Empires of Moth (The Moth Saga, Book 2) (4 page)

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.

Ferius 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.