Empires of Moth (The Moth Saga, Book 2) (9 page)

She had never kissed a man until
now. She had never cared for such matters, for kisses or love, and
yet she tugged at his tunic, and his hands slipped under her dress,
moving up and down.

When she removed her silk, she
worried that he'd think her too skinny, think her breasts too small,
for she was only a slim Elorian, and she must have seemed so plain to
him. And yet she saw the approval in his eyes, and she smiled softly
and pulled his tunic off, then ran her hands across his chest.

"Look, Torin. Your skin is
golden and mine is white like milk. We're like the sun and moon."

He kissed her again, and she lay
on her back and closed her eyes, and he loved her, this boy from
sunlit lands, this man who had saved her in the alleyways, this
soldier who was supposed to be her enemy and whom she had taken into
her bed.

They moved together, and this
was a dance too, and this was a dance of life. She closed her eyes,
holding him tight, and let the joy of him flood her until she cried
out. After what seemed like the age of stars, she lay beside him in
her bed, trailed her fingers across his chest, and laughed.

"Why are you laughing?"
he asked, his hand caressing her, trailing from waist to hip and back
again, an endless movement like a boat upon the waves.

"Because you're silly,"
she said. "Because I'm scared but happy too." She kissed
his nose. "Now go back to your castle, soldier of sunlight, and
don't return until you learn another tale."

He left her with tangled hair,
her blanket wrapped around her naked body. She stared at the open
window and laughed again.

"Oh, Eelani," she
whispered to her invisible friend. "Did you really watch the
whole thing?"

Her shoulder spirit hopped upon
her shoulder, and Koyee sighed, though her lips would not stop
smiling.

 
 
CHAPTER SIX:
HIDDEN LIFE

As Torin walked back to the Night
Castle, the Elorian fort where he was stationed, the smile wouldn't
leave his face.

He was far from home. His
enemies were growing stronger. The cruelty of conquest surrounded
him. And yet as he walked down the street, passing between soldiers
in steel, his heart fluttered and he felt more joyous than ever
before.

"Koyee," he whispered,
tasting the name.

The cobbled boulevard climbed
the mountainside. Buildings rose along its sides, their walls built
of glass bricks, and lanterns hung from their sloped roofs. Elorians
rushed quickly between shops and homes, heads lowered, their silken
robes fluttering and their hands tucked into their sleeves. When
Torin had first invaded their city, the locals had worn elaborate
sashes of embroidery and beads; now they merely wore white scarves
around their waists, the color of their mourning. A few gathered
around a towering, communal fireplace, its iron grill shaped as bats,
its flames rising ten feet tall. When they saw Torin—wearing the
armor of their enemy—they scattered into alleyways.

Other Timandrian troops—all of
them Ardish, the people of his homeland—stood at every street
corner, holding spears and swords. When first invading this land,
they had worn ravens upon their breastplates, the sigil of their
king. Now, however, many soldiers sported sunbursts upon their
shields and armor, the symbol of Sailith. Seeing these soldiers—his
own countrymen—Torin knew he should feel grief. But not now. Not
this turn. Again her memory filled his mind.

"Koyee."

He could still feel her slim,
naked body pressed against him. She had seemed so delicate, so lithe,
a dainty creature of faerie. Her hair had cascaded between his
fingers, white and soft as silk. Her eyes had stared into his, large
lavender orbs, full of shyness and love. Torin felt his blood stir
anew. He wished he could return to her now—forget his duty to his
king, forget his fellow soldiers, and spend his life with her in the
hospice.

Invading
the night brought me pain, fear, and endless shame, but it also
brought me you, Koyee,
he
thought.
Even in
the greatest darkness some light shines.

A spring in his step and a
whistle between his lips, he rounded a corner and beheld the Night
Castle.

The pagoda's five tiers loomed,
each topped with a roof of blue tiles, its edged curving up to
support bronze statues of dragons, snakes, fish, and other beasts.
Arrowslits peppered walls of black bricks, and red lanterns shone
within. Hundreds of Elorian soldiers had served and died here; some
Timandrians now swore they could hear the ghosts of those old
defenders, cursing them as they swept through the halls. Most of the
Timandrian host, a horde of many thousands, camped outside the city
in riverbank tents and huts. The king had taken residence here, and
he had invited those closest to him to share his hall—his lords, his
war heroes, and Torin.

