Shadows of Moth (4 page)

The face inside the locket
smiled and waved.

Koyee gasped and nearly dropped
the locket. She spun toward her daughter, eyes wide. She saw that
Madori was holding open an identical locket of her own, waving toward
it.

"What . . ." Koyee
began. She looked back into the locket Madori had given her, and she
saw her daughter's face inside again. Only it was no painting, she
realized. It was a reflection of the real Madori.

"The two lockets are
linked," Madori explained. "Mine and yours. One peers out
of the other. Look inside your locket again."

Koyee looked back at her locket
in wonder. As Madori moved her own locket from side to side, the view
changed.

"They are windows,"
Koyee whispered.

Madori nodded. "With our
two lockets, we can always see each other. Each locket is a magical
eye." She grinned. "I made them with magic. See, it's very
simple! Each locket actually has a mirror inside. All I had to do was
magically link the mirrors. Now your locket reflects whatever light
goes into my locket, and vice versa. Essentially, when you look into
your locket, you're just looking into my mirror—sort of. It's a bit
more complex than that. It's an application of Feshavern's Fifth
Principle as applied to artifacts and the bending of light. Professor
Rushavel taught us this magic back at Teel University. I can explain
more about how—"

"It's all right, daughter."
Koyee smiled. "I think I prefer my magic with a tinge of
mystery." She kissed Madori's cheek. "Thank you. I will
worry less now that I can watch over you."

Madori nodded. "I'll keep
my locket closed most of the time. I don't want you always watching!
But whenever the moon hits its zenith, I'll open the locket and look
inside, and I'll wave to you so you know I'm all right. Will you do
the same?"

Koyee's eyes dampened, and she
could barely speak without crying. "Of course." She
embraced her daughter. "Of course. I love you, Madori. Be safe
out there."

Madori nodded. "Ouch,
Mother! You're crushing me. I'll be safe. Now let go and stop
crying."

After her daughter left the
room, Koyee slung the locket around her neck. It rested beside her
other amulet—the little gear she had taken from Cabera Clock, the
gear that kept the world locked between day and night. The two
talismans—one of family, one of the world—rested side by side
against her chest. She placed her hand over them and stared out the
window at the night.

* * * * *

Tirus Serin, the Light of Radian,
the Emperor of Mageria, stood upon the hill and watched his army
muster at the border of night.

Once a village had nestled in
the valley, a little backwater called Fairwool-by-Night, home to that
mongrel Madori. Once the little beast's house had stood here, its
roof woven of thatch, its gardens lush. Once an old maple tree had
grown from the village square, shading the staircase of a columned
library. Once five hundred souls had lived here on the border of
darkness, the most eastern settlement in all Timandra.

The village was gone.

Where Madori's house had stood
now rose a great marble statue, twenty feet tall, depicting
him—Emperor Serin—gazing upon the darkness. Atop the ash of burnt
houses stood iron cannons shaped as buffaloes; the filthy
nightcrawlers had discovered the secrets of gunpowder, and now these
Magerian guns would turn their own invention against them.

Beyond the cannons, where once
fields had swayed, stood Serin's troops. Five thousand horsemen
mustered here, each rider clad in steel and bearing lance, sword, and
shield—a vanguard to charge through the gates of darkness and smash
the walls of the Elorian cities. Thirty thousand soldiers stood
beyond the horses: archers clad in boiled leather, their longbows
taller than men, their arrows powerful enough to punch through armor;
pikemen in chain mail, their pole-arms serrated and cruel; and many
swordsmen in breastplates, their longswords wide, double-edged, and
two-handed, blades to crash through the thin Elorian katanas. These
men would swarm through the night cities, plundering, destroying,
slaying every nightcrawler they found.

Finally, in the river, anchored
dozen of warships. Shields hung across their hulls, each displaying
the Radian eclipse. Their masts rose tall, and slaves manned their
oars—mostly Ardishmen with whipped backs and collared necks. Upon
the warships' decks stood Serin's finest warriors—his mages. Their
robes were black, their faces hooded. Their magic would bring the
nightcrawlers to their knees.

"All this is only a single
fist," Serin said softly. "Very soon now, more troops will
arrive from the capital. Very soon now, we will have a host to light
every last corner of the night."

