the stairs outside
Pahmey's library, gazing down upon the mountain of burning corpses.
The blood of Eloria still coated his hands. He raised them high and
shouted for his people to hear.

"Behold the light of
Sailith! Behold the fire of the sun." He inhaled deeply,
savoring the smell of burning flesh. "The day is victorious."

The fire rose as tall as a
temple, searing the air, but Ferius welcomed the heat against his
flesh. The sparks and smoke landed on him; he welcomed the pain as
gifts from his lord. Thousands of corpses burned below in the square.
Soldiers kept streaming in from the streets, shoving wheelbarrows
with more bodies and dumping them into the flames. They cheered as
every new savage burned. More soldiers kept moving up and down the
stairs around Ferius, entering the shadowy halls and emerging with
scrolls and books. They tossed these too into the fire, feeding this
god of wrath and light and heat, stoking the endless glory. The
ancient spells of the night, scrawled upon parchment, crackled and
burned among the creatures who wrote them.

"All knowledge of Eloria
will fade!" Ferius shouted. "All demons of darkness will
burn. I vowed to you, my people, that we would light the night. The
night burns!"

His followers surrounded the
fire. They stood in the square, the flames painting their faces. They
filled the streets. They covered the roofs, chanting for victory. No
more darkness covered this city; the light banished all shadows. No
more stars shone in the sky; red smoke and white ash covered that
canopy now. No more Elorians infested Pahmey; they burned in his
flames.

"And you will burn too,
Torin the Gardener," Ferius said softly, words for only himself
to hear. As men stepped downstairs around him, carrying more library
scrolls to burn, Ferius clenched his fists. "You will not burn
in a great fire; you will burn slowly, one inch of your body after
another, and you will scream louder than this army."

He drove his fingernails into
his palms, feeling his blood seep and mingle with the demon blood
already staining his hands. He bit down so harshly a tooth chipped.
Yes, he had seen the boy flee upon the river. The girl Bailey had
been with him, the pampered daughter of nobles; Ferius swore that he
would slay her grandfather himself, for the highborn of Arden were as
demons to him, little better than the creatures of the night.

"And you too fled me, my
half-sister," he whispered, savoring the taste of her name. "Yes
. . . you wore the mask of the Sisterhood, but I know it was you. I
will catch you too, Koyee of Eloria. But you I will not burn. No. You
I will keep alive." He licked his lips as if tasting her. "When
all other Elorians have burned, you I will keep as my pet. I will
place you in a cage, a starved and broken thing, and parade you
around the lands of Timandra. I will take you from kingdom to
kingdom, from city to village, and let all gaze upon you—the last
Elorian of Moth." He laughed. "They will mock you and pity
you, but I will show you no pity."

The wound in his leg—the one
Koyee had given him—flared with pain. Even six months later, Ferius
walked with a limp. The pain kept his mind sharp, his passion hot. It
would guide him across the night until he found her. She lurked now
among the wolves of the southern plains; Ferius knew of those beasts,
savages the fallen King Ceranor had been too cowardly to fight. But
Ferius was no coward; the Chanku too would burn in his glory.

He looked north toward the
hill's crest. Minlao Palace had fallen; its stub rose like a broken
bone, a monument to his victory. He returned his eyes to the crowd
and shouted anew.

"Muster your weapons,
soldiers of sunlight! Polish armor and sharpen swords. A city has
fallen. An empire will burn!"

The soldiers chanted for the sun
and raised their swords. Ferius tilted his head back, closed his
eyes, and savored the scent of flesh.

 
 
CHAPTER TWELVE:
THE DAUGHTER OF WOLVES

My father is fallen.

He
stood alone in his tent—the wide, towering tent of an alpha, its
poles silvered, its leather walls painted with leaping wolves. He
stood with his head lowered, his heart clenched into a tight ball.

I
have a half-brother.

Okado closed his eyes. No tears
flowed, for he ruled a great pack, a warrior leading many warriors,
the strongest of his people. Yet still the pain clawed inside him,
dragging the memories through him.

