Empires of Moth (The Moth Saga, Book 2) (7 page)

"Linee, this isn't a place
for you," he said. "It's dangerous in Eloria. We march to
more warfare soon, and— Oh, damn it, Linee. Don't cry."

She sniffed, tears rolling down
her cheeks. "I can't help it! You didn't miss me at all. You
don't even love me. You . . ." She buried her face in her hands.

Rolling his eyes, Ceranor placed
an arm around her. Truth was, he did love the young woman; he just
couldn't bear to spend any time with her.

"Of course I missed you,"
he lied. "Of course I love you. It is because I love you that I
want you safe. You understand, right?"

She peeked between her fingers.
"You love me?"

He nodded. "I do."

A tremulous smile touched her
lips and she wiped her tears away. "Do you want to take a nap?"

"No, Linee. I was in the
middle of planning a campaign to conquer an empire's capital."

She pouted. "But I like
naps and I'm sleepy. I'm hungry too. Is there nothing to eat here?"

He sighed and took her by the
hand. "Come, I'll find you a warm meal. The dining hall is not
far, and we've taught some Elorians to cook us Ardish meals. We'll
get some food into you, and once I'm done with my work, we can nap."

She nodded, letting him lead her
by the hand.

They walked down twisting halls
that curved, rose up stairs, sloped down ramps, and still made
Ceranor dizzy. Holes lined the walls and guards peered through them.
The builders of the Night Castle had created a labyrinth to trap and
slay invaders. Ceranor had lost three hundred men storming this
castle. Their blood had blessed the bricks of this place, and Ceranor
vowed that Arden would forever rule here.

". . . and I saw fifteen
butterflies since you left!" Linee was prattling as they walked.
"Oh, and new puppies were born! I brought one with me. I named
him Fluffy. And . . . and . . . once I saw a really blue bird, and .
. ."

Ceranor tried to ignore her as
she spoke of her adventures. Finally they reached bronze doors and
entered the castle kitchens.

The scents of a feast filled
Ceranor's nostrils. Pies and breads baked in a dozen ovens. Suckling
pigs and slabs of beef roasted upon several fire pits. Pots simmered
on stoves, full of stews and soups rich with meat, vegetables, and
oats. Every turn, new ships arrived downriver from Timandra, bringing
the richness of sunlit produce into the night. Every turn, this
kitchen prepared meals from home. Ceranor had slain the enemy
soldiers who had once guarded this castle, but he had kept its cooks.
The Elorians stood in new livery—the black and gold wool of Arden
rather than their old silken robes—as they tended to the meals.
Their pale skin, oversized eyes, and large ears seemed comical in
their sunlit clothes. Whenever he entered here, Ceranor felt tickled
to see them; it was like seeing one of Linee's pups dressed in a
miniature gown.

"Your Highness!" they
said, accents thick. They bowed and curtsied as he'd taught them.

Ceranor nodded at them. "You
may rise. My wife, Queen Linee, has arrived in the Night Castle.
Prepare her a meal." He turned toward his wife. "Linee,
what do you—"

Seeing her expression, he
paused. Her face had blanched to near-Elorian pallor. She gaped at
the servants, trembling.

"Are those . . . are those
Elorians?" she whispered. "I've never seen Elorians so
close before."

The cooks bowed toward her.
"Your Highness." They knew little more Ardish than those
two words.

"They're harmless,"
Ceranor said, feeling a rare smile tickling his lips. "These
ones are loyal to their new masters. Here, sit!" He led her to a
stone table. "Point at whatever you wish to eat, and they will
serve it to you. I return now to my chambers upstairs; I have much
work to do. When you're full, ask the servants to take you to me."

"Aren't you hungry too?"
she asked, staring at him with huge, hurt eyes.

He kissed her forehead. "I
hunger for power, for war, for conquest. Those are the meals of
kings."

As Elorians brought forth plates
of stewed vegetables, slabs of turkey, and chicken pies—proper
Timandrian fare—Ceranor left his wife in the kitchen. He had not
eaten in hours, but after only a short walk with his wife, he needed
a break from her already. He had become antsy in this palace, and
Linee felt like the last straw. Six months of idleness was fraying
his nerves, and he longed to charge forth again, to discover new
lands, to leap into battle and spray blood and taste glory.