"I want her to watch,"
Lari said, voice strained. "I want Madori to see the night burn.
To see her people scream in flame. To see her cities fall and
shatter. I want my filthy cousin to watch every sword thrust into
every heart, to see every babe ripped from its mother and crushed, to
see every every throat slit." Lari clenched her fists, and the
wind streamed her hair. "Madori will witness the anguish of the
night before we drag her back into the day."

Serin
looked at his daughter. Lari was a proud woman of the Magerian race,
tall and strong and fair, her eyes blue, her hair golden—a paragon
of purity. The nightcrawlers her scarred her cheeks on the road
outside of Teel, but powder and rouge now hid the two pale lines.
How
wonderful the Timandrian!
Serin thought, admiring her.
How
superior we are to the sub-humans of the night!
Pride
welling in him, Serin stroked Lari's cheek.

Serin's aunt had married Teramin
Greenmoat, a weak knight with peasant roots—that had been bad
enough. But then Torin Greenmoat, Teramin's son, had gone on to marry
a nightcrawler, further polluting the family's blood. The ultimate
insult was Madori, a half-nightcrawler in the family. Serin shuddered
in disgust to imagine that he shared blood with that beast. As pure
as Lari was, Madori was filthy, a stain upon his family, a stain he
must efface.

"We will make Madori
watch," he said. "She will see every death in Eloria before
we take her to her father. And then she will see his death too."
His hand, which caressed Lari's cheek, was missing one finger. Madori
had taken that finger from him, and Serin's pulse quickened. "But
Madori will not die. She will be the last nightcrawler in Mythimna,
and we will keep her alive to a very old age. With magic, we can
extend her age to hundreds of years." Serin sucked in breath,
already imagining it. "She will travel the world in a cage, from
town to town, a freak for the people of our empire to marvel at. The
mongrel will become our pet, our circus animal. All will see her and
scorn her."

Serin caressed the stump of his
finger, and a thin smile stretched across his lips to remember
Madori: her large lavender eyes; her strange black hair,
cropped-short aside from two long strands that framed her face; and
the fire in her heart, the fire that had driven her to attack him. It
was almost a shame that she was half nightcrawler. With that much
passion within her, Madori could have made a good warrior in his
hosts, perhaps even a good mate to warm his bed; Serin had not been
with a woman since his wife had died. Yet fire or not, Madori was a
mongrel, tainted, filthy. When Serin met her again, he would break
her.

"Look, Father!" Lari
said, pointing west. "The boat arrives."

Serin clasped his hands
together. "Splendid!"

It was a small vessel, its hull
black, its sails displaying two crossed scrolls—emblem of Teel
University. Several slaves sat chained to oars, propelling the boat
onward. A stooped man stood at the prow, black cloak wrapped tightly
around him. His nose was as curved as his back, his eyes were beady,
and a ring of oily hair surrounded the bald crest of his head. He
looked like some gangly vulture, and even his fingers, which clasped
his cloak, looked like talons, complete with long sharp nails. As
fair as Serin was, this man was foul. Serin was a warrior of
nobility, of pride, of wide shoulders and a proud stance, a lion
among lesser creatures; here before him emerged a scavenger.

A
useful scavenger,
Serin thought.
A
tool, no different than my cannons and sword.

"Professor Atratus!"
Serin called out. "Welcome to the dusk."

The professor's small eyes
stared across the mustering armies at the hilltop where Serin stood.
The mage placed his fist against his chest.

"Radian rises!" he
called out.

The boat navigated between the
Magerian warships, a piranha moving between sharks. Two hooded mages
stood upon the deck behind Atratus, holding whips of fire. Those
whips cracked, slamming against the backs of rowing slaves. As the
boat drew closer, Serin noticed that several Elorian skulls—the eye
sockets freakishly large—hung upon the buffalo figurehead.

You
are a twisted bastard,
Serin thought, staring at Atratus.
A
man after my own heart.

The boat docked at the pier.
Ardish merchant boats would once dock here, load the bounty of
Timandra, and send the gifts of sunlight—fruits, grains, wines—into
the night. Serin sneered. The Ardishmen had betrayed the sunlight,
feeding the creatures of darkness. It was fitting, he thought, that
from this very place—the docks that had once fed Eloria—the night's
doom was kindled.