I
did not save King Ceranor's life like my father did,
Torin thought, approaching the castle.
But
if I can convince him to return home and end this madness, perhaps I
can still save his soul.

Torin
tightened his lips and nodded. Yes. After half a year of occupying
this city, the kingdoms of Timandra—eight old enemies—fought
united. The goal of this war—internal peace in Timandra—had been
achieved.

"Now I must convince you to
return home," Torin whispered into the night.

King Ceranor was perhaps a
conqueror, but he was no madman. He was no bloodthirsty killer like
Ferius. He would listen to reason, Torin told himself. He would
realize victory was achieved, that they could return home and leave
Eloria to the Elorians.

Torin paused, a lump filling his
throat.

And yet . . . if Torin returned
home, would Koyee remain here? Would she agree to travel with him to
sunlight? Torin's heart sank. Here was Koyee's home; could he truly
ask her to abandon her people, to travel into the lands of her
enemies?

Or
. . . can I stay with her here in darkness?

Torin lowered his head and
tightened his jaw.

"I must convince you,
Ceranor, to return home, but I cannot go with you. I will stay with
Koyee."

His mind decided, Torin pursed
his lips, nodded, and kept walking.

Before he could reach the
pagoda, a scream filled the street.

Torin's eyes widened.

A young Timandrian woman was
running from the Night Castle, blood staining the hem of her blue
gown.

Torin gasped. "Queen
Linee?"

He had not seen the young queen,
a woman only two years his senior, since invading the night. When
spending the summer in Kingswall last year, preparing for this war,
he had spent many hours playing board games with Linee, walking with
her through the gardens and discussing types of flowers and birds.
She had always seemed a happy, silly thing—naive perhaps, but good
at heart, always smiling, her eyes bright and her golden hair flowing
in perfect locks. She had reminded Torin of a butterfly, flighty and
pretty and full of life.

Now she was weeping.

"Torin!" she cried,
her hair in disarray, her eyes rimmed with red. "Torin, he
killed him. Ferius the monk. He killed my Cery. He . . ."

Tears drowned her words.

Darkness covered Torin.

All his hope—of an end to
violence, of a love with Koyee—vanished under a cold torrent.

Linee reached him, grabbed his
shoulders, and clung to him.

"He's after me, Torin. He's
after me!" She trembled. "He killed Cery and now he wants
to kill—"

He wouldn't even let her finish
her sentence. Torin grabbed her hand and tugged her along with him.
They raced into an alleyway just as the Night Castle gates slammed
open. Torin spun around in the shadows, peered toward the castle, and
saw a swarm of monks spill into the boulevard.

Ferius marched at their lead,
bloodied hands raised to the sky. Behind him, his fellow monks held
aloft the body of King Ceranor. A dagger was embedded into the king's
left eye. The right eye, still open, seemed to stare at Torin with
pain.

"The Elorians have slain
our king!" Ferius shouted, voice ringing across the boulevard.
"Men of Timandra, the demons have struck! We will have
vengeance! Soldiers of sunlight, hear my call, raise your swords, and
march with me. Slay every demon you find!"

Torin watched, heart thudding
and head spinning. He gripped his sword. Linee clung to him,
trembling and still shedding tears.

"It wasn't the Elorians,"
she whispered and tugged Torin's arm. "It was Ferius who killed
him. I saw him. He's lying. Please don't let him kill me too."
She covered her face.

Torin held her, gritting his
teeth and staring out to the boulevard. "I will keep you safe,
Linee. I promise you. Now keep your voice low."

He pulled her deeper into the
alley shadows. The monks kept marching down the boulevard. They
raised their maces and roared for blood.

"Death to Elorians!"
one shouted.

"Sunlight rises!"
shouted another.

Soon all their voices morphed
into a single cry, the rage of one beast of sunfire. They marched
down the street, swung their maces, and smashed windows and shattered
glass walls. What few Elorians walked along the boulevard fled into
homes and alleyways.

"Let the blood fill the
streets!" shouted Ferius as behind him his monks paraded the
corpse of King Ceranor. "Vengeance!"