"Yintao will be our next
prize," he said to himself as he walked upstairs. "The
greatest city in the night."

He walked down a hallway between
braziers, approaching his chamber, the place where the castle's
Elorian lord had once lived. He kept several books at his bedside;
they were written in Qaelish, which Ceranor was only learning to
read. Every time he opened those books, he learned more about this
empire and its army. He read about Qaelin's battles with other
Elorian clans—the cruel Ilari nation of the south, the renegade
Chanku riders of the plains, and the mysterious Leen folk of the
northern island. With every page Ceranor read, he learned about how
Elorians fought—their code of honor, their battle formations, their
weapons, their tactics. With every page, his hope to defeat the
darkness grew brighter.

He reached his chamber doors,
longing to delve into his reading, and stepped inside.

For the second time, his heart
sank.

Inside his chamber, hunched over
the books at his bedside table, stood Ferius.

A growl fled Ceranor's lips.
"Why do you slither here, snake?"

Since taking over the Sailith
Order, the monk had been intolerable—lurking in every shadow,
slaying Elorians for sport, and spreading his twisted faith through
the ranks. But this offense—entering the king's chamber—was taking
things too far, even for the head of Timandra's most powerful
religion.

Ferius smiled thinly. In his
hands, he held not one of the Qaelish books Ceranor had been
studying, but one of the letters Linee had written him several months
ago. He read out loud.

"'To my sweet noble hero of
sunlight!'" Ferius's hiss of a voice gave the words an eerie
menace. "'How I long to see you again, my piglet. How sad I am
that—'"

Ceranor marched forward,
snatched the letter from Ferius, and glared.

"Leave," he said,
voice strained. "Leave now if you wish to live."

Ferius licked his chops and his
smile widened, showing small, sharp teeth. "Oh, I think I'll
stay, noble hero of sunlight. I have entered your chamber to deliver
tidings of peril, Your Highness. I will not depart without my
warning."

Ceranor grabbed the monk's robes
and snarled down at the shorter man. "I tire of your poisonous
words. For too long, you have slunk in my shadow, spreading your
hatred, whispering your fear mongering into the ears of soldiers. Too
many dead bodies litter the streets, slain by the hatred you sowed.
What is your warning? That Elorians are demons? That the darkness
threatens the light? That Eloria must be cleansed of evil for Sailith
to rise?" Ceranor snickered. "I've heard all your sermons.
They are useful for swaying the simple-minded, but I see through your
lies. You are a tool, Ferius, nothing more. Remember that. I keep you
alive so your words may serve me, not warn me. Save your doctrine for
lowborn soldiers, not kings."

Ferius stared silently for a
moment, eyes burning with unadulterated hatred, then began to laugh.
It was a horrible sound, a sound like blood bubbling up from a wound.

"The danger lurks right
under your nose, noble King Ceranor, and you are blind to it. In the
city streets, more than corpses rot. An Elorian resistance rises
against your rule. The uprising begins in tunnels, hovels, alleyways,
and rooftops, a force of countless shadows. Already soldiers of your
army lie dead, daggers in their backs and darts in their necks."
Ferius hissed his laughter. "Do you truly feel safe in your
palace, oh brave warrior?"

Ceranor tossed the monk back and
turned toward the window. As infuriating as Linee could be, he
suddenly missed her and regretted leaving her alone to eat. She was a
silly thing, but her company was infinitely better than Ferius's. He
stared outside the Night Castle upon the city he'd conquered. The
streets snaked across the hillside, lined with lanterns and houses.
The new Sailith stronghold—once a temple to Eloria's stars—rose a
few blocks away, topped with the sunburst banners. Every time he
stared outside, Ceranor saw more monks in yellow robes, their numbers
swelling with new recruits. They were raising their own army now;
their warrior-priests marched in crimson armor, guarding their temple
and patrolling the streets.

This
is the real threat,
Ceranor thought, gazing outside at the distant monks.
Not
some shadow resistance of Elorians, but the menace I brought here
with me upon my own ships.