My
mother loved a Timandrian. She birthed a demon. Ferius slew my
father.

At
first, Okado had refused to believe Koyee . . . but he had seen the
truth in her eyes. That truth now tore inside him like a wolf at
flesh. If the stars themselves were falling and the sun rising, Okado
would not feel as lost.

He could see his father again in
the darkness—a wise soldier, his wars over, a fishing rod in his
hand instead of a sword. Okado was young again, sitting upon the
riverbanks of the Inaro River. The dusk glowed orange, casting the
glimmers that brought bass and crayfish to breed and flourish and
feed his family. His father sat at his side, showing Okado how to
raise a lamp above the water, drawing the fish near.

"Tell me about the war,
Father," the child had begged. "Tell me stories of heroes
and swords and battles."

His father had only smiled
sadly. "There is no glory in tales of war. There is more honor
in a fishing rod than a sword. There is more courage in feeding your
family than slaying a man."

Standing in his tent, a man
himself now, Okado grimaced.

"I railed against you,
Father." His fists shook. "I wanted to be a hero too, to
ignore your words, to fight my own war—to find that honor in battle.
So I left you. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I should have been there with
you at the end."

His sister had shared the news
with him hours ago, and Okado had stormed into his tent. How could he
ever emerge? He led many now, a fisherman's son grown into an alpha
rider, and his people needed him, but Okado felt that he had less
honor than the old man who had died upon the riverbank.

"What do I do now, Father?
How do I protect Koyee? How do I protect all those who need me?"

He stared at the tent walls,
praying for guidance, missing his father's wisdom. He was a grown
man, and he had a mate of his own, yet now he felt very young, still
a child needing the wisdom of men.

A voice spoke softly behind him.
"You will lead them to hope. You will be the light to guide
them."

Okado turned around. He saw
Suntai there. She stood at the entrance to the tent, holding up a
leather flap. The moonlight outlined her white, cascading hair and
her tall, slender form. Her eyes gleamed like blue moons. She entered
the tent, letting the flap drop behind her, and approached him.

She took his hand and touched
his cheek. "I'm here for you, Okado. Through victory, through
glory, through darkness and light, through death and hope, I ride by
your side. Always. In this life and in the great sky beyond."

She kissed his lips, and he held
her against him, her hair like snow against his cheek.

"Always, my mate," he
said softly and kissed her forehead. "Always we ride together."

He held her for a long time.
They stood in stillness, silence, and warmth.

I'm
not wise like you, Father,
he thought.
I'm
not as strong, as noble, as humble. But I will lead them. I will
fight for Koyee, for my pack, for all the people of the night.

He held his mate's hand. She
smiled sadly, eyes gleaming. Hand in hand, they left the tent and
walked across the crater between their people—the proud riders of
Chanku, the last survivors of Pahmey, and the children of sunlight
who had joined their cause. Over the horizon, the smoke rose and the
flame burned, but here in the shadows, his mate, his sister, and the
memory of his father lit his way.

They stood upon Wolfjaw Mountain,
the sacred ground where all great decisions of the pack were made.
They stood around Suntai: her mate, the brave Okado; her mate's
sister, the young Koyee; and the five Timandrians who had fled their
own people, a young queen and four soldiers. All eyes gazed upon
her—Suntai, queen of wolves. They stood between the mountain's jaws
of stone. Below across the plains, the rest of her pack
waited—thousands of riders upon thousands of wolves, her noble
people, all awaiting her decree.

My
mate leads us in battle,
Suntai thought.
Yet
I am the alpha female. When swords are sheathed, it is I who lead.
And now I must decide.

She
took a deep breath, raised her chin, and spoke in a clear voice.

"The enemy will not rest.
They saw us across the water; they will seek to burn us too. This I
do not doubt. A beast of sunlight roams our land, and one city will
not fill its belly. They will crave the Chanku Pack, and they will
crave all the lands of night—here in Qaelin and beyond our borders.
Under these stars, as Pahmey burns on the horizon, we must choose our
path."