Daughter of Moth (The Moth Saga, Book 4) (20 page)

"I'm going to study magic
too," she told her father that turn. "At the great school
they call Teel. I'm seventeen now, Father, and I must go. I must
become not only a warrior but a sorceress."

They stood in their great hall,
the mossy stone pyramid that rose from the swamplands, so tall only
the bravest bird could reach its peak. From the throne room, Neekeya
could stare out the windows at an endless land, green and lush and
fluttering with birds, that rolled into the misty horizons. When she
returned her eyes to her father, she saw a kindly man, his head bald,
his eyes warm. Necklaces of gilded cocoa beads hung across his bare
chest, and a sword hung from his side, its silver hilt shaped as a
crocodile's claw.

"My daughter," he said
to her, eyes dampening. "The outside world is cruel and
dangerous. I fought in the War of Day and Night years ago. I saw not
only the horrors of the night but the horrors of the day. We are
Daenorians. We are outcasts even among the sunlit kingdoms. They mock
our ways. They call us the backwater of Timandra." He rose from
his wooden throne, stepped toward her, and held her hands. "Please,
child, stay with me here. Daenor is lush, warm, a place of family, of
friendship, of righteousness. Do not step out into the cold, cruel
world where greed and hatred fill the hearts of nations."

She squeezed his hands. "But
I would learn of these things! How can I fight for righteousness
without knowing of cruelty? How can I be a just ruler some day, a
lady of this pyramid, if I haven't seen injustice? How can I surround
myself with your gifts, your artifacts of magic, when I don't have
the power to use them?"

He could say no more; his voice
choked. The tall warrior, stronger than any man in Daenor, pulled her
into his gentle embrace and kissed her head.

"Goodbye, my daughter.
Goodbye. I will miss you."

Neekeya sniffed, her tears
falling. That had been many turns ago, and here she knelt in Teel
University, this land that was so strange to her. This land where
people wore cotton robes, not beads and iron and leather. This land
where people whispered cruel secrets, taunted one another, mocked
anyone who was different. Neekeya had never feared the swamplands'
crocodiles or warriors who drank and cursed too much; she had always
been able to fight them, but how could she fight in a place like
this? She could survive in the wilderness, but how could she survive
within the walls of Teel?

"I miss home," she
whispered to her reflection in the pool, and her lips shook. "I
miss you, Father."

Laughter rolled behind her.

A voice rose in exaggerated
falsetto. "I miss you, Father."

Neekeya leaped to her feet, spun
around, and saw them there.

She growled.

Sunlit Purity—Lari's quartet.

"Well, look at what we have
here," Lari said, hands on her hips. "The swamp monster."

Neekeya balled her hands into
fists. The four were everything she was not—full-blooded Magerians,
their hair blond, their skin pale, their eyes blue, their clothes
woven of meticulous cotton, their accents perfect and highborn.
Neekeya was the daughter of a great lord, but to them she was a
barbarian, uncouth and no better than an animal.

She began to walk away from the
pool, but they moved forward, blocking her passage. Lari stood before
her, smiling crookedly. The twins—Fae and and Kae—blocked her left
side, while tall Derin stood to her right.

"Get out of my way,"
Neekeya said.

Lari laughed. "Or what?
Will you curse us with one of your 'magical amulets?'" She spoke
those last two words in a mockery of a toddler's voice. "Will
you hex us with a dead rat, attack us with an enchanted stick, or
maybe kick us with a magical boot?" Lari's smile turned into a
sneer. "You have no magic, Neekeya. You never did. You never
will. You are nothing but a swamp monster and you need to go home."

Neekeya tried to shove Lari
aside, but the girl stepped back, laughing, and slapped Neekeya's
cheek.

"Oh, she's going to cry!"
said one of the twins and laughed.

Lari too laughed. "Awful!
I'm going to have to scrub my hand now. It already smells like the
swamp."

Neekeya growled and tried to
shove past them again, but they blocked her way. She tossed a punch
but Lari dodged the blow, and one of the twins sneaked behind Neekeya
and shoved her forward.

"I'm warning you, Lari,"
Neekeya said, raising her fists. "I used to wrestle crocodiles
in my spare time, and if you don't step back now, I won't just slap
you. I'm going to bash your skull against the cobblestones."

They only laughed harder.