His
belly twisted. He had hoped to use the fanatics for his own gain, yet
now they burned with a fire he could no longer control.

I
have to eradicate them,
he realized.
Their
temple must fall.

Before he could march against
Yintao, he would have to face the enemy within.

"The Elorian resistance is
but a whisper of a threat," he said, leaning against the
windowsill and gazing upon the shadowy city.

Ferius snickered behind him.
"Your Highness, do you remember the Fairwoolian girl, the orphan
named Yana—the one I slew a year ago?"

Ceranor gripped the windowsill.
"Of course. You murdered her and blamed the Elorians to spark
this war. You—"

His breath died.

He gasped.

Pain bloomed from the center of
his back, spreading across him. He tried to breathe. He could not.

A hand rested upon his shoulder,
pale, its nails broken and yellow. A voice hissed in his ear.

"I will do the same with
you," said Ferius, the stench of his breath wafting. "Your
death too will be blamed upon the Elorians . . . and they will pay."

Ceranor reached for his sword.
Before he could draw the blade, the monk behind him laughed, and the
pain twisted through his back, cracking against his spine, and his
blood stained his shirt and filled his mouth. He managed to spin
around, tearing the shard from his flesh, and saw Ferius with a
bloody dagger.

The blade thrust again. The
dagger drove into Ceranor's neck.

He coughed blood. He couldn't
breathe, couldn't scream. With his last strength, he drew his sword.
Before he could swing the blade down, the dagger thrust a third time,
entering his eye and driving deep, cold darkness into him.

But
I promised her a nap,
was his last thought.
I
promised Linee that . . .

He hit the ground, saw pools of
blood, and heard laughter fading into silence.

Linee stood at the doorway, the
plate of cake in her hands, staring with wide eyes.

I
. . . I only came to bring you cake. I . . .

She watched as the monk Ferius
twisted the blade. She watched as her husband fell into a puddle of
his own blood. So much blood, red everywhere, flowing across the
tiled floor toward her, and the scent of death, and her sweet Cery on
the floor . . .

She wanted to scream. She wanted
to cry for him. She opened her mouth and then froze.

Don't
make a sound,
she told herself.
You
have to run. You have to escape!

His back toward her, Ferius
leaned over the body and laughed.

"For so long, you ruled
over me with brute force," the monk said to the corpse. He spat
upon the dead king. "Yet I am a being of light; I will always be
victorious. Your kingdom is now mine. All that is yours belongs to
me, from your castle to your armies to that pathetic little wife of
yours. Oh yes, Ceranor. She will be mine too."

At the doorway, Linee gave a
small whimper, barely audible.

Inside the chamber, Ferius
stiffened.

The monk began to turn toward
the doorway.

Linee leaped away and hid
against the wall.

Run!
spoke the voice inside her.
Run
or he'll kill you too, or he'll force you to marry him, or he'll
torture you, or—

She shook her head mightily. If
she ran, he would hear her footfalls. Breath held, her back to the
wall, she inched along the hallway. She reached another door, grabbed
the handle, and twisted. She glimpsed Ferius's yellow robes enter the
hallway, but before he could see her, she stepped backward into this
new chamber.

She glanced around and nearly
fainted. Soldiers of Arden lay here, clad in the raven armor, their
necks slit. Blood stained Linee's slippers. She gasped and nearly
squeaked, then saw a shadow in the hall.

Ferius.

She gulped, fear pounding
through her. The monk had killed his king; he would kill his queen
just as readily. She didn't know where to go. But she knew she had to
flee.

Silent as a cat, Linee ducked
behind a bed as Ferius entered the room. The oil lamps in the hallway
cast orange light, framing the monk's squat form.

"Does a shadow lurk in this
darkness?" he said, his voice like a snake's hiss.

Linee had to bite her lip to
stop herself from crying. She wished she had a weapon. She wished she
could disappear. She wished Ceranor were still alive and that she'd
never come to this place, and—

Wishes
are worth pebbles and earth.
Her
grandmother's voice filled Linee's mind; the old woman was fond of
the saying.
Actions
bring you gold.

"Come out of your hiding,
friend!" Ferius said, stepping deeper into the chamber. He still
held his bloodied dagger. "Come and let us speak."