Secrets of Moth (The Moth Saga, Book 3)

SECRETS OF MOTH

THE MOTH SAGA, BOOK THREE

by

Daniel Arenson

Copyright © 2014 by Daniel Arenson

All rights reserved.

This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either
the product of the author's imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by an electronic
or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information
storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the
author.

• FOREWORD
  
• MAP
  
• CHAPTER ONE
  
• CHAPTER TWO
  
• CHAPTER THREE
  
• CHAPTER FOUR
  
• CHAPTER FIVE
  
• CHAPTER SIX
  
• CHAPTER SEVEN
  
• CHAPTER EIGHT
  
• CHAPTER NINE
  
• CHAPTER TEN
  
• CHAPTER ELEVEN
  
• CHAPTER TWELVE
  
• CHAPTER THIRTEEN
  
• CHAPTER FOURTEEN
  
• CHAPTER FIFTEEN
  
• CHAPTER SIXTEEN
  
• CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
  
• CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
  
• CHAPTER NINETEEN
  
• CHAPTER TWENTY
  
• CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
  
• CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
  
• CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
  
• CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
  
• CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
  
• CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
  
• CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
  
• CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
  
• CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
  
• CHAPTER THIRTY
  
• CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
  
• CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
  
• AFTERWORD
  
• NOVELS BY DANIEL ARENSON
  
• KEEP IN TOUCH
  

FOREWORD

Secrets of Moth
is the third volume of
The Moth Saga
, continuing the tale of a world torn in two—one half always in sunlight, the other always dark. If you're new to the series, you'll probably still get the gist of things here, though I do recommend reading the first two books first:
Moth
and
Empires of Moth
.

Between chapters, you might like to visit the
Moth
website, where you can find: a large map (more detailed than the one in this ebook), original music, artwork, a
Moth
wiki, and more. Visit the website at:
DanielArenson.com/Moth

And now . . . let us reenter a world of light and darkness . . . 

 
 
CHAPTER ONE:
THE CLOCKWORK CLERICS

First
of Four stood upon the mountain, watching the sunrise.

The
first indigo glimmers flowed into pink curtains, gilding mist over
fields of swaying grass. Sunbeams followed, piercing orange and red
clouds, and finally the sun herself emerged, painting the world.
Hills and mountainsides gleamed like beaten gold. Anemones and
dandelions bloomed in the valleys, reaching out to the light. The
cold, long night had ended. Warmth and light once more bathed the
world.

"A
last dance," First of Four whispered, the wind ruffling his fur.
"A last painting in fire."

He
gazed upon the land. The foothills rolled to distant valleys, and a
river coiled between barrows. He sniffed, his long snout twitching.
The scents of life—flowers, grass, trees—filled his nostrils.
Soon
the aroma will fade in the east. Soon darkness falls.

He
turned around to face the clock upon the mountainside.

The
Cabera Clock loomed upon the limestone facade like the eye of a god.
The sunrise caught its dial; it shone like a second sun. Inside the
mountain, beyond the stone doors his brotherhood had been guarding
for millennia, echoed the sound of gears and springs, a song ten
thousand years old.

The
song of harps rose behind him.

He
turned to look down the mountainside, and he saw them there. His
brothers walked in the valleys below. The wind ruffled their thick,
golden fur. Each brother's six hind legs moved through the grass;
their front two limbs rose like the arms of men, playing harps of
bone. They raised their heads, amber eyes gleaming, snouts inhaling.
They climbed the mountainside, moving toward the clock as they did
every thousand years.

"The
four Clockwock Clerics," First of Four whispered. "United
at another millennium . . . perhaps our last."

His
back six legs stood upon stone. He raised his foremost limbs, holding
a flute in each paw. He placed both into his mouth and he played his
ancient song, calling his brothers home, summoning them to hear the
clock ring, to see the orrery turn.

As
the sun rose higher, his three brothers climbed the mountainside
until they stood before him. Their eyes watched him, gleaming marbles
of molten gold. Their fur undulated like the grassy valleys below.
Their harp strings fell still.

First
of Four gazed upon them, one by one, and spoke in a deep voice.

"The
sun rises upon a thousand years gone by. For ten millennia, we have
guarded the Cabera Clock. For ten millennia, we—the Clockwork
Clerics, the Guardians of Time—have watched the children of men
kill, steal, sin, and burn. Today the doors will open for the tenth
time." He lowered his head. "Today the dance ends."

His
three brothers lowered their heads, and tears streamed down their
long faces. They spoke together. "The dance ends."

They
approached the doors, the four Clockwork Clerics, the four pillars of
time. They played their music, ancient notes of guardianship, chords
from before the children of men had walked the earth, from the very
first turns of the world and flutters of wings.

The
music flowed upon the mountainside.

The
sun blazed against the dial above.

The
clock hand turned . . . leaving the number nine, the last number
marking the centuries. The ancient hand, forged of never-rusting
brass, caught the sunlight. It turned like the world. It pointed at
the new millennium, at the number of beginning and end and
nothingness, at a golden zero upon the white face.

