Secrets of Moth (The Moth Saga, Book 3) (21 page)

Xeekotep gave them another
penetrating stare, then turned toward her archers. "Grab them.
Tie them up. We will burn them in sacrifice to the Nine."

Only moments later, the Children
of Nine marched among the ruins, carrying Torin and Bailey like
trussed pigs.

"Why did you have to drop
your sword?" Torin demanded. The ropes wound around him, pinning
his arms to his side. Several Children of Nine held him over their
heads, chanting in their language as they stepped over ferns, fallen
bricks, and shattered statues.

Bailey glared at him, similarly
tied. Her braids flounced as the Children of Nine marched below her,
holding her up. "You told me to lift nine fingers, Winky! Damn
you, this is all your fault. How can I lift nine fingers while
holding a sword?"

Torin winced as the ropes dug
into him. "Ever heard of a sheath, oh great warrior?"

As the Children of Nine carried
him through the ruins, he looked around him. The crumbling houses and
halls of the temple, built by an ancient tribe lost to time, now
housed these new guardians. From every doorway, their eyes stared at
him—mothers, children, elders. Soon Torin realized that outside
every house stood nine souls. The warriors who followed the
procession, bows in hand, marched in groups of nine. Nine arrows
filled every quiver, nine squares of soil checkered every garden, and
nine bracelets encircled every arm. One babe, lying in a basket,
squealed in pain; Torin saw the bandaged stubs of a severed finger
and toe.

"Burn them before
Keyshora!" cried the wizened Xeekotep, walking ahead of the
procession, her staff raised. "The stone god will judge them in
the sight of the Nine."

The Children of Nine carried the
prisoners over a fallen column, between the coiling roots of a banyan
tree, and through an orphaned archway, its wall long fallen and its
keystone green with ivy and moss. A shattered road stretched ahead,
trees and grass pushing between its cobblestones, leading to the
severed head of a statue. The statue's body lay fallen farther back,
shrouded with vines and the coiling tree roots. The stony head
stared, chipped and pockmarked but still frowning, a dozen feet tall
from chin to scalp. Moss covered its cheeks, the number nine was
painted upon its brow, and a green emerald—the size of a human
head—gleamed within its right eye. Only shadows and cobwebs filled
the left eye socket. The statue reminded Torin of his own eyes. When
wrestling Bailey as a child, he had fallen, scratching his left eye
on a rock. Since then, his left pupil had remained fully dilated,
hiding the green iris, leaving him with mismatched eyes.

Fitting,
he thought.
This
was truly destined to be my final resting place.

Before the statue rose his
instrument of death: a pyre of branches, twigs, and dried leaves
waiting to be ignited.

Xeekotep knelt before the pyre
and stone head. She chanted in her tongue, then turned back toward
Torin and Bailey.

"Behold Keyshora, god of
punishment, guardian of the Nine. He is wise and mighty. He is a
judge. Before his eye, you will be tried by fire."

Torin grimaced. "Tried by
fire?"

Xeekotep nodded, waving her
staff and letting its strings of bones clatter. "If your flesh
burns before Keyshora, you are guilty. If the fire spares you, you
are blessed and innocent."

Torin remembered seeing Ferius
burn Koyee's father at the stake. The screams still haunted his
dreams. "Is anyone ever found innocent?"

Xeekotep smiled thinly. "You
might be the first."

At their side, Bailey squirmed
in her ropes and screamed, nearly falling off the Children of Nine
who held her up. "Untie me and fight me like men! I can slay you
all. You are cowards! I spit upon your Nine." She spat onto the
forest floor. "Xeekotep, face me in battle. Send all your men
against me. I will take them all. Trial by battle! I—"

She screamed as the Children of
Nine tossed her down onto the pyre. She landed on her back, branches
and kindling snapping beneath her. When she tried to roll off, the
Children of Nine tossed more ropes around her, securing her to the
pyre. The statue's head gazed down, and it seemed to Torin that
amusement filled its green eye.

With a crunch of branches, the
Children of Nine tossed him onto the pyre next to Bailey. He slammed
into her, his head banging against her shoulder.

"Ouch, Winky!" She
wriggled and glared at him. "Stop hurting my shoulder with your
head."

