Daughter of Moth (The Moth Saga, Book 4) (19 page)

"Now this is more like the
old days!" Cam shouted, then winced and ducked lower as an arrow
grazed his head, slicing a lock of hair.

The cart bounced madly. The
river flowed at their sides, and the distant bank seemed miles away.
When the cart hit a crack in the bridge, it bolted into the air, and
Torin winced when they slammed back down. A cask of ale fell from the
cart, and Torin spun around to see it roll and shatter, spilling its
contents. Several soldiers were running across the bridge, slow in
their armor; one slipped in the ale and crashed down.

For an instant hope leaped in
Torin; they would make it across the bridge! But when he heard the
hooves beating and the horns blowing, his heart sank down to his
belly. He watched, grimacing, as a dozen Radian riders galloped onto
the bridge, pointing lances.

"Hayseed, go, girl!"
Cam was shouting.

Torin, meanwhile, climbed from
his seat into the back of the cart. An arrow whistled, and he winced
as it slammed into another cask of ale. He shoved, sending the cask
tumbling down. A rider tried to dodge the rolling barrel but was too
slow; his horse slammed into the obstacle and fell. Torin ducked,
hiding behind more supplies as arrows flew. He shoved again, knocking
down bundles of firewood; a horse entangled in the rolling logs and
crashed down.

When Torin glanced back
eastward, he saw that they had only crossed half the bridge. The
remaining riders were gaining on them. Visors hid the Radians' faces,
and their lances rose, ready to thrust.

Torin raised his sword, prepared
to fight as best he could. But rather than charge from behind, the
horses raced around the cart and came to block its passage. Hayseed
whinnied and bucked, and the cart halted so suddenly it almost tilted
over.

A ring of riders surrounded the
cart, lances pointed inward like the teeth of a lamprey. The sunlight
blazed against the Radian emblems upon the soldiers' breastplates and
shields.

"Torin Greenmoat,"
said one rider, the tallest among them. He raised his visor,
revealing the stony brow, haughty blue eyes, and strong jaw of Lord
Serin. "Hello again. And . . . I do believe this is Camlin of
Arden, the Shepherd King."

Sword raised, Torin nodded at
the lord. "Hello again, cousin." He turned to glance at Cam
and spoke in Qaelish, a language of the night they both had learned
in the war. "The rider to my left—the shorter one?"

Cam nodded and spoke in Qaelish
too. "After you."

Torin didn't waste another
instant. He leaped from the cart, katana swinging, and lunged toward
the knight. Cam leaped behind them. The horse bucked. The knight's
lance thrust, and Torin's katana knocked it aside. Cam lashed his own
blade, driving the horse back.

The two friends raced around the
rider, free from the encircling enemy, and ran toward the bridge's
ledge.

"Stop them!" rose a
voice behind.

A crossbow thrummed and the
quarrel whizzed by Torin's ear. He ran with Cam, arms pumping.

They reached the bridge's ledge
and kicked off. Torin's heart hammered and his legs still ran in the
air. They plunged down toward the rushing water, crossbow quarrels
flying above them.

"Yes, definitely like the
old days!" Cam shouted at his side.

With a a great splash of icy
water, they crashed into the river.

They sank, kicking and swimming
underwater. Torin's eyes stung and he kicked off his boots,
propelling himself eastward—at least he hoped it was eastward.
Arrows pierced the water around him, and one grazed his calf. Blood
rose like dancing red demons.

Yes,
I don't miss the old days,
he thought as they swam, arrows filling the water like raindrops
cutting through mist.

 
 
CHAPTER FIFTEEN:
SEEKING MAGIC

She
walked through the library of Teel like a woman walking through a
temple.

"Here
is my temple," she whispered. "Here is my solitude, my
peace, the wisdom I seek."

She
took a deep breath and smiled. She stepped forward slowly, head
tilted back, her fingers tingling at her sides.

