Secrets of Moth (The Moth Saga, Book 3) (2 page)

"Then
we will teach them." First of Four nodded. "As you hide
these broken pieces, spread the tale. Write it in books. Sing it to
bards. Tell the children of men who suffer how to heal Mythimna. I
will await them."

His
three brothers nodded. Holding the broken pieces of the Cabera Clock,
they walked down the mountainside . . . and over the horizons.

First
of Four remained standing upon the mountain for a long time, the wind
in his fur.

The
light hung in the west. Darkness blanketed the east. The clock
remained still. Summer faded into autumn, and the snows of winter
fell, and spring sent green across the west, and still the sun did
not move, and still his brothers did not return.

First
of Four waited on.

The
years turned and still he stood, and the winds chilled him, and snow
filled his fur, and summer's sun baked him, and rain ran down his
face. He lost count of the years he waited, and for the first time in
his long life, he felt his age. White filled his fur, and his joints
hurt, and he could no longer play the same old tunes on his flute.

When
winter came again, he turned away from the valleys and hills, opened
the doors in the mountainside, and stepped into the chamber.

He
stood at the doorway for a long time, shielded from the rain and
snow, and watched the horizon and waited . . . waited for his
brothers to return. Waited for the children of men to bring him the
three broken pieces, to fix the clock, to let the world turn again.

The
years went by, and the winds ached in his aging joints, and when the
snows were coldest, First of Four took a step back and let the doors
close.

Shadows
and light filled the chamber, and the mechanical sun crackled. The
orrery spun as always, eight worlds orbiting, one side of Mythimna
always facing the heat, one side always dark.

For
a long time—centuries, perhaps millennia—First of Four stood facing
the doors, waiting for them to open, waiting for mankind to forge
peace, to work as one, to fix the clock.

And
still he aged.

Old
and frail, he finally stepped away from the doors, bent his many
knees, and hobbled into a smaller chamber. Gears, springs, and rods
rose around him, a dead machine. The back of the clock's dial, a disk
like the sun, rose above him, frozen; he stood behind the mountain's
blinded eye. He curled up among the gears. He waited.

 
 
CHAPTER TWO:
SAILING ALONE

Koyee limped along the riverbank,
fleeing a city of fire and death.

"One step at a time,
Eelani," she whispered.

She took a step and her wounds
blazed. She gasped in pain. She inhaled deeply, waiting for the agony
to subside. She took another step and nearly fainted. She balled her
fists and took a third step. She moved along the river.

"One step . . . at . . . a
time." She struggled to form words, her lips shaking. "We
have to keep moving."

She had pulled out two arrows
from her body only moments earlier. They lay upon the riverbank, red
with her blood. More of that blood seeped from her shoulder and
thigh. Adding to her pain, countless scratches and bruises covered
her.

"But we still live. We
still breathe. We can keep moving."

When she looked behind her, she
saw the inferno. The city of Yintao, capital of Qaelin, had fallen to
the horde of sunlight. Ferius and his army had stormed the walls,
crushed towers and homes, and killed so many. Even from here, miles
away from the city, she could see the sunburst banners rising from
what walls remained. She could see the smoke of burning homes, smell
the scent of charred corpses, and hear the chants of sunlit victory.

Her eyes stung. "Did you
escape, Okado? Did you sail south, Torin?"

They were the two men of her
life—the two souls she loved most. Her brother, brave and wise, a
leader of men. Her lover, a child of sunlight, less a warrior but
just as wise, just as strong, a beacon of morality for the people of
the sun.

"Do you sail south to
Ilar?"

She turned to look south again.
The Yin River flowed through the dark plains, a strand of silver. The
last ships had sailed past the horizon, bearing the survivors of the
slaughter. If Koyee ever found them, would she find those she loved
or only strangers . . . only mourning?

She took another step, blood
trickling.

"Step by step," she
whispered. "We must keep walking, Eelani."

She could barely feel her
invisible friend, only a hint of warmth upon her shoulder. Perhaps
Eelani too was hurt, maybe even dying. Koyee ground her teeth and
moved on. She would save her spirit friend. She would save herself .
. . even if she could no longer save the night.