He blinked stars away from his
eyes. "You're worried about your shoulder? We're about to be
burned to a crisp. Show me your warrior moves!" He winced to see
Xeekotep lighting a torch. "I bet I can escape faster than you,
Bailey. I dare you to beat me. Go on!"

She growled. "You told me
to stop with the challenges."

They wriggled madly, struggling
to roll off the pyre or free their arms, but the ropes were too
tight. The Children of Nine formed a circle around the pyre, chanting
and raising their hands. "Nine! Nine!" The stony head of
Keyshora gazed down with its one emerald eye. Across the temple
complex, rising from mist and a sea of trees, the teardrop tower
loomed, the number nine reflecting the sun and gleaming like a
beacon.

Xeekotep came walking toward the
pyre, raising her torch.

"Trial by fire!" she
announced, first in her own tongue, than in Ardish—simply, it
seemed, to terrify her victims. "Keyshora will burn the victims
in the sight of the Nine."

"Nine! Nine!"

Xeekotep began to lower her
torch toward the pyre.

Torin turned his head to look at
Bailey. She managed to wiggle down so her face was near his.

"Goodbye, Torin," she
whispered, eyes damp. "I love you."

He thought of Koyee. He thought
of his parents. He thought of home. He looked at Bailey, managed to
reach out his tied hands, and clasped her fingers.

"Goodbye, Bailey. I love
you too."

A hand grabbed his head.

Xeekotep pulled his face toward
her painted, wizened countenance. "You will gaze upon the Nine
as you burn. You—" She gasped. Her jaw dropped and her eyes
widened. "You . . . your eye . . ." She leaned closer,
scrutinizing him, then tossed back her head and howled. "His
eyes! The stranger's eyes! One eye green, the other black and dead. A
child of Keyshora!"

Torin breathed out in relief
when the torch pulled back. "I'm . . . what?"

Bailey nodded vigorously. "Oh,
yes, he is that. I worship him all the time. Hail Torin, child of
Korshy, Lord of—"

"Keyshora," Torin
corrected her.

She cleared her throat and
shouted out again. "Torin, child of Keyshora! Worship him!"

To Torin's astonishment, the
Children of Nine all bowed around the pyre.

Xeekotep handed her torch to one
of her warriors, drew her knife, and worked at Torin's ropes. Soon he
was climbing off the pyre and rubbing the welts the ropes had left.
The Children of Nine bowed before him, chanting his name.

Xeekotep knelt. "Command
us, child of Keyshora. You are a blessing unto our temple. Forgive us
for our sins. We are yours to serve."

Bailey thrashed upon the pyre,
still tied up. "Command them to free me, Winky! Command them or
by the light, I'm going to beat you bloody."

Xeekotep leaped up, snarling,
and raised her knife above Bailey. "You will not threaten the
child of a god!"

"Me,
threaten him?" Bailey fumed. "
You
nearly burned him to a crisp. Now I'm his foster sister and
protector, so untie me now, before my wrath destroys this temple."

Torin raised his hands in a
conciliatory gesture. "It's all right, Xeekotep. She's my loyal
servant. Please untie her."

"Your
servant
?"
Bailey's cheeks reddened. "I'll show you who's a serv—"
When Xeekotep's knife drew close again, Bailey bit down on her words
and nodded. "Oh all right, I serve the winky-eyed babyface. Now
untie me, damn it."

Finally Bailey stood beside him,
rubbing her wrists and glaring at him. The Children of Nine kept
bowing, rising and falling like waves.

"What is your command, son
of Kayshora?" asked Xeekotep, holding her staff before her.

Torin looked to his left. Beyond
the kneeling tribesmen, the crumbling walls, and the swaying trees,
he could see the teardrop temple rising from mist. It loomed like a
mountain, a monument of ragged bricks, moss, weeds, and scuttling
monkeys. Upon it, the metallic nine blazed in the sunlight, a beacon
to be seen for miles around.

The
number from the Cabera Clock,
Torin thought.
It
is holy, but perhaps not for the reason these folk know.

He wondered if Koyee had found
the gear, if Cam had found the hand. Often the notion of fixing a
great, mountaintop clock that could make the world spin again,
bringing night and day across both halves of Moth, seemed as
outlandish as stone gods and holy numbers. But then again, two years
ago, Torin would have thought hot air balloons, cannons, and dragons
to be only fairy tales too.