As Atratus stepped off the boat,
the soldiers of Mageria formed a path between them and stood at
attention, slamming the butts of their spears against the earth.
Atratus did not spare the soldiers a glance. He walked between them,
cloak wrapped tightly around him. A sneer found his lips, and his
dark eyes glittered. When he finally climbed the hill and reached
Serin, the stooped mage—the new Headmaster of Teel—knelt in the
dirt.

"My Lord Serin!" A
bubble of spit floated out of Atratus's mouth and popped against
Serin's shin. If Atratus noticed, he gave no note of it. "I've
come with the traitor, O Light of Radian. We hurt her. She is broken.
But she still clings to life. We've kept her alive so that you may
kill her yourself, dearest leader."

"
I
will kill her!" said Lari. The young woman tossed back her hair
and smiled down at Atratus. "I suffered under her yoke at Teel
for an entire year. The old crone nearly had me throwing up every
time she summoned us to the courtyard." Lari drew her silvery
sword. "I will gladly pierce her shriveled old heart, the
traitor." She barked a laugh. "Letting nightcrawlers into
Teel! Disgusting. She'll pay for her treachery."

Atratus rose to his feet and
bowed his head toward Lari. "My Lady! Perhaps you would even
care to demonstrate your magic on her? It would make your old
professor quite proud. Besides, your sword is too beautiful a weapon
to bloody on the likes of the traitor." He looked over his
shoulder. "Here she comes."

Two younger mages were walking
uphill, hands raised. Between them floated a bruised old woman.
Invisible chains held her aloft between the robed men. Her white hair
fell over her face, and bloodied rags covered her body. She was
barely larger than a child—a dying, famished thing. When the younger
mages reached the hilltop, they saluted and released their magic.

The old woman fell to her knees,
coughed, and raised her head.

She stared up at Serin, fire in
her eyes.

She spat upon his boot.

Serin glanced at his daughter,
then back at the old woman. He backhanded her. It was perhaps
crude—not an elegant attack like a blast of magic—but it did the
trick. Blood splattered and the old woman fell to the ground.

"Headmistress
Egeria," Serin said. "Or rather,
former
headmistress. How lovely to see you. Are you impressed with the
armies I muster here? They will soon invade the darkness. They will
soon step upon the worms you sought to protect. They will soon bring
me Madori, the little vermin you harbored."

Though her eyes were bloodshot
and puffed with bruises, Egeria fixed Serin with a steady gaze. Blood
filled her mouth, but she spoke in a clear voice.

"Remember, Serin, what
Madori's parents did to the last man who invaded the night. Beware
that Madori does not do the same to you."

Serin sighed. "Ferius was a
religious fanatic, a mere monk, a fool who thought he could lead an
army." He swept his arm across the field. "Do you see these
forces, Egeria? They are mine to command. I am no village preacher
who knows nothing of warfare. I am a conqueror. I am . . . an
exterminator. And the nightcrawlers will perish under my heel. All
but Madori, that is. Oh, that one will live a very long time."
He turned toward Lari. "What say we send the mongrel a little
gift—one of many to come?"

Lari nodded and a smile spread
across her face, the smile a wolf gives its prey before pouncing.
"Gladly."

The princess stretched out both
hands.

Egeria winced and struggled to
raise her own arms, but magic bound her. Lari's blast of energy
pounded against the old woman's chest, knocking her down. Lari
grinned, stepped forward, and leaned over the former headmistress.
Coiling strands of smoke materialized in the air. The astral tendrils
snaked into Egeria's nostrils, ears, and mouth like serpents entering
their burrows. Egeria thrashed on the ground, the serpents slithering
under her skin, their forms visible like animals moving under sheets.

"I . . . I failed you,
child." Tears streamed from Egeria's eyes. "I tried to
teach you, Lari. I tried to teach you integrity, morals, goodness,
I—"

With a scream, Lari balled her
fists. The smoky serpents vanished from under Egeria's skin, digging
deeper, crashing into her organs.

With a final gasp, Egeria went
limp.