She walked for what felt like
hours. She fell into mud. She pushed herself up and walked again. No
stars or moon lit her way; smoke covered the sky and ash rained. She
tossed off her armor; it was too heavy, weighing her down. She kept
only her sword—the old blade Sheytusung—slung across her back. Step
by step. Limping. Falling. Bleeding.
Just
keep moving.

"Perhaps we walk to our
death, Eelani." She shivered with cold now, yet also felt so
hot—burning up. "Perhaps we walk to death in darkness. But
we'll keep walking nonetheless. If we must die, we'll die far from
the hosts of the enemy . . . in a quiet, peaceful place."

Another mile and her foot
twisted on a rock, and she fell onto the muddy riverbank.

She lay on her stomach, too weak
to rise. She reached out and felt the water. She let it flow around
her fingers, soothing like silk. The mud was cold but warm ash fell
from the sky like snow.

"This is a good place to
die," she whispered. "It's dark and quiet and I'm at
peace."

She raised her head, wanting to
look south one last time, to imagine Torin and Okado sailing
downriver to safety. Lights gleamed in the distance and Koyee smiled.
Were those the lights of afterlife—the souls of the fallen awaiting
her? Her father. Her mother. All those who had died in this war. They
gleamed in the shadows, reaching out, welcoming her home.

I
come to you now . . .

Mud filled her mouth.

Her wounds blazed.

She blinked and coughed. She was
still alive, still trapped in her body. She raised her head and
reached out to those lights.

"Mother . . . Father . . ."

The lights swayed. When Koyee
squinted she could bring them into focus.

Two lanterns. Two lanterns
swinging upon poles, their light casting beads upon the river.

She pushed herself onto her
elbows, blinking and struggling to see. A gasp fled her lips.

"It's a village, Eelani. A
small village outside the city walls. We have to go there."

Trembling, she pushed herself to
her feet. She nearly fell again. She sucked in breath and she walked
on, reaching toward the lights. As she approached, she saw several
huts, a pier, and a swaying boat. Dizzy and gasping for breath, she
stumbled into the village and found it abandoned. Aside from a single
dinghy, the docks were bare. The people had fled.

"Is anyone here?" she
called out, voice raspy. No one answered.

Koyee raised her chin and
tightened her lips. She inhaled through her nose and hugged herself.

"We will not die yet. Not
yet, Eelani!" She clenched her fists. "We will sail on."

She unhooked a lantern from its
pole and stumbled toward the dinghy. Wounds throbbing, she untied the
rope and grabbed the oar. The current caught the boat at once,
tugging her south along the Yin . . . south to those fleeing ships.
To hope. To those she loved.

She sailed in the dark. She
sailed alone. As she flowed south, the smoke cleared from the sky,
and the Leaping Fish stars shone above, and Koyee could smile for
despite her wounds, despite the loss of her homeland, despite the
ache in her heart, there was still beauty in the world. There was
still goodness and hope in the dark.

"Do you remember how we
sailed from Oshy almost two years ago?" she whispered. "Do
you remember, Eelani? It was in a boat like this. We sailed to seek
help for our home." Tears now streamed down her cheeks. "We
still sail. Just you and me. We still haven't lost our hope in the
shadows."

She reached into the pocket of
her tattered, bloody tunic, and her fingers closed around her flutes.
She pulled out two musical instruments: an old bone with some holes
drilled in, a trifle she had played in the dregs of Pahmey; and a
beautiful silver flute, a costly instrument she had played in The
Green Geode as a yezyana.

I
played these flutes in my darkest hours, living as an urchin in rags,
and then as an enchantress in silk,
she thought.
Today
I am alone again in darkness. Today I play the old bone.
She placed the silver flute away.

An old tune called to her, the
music Little Maniko had taught her. Eyes stinging, she raised the
flute to her lips and played again.

We
call this song Sailing Alone,
she
thought,
for it
is the tune of a boat on the water, of a lone soul in darkness, of
hope when all hope seems lost.

The
boat sailed downriver and her music flowed.

The stars turned, the hills
rolled at her sides, and the fires behind her faded into darkness.
All the world was this: stars and shadow, water and stone, song and
silence. She stood at the prow, playing her flute until she saw the
light ahead.