He looked back at Xeekotep.
"I've traveled from afar to see the holy Nine, the most blessed
of numbers. I must take the Nine with me to the holy . . . nine
mountains of . . . Cabera." He nodded, feeling a little guilty
for twisting the truth, but deciding it was the best way to explain
things. "There the Nine will rise to the halls of the gods, and
a great blessing will descend upon the world."

The Children of Nine gasped. A
few reached for their bows. Xeekotep rose to her feet.

"But child of Keyshora!"
said the shaman. "Nine is the holiest of numbers, a master even
unto your father. How can we forsake its guidance? No. This we cannot
do. Even Keyshora's son, or the son of any lesser god, cannot claim
the Nine, the father of all deities."

Bailey nudged him and muttered
from the corner of her mouth. "Nice try, Winky."

Torin tapped his fingers against
his thigh. If the people refused to surrender the number willingly,
he'd have to steal it. The thought of thievery soured his belly, yet
what else could he do? If he left the number here, the Sailith Order
would continue to preach hatred, to burn and kill across the night.
Only the number could bring daylight to Eloria and night to Timandra,
invalidating Ferius's doctrine.

So
we'll have to steal it.

Perhaps
after this war ended, he could return with a duplicate number, a
great nine forged from gold, a new god for the Children of Nine.
Perhaps he could even return with a metallic ten, allowing these
people to keep their fingers and toes.

He nodded and looked back at the
elderly shaman. "You are correct, Xeekotep. I tested you with a
false command, and you proved your loyalty to the Nine. Now you will
hear my true bidding. My servant and I will climb the temple, touch
the Nine, and worship it."

And
steal it,
he thought, cursing that guilt in his belly.

Xeekotep opened her mouth and
seemed ready to reply when a thousand shouts tore across the temple
grounds.

Birds fled and macaques shrieked
and hid. The Children of Nine leaped up and nocked arrows. Xeekotep
screamed.

Charging toward them, howling
battle cries, came Ishel and a hundred Nayan warriors, tossing spears
and leading leashed tigers. The Children of Nine roared, fired their
arrows, and ran toward the intruders.

The temple grounds shook with
blood, screams, and steel.

 
 
CHAPTER NINETEEN:
THE RISING LIGHT

For the first time in years,
Ferius rode into Oshy, his old home by the dusk. The pain clutched
his chest and he could barely breathe. Perhaps sensing his distress,
his horse nickered beneath him and sidestepped.

"It was here that I was
born," he whispered. "It was here that they hurt me."
He dug his fingernails into his palms and felt the blood drip. "It
was here that Eloria created its nemesis."

He closed his eyes, and the
memories pounded through him: the twisted boy, half of sunlight and
half of darkness; the other children tossing him into the river and
mocking him; the babe Okado, born to replace him; the endless pain,
agony, fear, shame. He took a deep breath, trying to calm his
pounding heart. He opened his eyes and gazed upon this old place of
nightmares.

The huts were gone, razed to the
ground, the villagers buried. He had slain them himself two years
ago. Across the ruins bustled a hundred masons, climbing scaffolds,
hammering and chiseling and laying down bricks. The shell of a temple
rose here, a dozen feet tall already. When complete, it would form
the greatest Sailith temple in the world, a monolith to dwarf even
the grandest halls in both day and night.

"Here will be my seat of
power," Ferius said, still tasting the old ash on the wind,
still smelling the meaty aroma of burning bodies. "From here,
the place where you hurt me, will I rule this broken world."

A flutter caught his eye. He
looked up to see a moth flying overhead, its one wing black, the
other white. Ferius reached out and caught it. The poor creature
struggled in his grip, and Ferius stared at it between his fingers.

"A duskmoth," he said
softly. Folk claimed that, with their mismatched wings, duskmoths
looked like the world—one half light, the other dark. Ferius
remembered the insects flying into the village in his childhood. The
other children would call Ferius himself a duskmoth, a creature torn
in two, a mere insect.

Pain flared in him and Ferius
trembled. He wanted to crush this animal in his fist, to forget that
memory, to make it bleed. Yet strangely, he found a new emotion
flowing through him—not fear, not rage, not pain, but something . .
. something both warm and cold, something he'd never felt before.