"Crocodiles!" said
Derin, his chest shaking with laughter. "I can just imagine her
wrestling those creatures in a pit of mud."

"Just like in the story I
drew," Lari said. She reached into her pack and pulled out a
scroll. She unrolled it and held out the parchment.

Neekeya froze and her heart
seemed to freeze too. Her eyes stung. Upon the scroll appeared a
drawing of her—a cruel cartoon, displaying her not as a lord's
daughter but as a savage barely better than an animal. Words appeared
below the text: "The Story of Neekeya, the Half-Crocodile Swamp
Monster." Below the title appeared a story; Neekeya only read
enough to realize it portrayed her as a beast whose father was a
crocodile.

Neekeya shouted hoarsely, tears
in her eyes, and tried to snatch the parchment, but Lari pulled the
scroll back.

"Calm down, savage!"
Lari said. "We copied this scroll fifty times. It's all over the
university already. Every first year quartet has a copy."

Neekeya didn't know if to weep
or scream, and for a moment, she only froze.

Father
was right,
she thought.
Father
warned me. I should have stayed home. I can't survive here. I can't
face such cruelty.

She closed her eyes. She wanted
to run—across the gardens, outside the walls, all the way home to
Daenor far on the western edge of the world. She was a joke here,
nothing but a joke.

"Lari!" rose a voice
from across the gardens. "Lari Serin! I heard you say you like
magic?"

Neekeya's eyes snapped open and
she gasped.

Tam stood under the stone
archway that led into the gardens. Autumn leaves clung to his brown
hair and green robes. He smiled, eyes bright, and thrust his hands
forward.

With a chorus of shrieks, a
dozen bats filled Lari's hair.

The young Magerian screamed.

"Get them off!" she
cried. "Derin! Twins!"

But Tam pointed again, and
suddenly bats were clinging to the others' hair too. They all shouted
and ran, fleeing the gardens, tugging the bats off one by one.

Tam watched them leave and sadly
shook his head. "They're only bats. I think they're cute."
He pointed up at an oak. "They live in that tree. I only had to
choose them as my material and move them a few feet downward."

Neekeya wanted to run to her
friend, to thank him, to embrace him, but she only stood, still
frozen like a damn fool. And her damn tears still flowed.

I'm
acting like a baby,
she thought. I
'm
a warrior. I'm the daughter of a lord. I—

She covered her eyes, her body
shook, and her tears kept flowing.

Warm arms enveloped her, for for
an instant Neekeya struggled, afraid, sure that it was Lari returned
to torment her. But when fingers stroked her hair, she opened her
eyes and saw that it was Tam who held her.

"It's all right," he
said softly. "They're gone."

Her tears wet his shoulder, and
her body pressed against him. "I can't do this, Tam. I don't
belong here."

"None of us do." He
touched her cheek, taking one of her tears onto his finger. "Not
Jitomi, not Madori, not me. We're all outcasts at Teel but we have to
stick together."

She looked away. "Jitomi?
He has other Elorians here. Madori? She's half-Elorian herself; she
often speaks to Jitomi of their home, a home they remember together.
And you, Tam?" She looked at him. "You fit in here. You
look like everyone else and you talk like everyone and—"

"And
I'm not like everyone," he said, stiffening. "I'm from
Arden. I'm the
Prince
of Arden. Maybe that's not a land of swamps and pyramids and
crocodiles, and maybe like Mageria it's a fragment of the old Riyonan
Empire, but it's still a different country . . . a country I miss."
His voice softened and he sighed. "I'm sorry. You're right.
Maybe I don't know how you feel. But I'm here for you. We all are."

She nodded. Her voice was
choked; she could barely speak louder than a whisper. "I know."
She smiled tremulously and held his hand. "Thank you, Tam. Our
quartet means everything to me." She trembled and smiled through
her tears. "Well, our quartet and those cute little bats."

He laughed softly, and she
touched his cheek, and she didn't know how it happened, but somehow
he was kissing her. Their laughter died, and as he held her close, it
felt like she was melting into his kiss. His one hand stroked her
hair, and the other held the small of her back. They kissed for what
seemed like ages, desperate for each other, scared of letting go,
wanting to forever stay like this in these gardens, together, one,
whole, no longer afraid but warm and full of tingling joy. She had
never kissed a boy before but it felt right, it felt natural, it felt
like the best thing in the world.