The distant lantern bobbed,
growing closer, and Koyee smiled.

"Look, Eelani. Another
boat."

She sailed downriver. The light
moved upriver toward her. Boat approached boat, two glowing wisps in
the darkness. A man was rowing toward her, the lamplight falling upon
him.

"Koyee?" he asked,
hesitant, and then shouted and waved. "Koyee!"

She looked at him—his dark
hair, his mismatched eyes, his laughing mouth—and she laughed too.

"Torin!" She reached
toward him, tasting her tears. "Torin."

Their prows met and she stumbled
into his boat. He wrapped her in his arms, and he held her close, and
they stood embracing and weeping and laughing.

"I had to come back for
you," he whispered. "I rowed from ship to ship, and I
couldn't find you, and I knew you were back here. I knew you were
alive. I had to save you."

She laughed and touched his
cheek. "You didn't save me. I found a boat. I saved myself."

He pulled her closer against him
and kissed her forehead.

Their lamps joined—starlight
and sunlight—together again. They sailed south into the endless
darkness.

Ishel
walked through the ruins of Yintao, spear in hand, stabbing the
wounded.

"Filthy
demons," she said and spat.

The
debris spread around her: fallen walls, smashed pagodas, and cracked
columns. Shattered blades, shields, and helmets lay upon piles of
bricks and roof tiles. Everywhere Ishel looked she saw the ruin of
flesh too: blood on cobblestones, severed limbs, and corpses. But she
cared not for ruin or death. Ishel, Princess of Naya, sought the
living.

Her
pet tiger growled at her side. Ishel stroked the beast's head.

"Yes,
Durga," Ishel cooed. "Soon, my sweet, we will find you a
meal."

Durga
bristled and tugged at his chain, but Ishel held him fast. She was a
princess of the rainforest, and he was a king of beasts. Though far
from home, traveling under a dark sky, they did not forget their
nobility. Blood now stained Ishel's tiger-skin cloak, dents marred
her iron breastplate, and dust dulled the gleam of her golden
armlets, but she was still a great leader, a shining light even here
in the dark.

Moaning
rose ahead. Ishel stepped around a toppled column and fallen street
lamp, oil still burning behind its glass panes. There he lay, his
legs trapped under the column's capital, a young soldier of Eloria.
His large eyes—freakish things the size of limes—stared at her in
pain. Blood stained his long white hair, and he reached out to her,
begging in his tongue, pleading for aid.

Ishel
came to stand above the soldier, placed a boot upon his chest, and
laughed.

"I
can't speak your wicked tongue," she said, pressing her toes
down into a wound upon his chest.

The
man was too weak to even scream; he could only whimper. Tears budded
in his eyes. He seemed young to Ishel, not yet twenty.

"My
brother was young too," she said softly, staring down upon this
soldier. She removed her boot from his wound, knelt, and caressed the
boy's cheek. "He was only a youth but already old enough to
fight. He marched into the night, vowing to light the darkness . . .
and they slew him. The Chanku Pack, cruel wolves of the night,
murdered him upon the moonlit plains."

The
young Elorian soldier whispered to her, still speaking his tongue,
and some softness filled his eyes, some relief.

"Help
. . ." he said, his accent heavy, finally speaking her language.
"Help . . ."

Ishel
laughed and mussed his hair. "Such a clever boy! How did you
learn to speak?" She patted his cheek. "But I don't want to
hear you speak . . . I want to hear you scream."

His
eyes widened with fear as she straightened and raised her spear.

She
drove the blade down.

And
he screamed. He screamed as she twisted the spearhead in his gut, and
it was beautiful, and she smiled.

"Good
boy . . ." she cooed as he died upon her blade.

Her
tiger growled at her side, and Ishel nodded and loosened the chain.

"Very
well, my pet. You may feed."

The
tiger pounced upon the dead man . . . and feasted.

Ishel
kept walking through the ruins, listening to moans and screams,
driving her spear down to silence them. Soldiers, mothers,
children—all died upon her blade. All were filthy Elorians,
creatures to exterminate, lower than maggots.