Another
thousand years of stewardship ended with the chime of bells.

Beneath
the dial, the stone doors upon the mountainside opened.

"We
enter the chamber," said First of Four as the bells chimed. "The
orrery calls."

He
led them through the doorway.

First
of Four no longer knew his age. He could not recall the passage of
time before the clock had existed, only vague dreams of color and
blackness, of water and smoke, of fire and stone. Nine times he had
entered this chamber. Nine times he had seen the worlds turn. Now,
for the tenth time, he stepped into the mountain and beheld the
orrery.

The
machine filled the chamber, taller than the greatest oak. A great,
mechanical sun blazed in its center, its embers burning within a
round iron grill. Eight worlds spun around the sun, spheres of metal
moving on circular tracks, large as boulders. Around each world,
moons moved along metal rings. Gears turned and clanked upon the
floor, intricately fitted between stone tiles. Silver stars shone
upon the ceiling. Bells chimed. The clock kept turning. The worlds
danced on.

"Behold
the orrery," said First of Four. "Behold time itself.
Behold the secret of the Cabera Clock . . . and of the dancing
worlds."

The
Clockwork Clerics gazed upon the contraption of gears, rods, rings,
and spheres, their song silenced. The dance, as always, continued.

First
of Four moved forward. His six feet pattered onto the astrolabe
forming the chamber floor—a circle of runes, grooves, and moving
pieces, a star-field of marble and bronze. He approached one of the
dancing spheres—a humble ball of metal, smaller than the others, far
from the mechanical sun. A single moon moved around it. Upon this
world's surface, etched in platinum, appeared continents shaped like
a moth—two wings spread into the oceans. The sphere spun around the
sun, and it spun around it axis, as it had for time beyond measure.

"The
world of Mythimna," First of Four said. "Our domain. A
world where man rises." He lowered his head. "A world of
war. Of hatred. Of jealousy and sin."

His
brothers came to stand around him.

"A
world of bloodshed," said Second of Four.

"A
world of cruelty," said Third of Four.

"A
world which man has ruined," said Fourth of Four.

First
of Four turned toward his brothers. He saw himself reflected in their
eyes. He saw the sadness in them. He saw the pain that man had
brought.

"We
have watched over mankind for ten thousand years," he said. "We
built this clock to guide them, to show them that life is quick and
time is slow. Yet they have abandoned our teachings. They have turned
to shortsightedness, to jealousy, to blind faith, to cruel leaders,
to wars and the destruction of life. They slay their brothers and
sisters, they cut down forests, and they poison rivers. The three
kingdoms of men fight upon the wings of the moth, and blood spills
upon the world." First of Four looked back toward the mechanical
world that spun behind him. "We have only one more lesson . . .
one last hope. Brothers, fetch me three pieces." Pain stung his
eyes and tore at his throat. "The dance must end."

His
brothers wailed, heads tossed back. Their cries echoed in the
chamber, and the mechanical worlds swayed upon their tracks. Yet they
obeyed him.

For
ten thousand years, they had guarded this sacred clock. Today they
broke it.

The
bells fell silent.

They
returned to him with the broken pieces.

"A
gear from the heart of our clock," said Second of Four. Upon the
astrolabe floor, he placed down a gear the size of a wagon wheel.

"The
number nine," said Third of Four. "The last number of a
turn." He placed down a heavy metal rune.

"The
hand of the clock," said Fourth of Four. He placed down the
brass hand that, only moments earlier, had moved to a new millennium.

First
of Four nodded. "The clock is broken. The world has fallen
still."

He
looked back at the orrery. The mechanical sun still crackled, embers
bright within the round grill. The worlds still traveled around it,
moving along their circular tracks. But one world—Mythimna—no
longer turned around its axis. Forever its one side would now face
the sun, lit by the fire of embers. Forever its other side would face
the chamber walls, shadowed and cold.

First
of Four turned away. He left the orrery. He stepped outside onto the
mountainside.

He
looked to the west. The sun hung there, golden and warm and good. The
grass swayed, robins and chickadees sang, and the wildflowers sent
forth their sweet scents. He looked to the east. The day was gone.
The light had left that land; shadows cloaked the hills and valleys.
Above him, the great dial—missing its hand, missing its nine—stood
still. So was the sun now still.

"The
light will remain in the west," he said. "Shadows will
remain in the east. Brothers of mine! Gather around me. Second of
Four—take the gear far into the darkness, and hide it among the
islands of the seafaring men. Third of Four—take the rune of nine,
and hide the number in the rainforests where the sylvan kingdom
reigns. Fourth of Four—take the brass hand, and hide it under the
dunes where the desert kingdom sprawls." He stared at the
horizons, imagining those distant lands. "The world is broken.
To fix Mythimna, to let the dance continue, the children of men will
have to unite, to bring three pieces back to our home, to fix the
clock as one people. Only peace between them can save their frozen
world."

"The
children of men are petty and will not know what to do," said
Second of Four.