They walked back to their
chamber in silence, sneaking glances at each other, then lowering
their eyes—a little afraid, a little embarrassed, a little joyous.

 
 
CHAPTER SIXTEEN:
THE HOUNDS OF SUNMOTTE

Lord Tirus Serin—The Light of
Radian, Duke of Sunmotte Citadel, Warden of Hornsford Bridge, and
Lord Protector of Mageria—stood upon the bridge and watched the two
Ardishmen breach for air.

At his side, Lord Imril—a wiry
baron with a gaunt face and beaked nose—raised his crossbow, aiming
it at Torin's head.

"Got him," he said, a
hint of hunger and delight twisting his thin lips. He pulled the
trigger.

Serin nudged the crossbow aside,
and the quarrel skimmed over Torin's head, vanishing harmlessly into
the water. Sir Imril turned toward him, and for an instant irritation
filled the man's pale blue eyes. The show of defiance vanished
quickly, however, replaced by the servility Serin demanded from all
in his order.

"My lord?" Imril said.

"Let them be," Serin
replied calmly. He waved down his other crossbowmen's weapons. "Let
them swim."

His men lowered their crossbows
as one, moving in perfect unison. Down in the water, Torin and Cam
were still swimming to the Ardish riverbank, unaware that Serin had
just spared their lives—for a while at least.

"But, my lord," said
Imril and cleared his throat. The ratty nobleman was high ranking
enough to speak while the others dared not. "The Shepherd King
is a friend of the darkness. Sir Greenmoat is wed to one of the
nightcrawlers. Why spare the lives of these scum?"

Serin turned slowly to stare at
the shorter, gaunter man. Lord Imril's pencil mustache quivered just
the slightest; to challenge Lord Serin himself, the Light of Radian,
was an offense most men would be tortured for.

"You disagree with your
lord?" Serin said softly, letting a hint of a smile tingle his
lips. "Perhaps you think the Light of Radian is fallible?"

"No, my lord!" said
Imril, that mustache twitching. He slammed his fist against his chest
in salute. "I worship the Light of Radian. I only—"

"Tell me, Lord Imril."
Serin placed a hand on the baron's shoulder. "Do you think I do
not know who those two vermin are?"

"I only—" Sweat
trickled down Imril's face.

"And tell me, Lord Imril,
do you know the punishment for challenging the Lord of Light?"

Imril's throat bobbed as he
gulped, and a glob of sweat ran down his cheek. "I— Yes, my
lord."

"Describe it to me,"
Serin said, smiling, his voice pleasant. He leaned closer, his grip
tightening on the man's shoulder. "In loving detail."

Lord Imril blinked and paled. He
spoke hoarsely. "You whip them. You disembowel them. Then you
tie them to four horses and send each running in another direction."

Serin nodded, his smile breaking
into grin. "Excellent! And quite accurate." He laughed.
"But of course, you are my loyal baron. You are far too high
ranking for such lowly punishment. You feel free to speak your mind
to me. I understand. I will show you mercy."

Imril laughed nervously and
blinked sweat out of his eyes. "Thank you, my lord. I—"

He sputtered as Serin's dagger
drove into his eye.

"This is my mercy,"
Serin said, twisting the blade inside the man's skull. "I give
you a painless death. Your wife and children will enjoy the same
mercy."

He pulled the blade free. Imril
gave a last gasp, then collapsed upon the bridge.

"Remove his armor!"
Serin barked at his soldiers. "Take his sword too. Then kick the
body into the water; let the fish eat."

Upon the eastern bank, Greenmoat
and the king were now climbing onto the Ardish bank, safely back in
their homeland, that pathetic kingdom of magicless imbeciles.

Go
back to your capital,
Serin thought, watching them with a thin smile.
Tell
your generals what you saw here. Tell them of the armies in my
fields, of my mighty fortress, of the wrath that surely will descend
upon you.
He licked his lips.
Tell
them . . . and be afraid.

The soldiers were unstrapping
Imril's armor. Leaving them to their task, Serin mounted his horse
and rode back west to the Magerian bank.

The world rose and fell as he
galloped, and Serin smiled, still savoring the sweetness of the kill.
It was not a good turn without at least one good kill. Ahead rose his
fortress, large as a mountain, a city for an army, this army that
would soon bring the light and truth of Radianism to the world.