Madori
had spent many hours of her childhood in the library of
Fairwool-by-Night, a hall cluttered with creaky shelves, dusty books,
and piles of scrolls. That had been a place like a womb, warm,
comfortable, worn in, the book spines smoothed by many fingers, the
air rich with the scent of papyrus and parchment. But here . . . here
in the great Teel Library she found a different world. This was no
womb; it was a palace. Porphyry columns rose several stories tall,
their capitols shaped as Mageria's buffaloes, the beasts supporting a
vaulted ceiling painted with scenes of sunbursts, pink clouds, and
birds of all kinds. Marble statues stood every few feet, depicting
the ancient gods of Riyona, their nude bodies paragons of beauty. Oil
paintings of landscapes and ancient battles—the canvases as large as
sails—covered the walls. Giltwood tables and upholstered chairs,
themselves masterpieces, supported silver counter-square boards with
jeweled pieces.

But
more than any painting or statue, the books filled Madori's heart
with warmth like mulled wine.

Thousands
of books stood upon the shelves—
tens
of thousands, maybe millions. Some books were great works of art,
their spines jeweled, their leather covers engraved with landscapes.
Some books had jeweled covers of silver and gold, others covers of
olive wood engraved with animals. Other books were mere bundles of
parchment tied together with string. Some were great codices, three
feet tall; other books were so small Madori could have hid them in
her pocket.

She
walked around in wonder, her smile growing, her head tilted back to
take it all in.

"Books,"
she whispered. Portals to other worlds. Keepers of secrets. Chests of
wisdom. Madori had seen the stars of the night, the white towers of
Kingswall, and the pagodas of Qaelin, but to her books were the
greatest wonders in Moth. They were more than objects; they were
magic. Simple pages, that was all—pages with ink—and yet each
contained a life, an entire world, a wisdom from beyond the ages.

As
she walked here between the shelves, suddenly her troubles
outside—Lari's aggression, Atratus's hatred, her troubles with this
or that spell—seemed trivial. Here she felt safe, a star floating in
a sky of light.

She
pulled down a great, heavy book as long as her arm; inside she found
ancient drawings of healing herbs. She spent a while reading an
ancient codex with a red leather cover—a bestiary detailing all the
animals of the world, from the humble shrew to the mighty elephant.
For an hour, she read stories of adventure, the old heroes of Riyona
battling sea serpents, cyclops, and dragons. She read a small book of
ancient poetry—words two thousand years old—and shed tears for a
pair of lovers whose song echoed through the ages.

The
others have a home,
Madori thought. Neekeya had the swamps of Daenor, Tam was from a
great city of white towers, and Jitomi was from an island in the
night. Madori caressed a pile of books on the table before her.
This is my home—anywhere among books. My home is the world of words.

When
she finally stepped outside the library and stood under the sky, she
inhaled deeply and smiled. A new strength filled her, a tranquility
like the sea after a storm. Whenever troubled, she knew she could
return to this place, to her anchor.

"Madori!"
The voice rose ahead, and Neekeya came racing toward her, panting.
"Madori, where have you been? I've been looking all over for
you. Professor Yovan said we have a test tomorrow, and you're the
only one who understands healing magic." She grabbed Madori's
hand and tugged her. "Come on! Back to our chamber. Tam cut his
finger
on purpose
and tried to heal himself, but he can't, and Jitomi is laughing so
hard I think he'll die. Quickly!"

Madori allowed herself to be
dragged away. She looked back once, saw the library dome gleaming in
the sunlight, and smiled silently.

The bells had rung, the turn was
over, and most students and professors slept in their chambers, but
Neekeya would not leave the workshop, not until she found a hint of
magic.

"What about this one?"
she said, placing her pewter mug upon the table. "It's a magical
mug. My father said that you can drink and drink from it forever, and
it'll never be empty. I tried it, and it doesn't work for me, but I
think we just need to remove a little hex clinging to it, and—"

"Neekeya, please,"
said Professor Rushavel, his brow creased with weariness. His orange
mutton chops, normally bristly like the cheeks of an orangutan,
drooped like empty wine skins. "The turn is over. Return to your
chamber to sleep, child. You must be weary."

Neekeya shook her head
vehemently, her hair swaying and her necklace of crocodile teeth
chinking. "I'm not! I'm wide awake! What about this one?"
She took out a smooth river stone and placed it on the table. "This
one is definitely magic. My father says if you add it to a pot of
boiling water, the water will magically turn into soup. It sort of
works for me, but I have to always add potatoes and carrots and
leeks, so I think if you can just test it maybe, you know, with a
spell to detect magic, we can—" She blinked and nudged the old
man. "Professor Rushavel, wake up!"