Soldiers began streaming out
from the Night Castle. These were no monks—they wore the armor of
Arden, ravens upon their breastplates, warriors of the fallen king.
And yet they too followed the new Sailith faith; new converts, they
sported the sunburst upon their shields. They too chanted for blood.

"Death to Elorians!"
they shouted. "The sun rises!"

Hundreds flowed onto the street,
not marching in formation, not following a commander, but swarming as
a mob, blind with hatred.

They
are no longer soldiers,
Torin realized. He remembered the mob that had slain Koyee's father,
mad with fear and hatred. These men were the same, but whereas a mob
from Fairwool-by-Night had slain a single man, this force could
massacre an entire city.

Linee
tugged Torin's arm. "Please, Torin,
please.
I'm
scared. I want to leave. Can we please leave?"

Torin nodded, throat tight. "I
think that's a good idea."

Outside the alleyway, soldiers
began breaking down the doors of homes and shops. Screams rose from
inside. Elorians pleaded for mercy and blood spilled into the street.
Torin glimpsed a dozen soldiers drag an elderly Elorian man out of
his shop; he recognized Old Meshu, a dyer of silks. The soldiers
slashed his neck with a sword, then laughed as the blood sprayed
their armor. They raised the corpse with cries of triumph.

"Vengeance! Vengeance!
Death to Elorians!"

Torin turned away, nausea rising
in him, and pulled Linee deeper into the shadows of the alley. They
hurried around a few barrels, a stray cat, and laundry hanging on
strings. Most other soldiers only knew the main streets of Pahmey,
but Torin had spent many hours sneaking through the secret passages
with Koyee.

"We have to find her,"
he said, heart thudding in his throat. "We have to find Koyee.
Oh Idar . . . Ferius will tear down every building until he finds
her."

They raced around a corner and
down a narrow passageway, dusty glass walls at their sides and
awnings forming a roof above. Rats scurried into holes. Linee
stumbled along at his side, face pale and hair disarrayed.

"Who, Torin?" she
said. "Who is that?"

"An . . ." He
hesitated. "An Elorian woman. A friend of mine."

Linee gasped and tugged his arm.
"By the light, Torin! There's no time to save . . . to save
these creatures." Fresh tears welled up in her eyes.

Torin grunted. "We are the
savages here, not the Elorians. Or, at least, Ferius and his thugs
are." He glared at Linee. "The Elorians are humans like you
and me, no different. We have to stop this . . . or at least save
whomever we can."

She shook her head wildly. "We
have to flee this city! We don't have time to be heroes. Please take
me home. Take me back to Kingswall. Take me back to my palace where
I'm the queen and none of this happens."

Torin stopped moving down the
alley, turned toward her, and held her arms. From across the city,
the chants of soldiers and the screams of Elorians rose in a din. The
smell of blood wafted.

"Linee," he said,
looking into her eyes, "there is no more home for you in
Kingswall. The king is dead. This is a coup. If you return home
you'll have no more palace there, and Sailith will seek you
everywhere. Do you understand?"

She shivered but managed to nod,
a tear on her nose. "But . . . maybe we can just . . . find a
new palace? And a new garden?" She clung to him and placed her
cheek against his shoulder. "What will we do, Torin? Oh, where
will we go?"

He swallowed and sucked in
breath between his teeth. He did not know.

"Somewhere safe," he
said. "I promise you: You will be safe."

As they traveled through the
labyrinth of alleyways, Torin's mind worked feverishly. He needed to
find Koyee. He needed to find his friends: Bailey, Cam, and Hem.
Koyee would still be at the hospice, but what about his friends? Were
they still in the Night Castle in the thick of the Sailith uprising?
Were they patrolling the streets or pleasure dens, and if so where
would they head?

The
hospice is where we must go,
he
decided.
Koyee
is there, and if Bailey and the boys have any sense, they'll make
their way there too.
Only a few hourglass turns ago, he had joked with Bailey how the
hospice—with the plague raging inside its halls—was the safest
place in the city, since Ferius dared not enter it. He had spoken
those words in jest, but now they might be true. Would Bailey
remember the conversation and head there now?