The professor's eyes had closed,
and he almost slipped off his seat. He woke with a snort and blinked
a few times. His red, bulbous nose twitched as he sucked in air.
"Yes, yes." He cleared his throat. "Perhaps next turn,
child. Perhaps?"

Neekeya groaned so loudly it
blew back a lock of her hair. She looked around her at the workshop.
So many magical artifacts! They covered the shelves, the tables, even
many of the chairs: figurines of animals that moved at the corner of
your eye; horns that played any tune you just thought of; seashells
that sounded like the sea, complete with seagull cries and the songs
of sailors; model ships in bottles whose sails billowed and oars
stroked; and a thousand others. Professor Rushavel himself had made
many of these items. How could it be that none of Neekeya's own
artifacts—and she had brought dozens from Daenor—wouldn't work?

"But my father told me
these artifacts are magic," Neekeya said. "You have to help
me fix them. I— Professor Rushavel?" She nudged him again.
"Professor!"

But the old man was sound
asleep, his cheek resting against his fist. His mutton chops rose and
fell with every breath. When Neekeya nudged him, he only slumped down
onto the table, his lips fluttering as he snored.

She sighed.

After a few more attempts, she
gave up on waking the old man, wishing she had brought her magical
snuffbox from Daenor, the one that could rouse a man from any sleep
of weariness or wounds. She stuffed her artifacts—the mug, the
stone, the ring of power, and two dozen others—back into her pack.
With a sigh, she left the workshop.

She wandered across the
university grounds, moving down columned galleries, along grassy
courtyards, and through gardens full of statues and fountains. The
halls and towers of the university rose all around, their bricks
golden in the sunlight, their steeples so high Neekeya felt dizzy to
look upon them. The library loomed to her right, a great dome rising
into the sky. The first autumn leaves were scuttling along the grass
and porticoes of Teel. With the hour so late, most of Teel University
was deserted, the professors and students sound asleep. Only birds,
squirrels, and an occasional lizard kept Neekeya company as she
walked through the sunlit grounds, for which she was thankful.
Animals were her friends, better than most humans here at Teel.

She sighed. "I'm like an
animal myself to most of them," she whispered, and tears stung
her eyes. Nobody outside her quartet ever spoke to her. Whenever
Neekeya moved through a busy crowd—at the dining hall, in the
cloister, or even the library—students moved aside, pointing,
whispering, even laughing.

Neekeya paused by a pool of
clear water in a garden. She knelt beside a statue of a winged cat,
gazing into the pool.

"Who am I?" she
whispered, looking at her reflection. "Who am I to them?"

She saw the same girl she had
always been, a girl she had been proud to be. Her skin rich brown,
her eyes large and black, her lips prone to smile, her smooth hair
just long enough to fall past her chin. She looked at her crocodile
tooth necklace, at the scale armor she always wore beneath her school
robes, and at her magical bracelets of bronzed coffee beans.

"You are the most
beautiful, talented, magical girl in the world," her father
would tell her, muss her hair, and kiss her cheek. "You make me
proud, and you are a great warrior."

He was a great warrior too, a
lord of Daenor, a man who commanded a great stone pyramid rising from
the swamps, wisely ruling over many people. He loved her dearly, and
once Neekeya had loved herself too, but now tears streamed down her
cheeks.

The memories of home—of her
last turn there—pounded through her. She had walked through the
swamps, leaping from stone to stone, a feral thing, hunting frogs
with her long, silver-tipped spear. She had spent hours in the
wilderness, needing to hunt, to run, to sweat, to drain herself of
her nervousness, of her fear of leaving home. It had been a turn of
fear.

"But I will face my fear,"
she had whispered that turn in the swamps. "I will learn
magic—real magic."

The swamp waters gurgled around
her, the frogs trilled, and the mangroves swayed in the breeze. All
her life, her father had spoken to her of magic, gifting her his many
artifacts, telling her tales of magical shields to block the fists of
giants, cricket choirs that could sing so beautifully grown men would
weep, and islands that floated through the sky.