Empire of Night (15 page)

M
oria lay in the dark for at least half a day. Or half a night. She had no idea which it was, no way to tell. Darkness. Silence. Cold. That's all she had.

A few times, she rose and tried to pace, but she couldn't see the leg iron and kept tripping against it, and with each stumble, the metal bit into her leg, which was already tender from rubbing against the iron. When she felt blood dripping down her ankle, she stopped and curled into a ball on the floor.

Daigo. Tyrus.

Was Daigo alive? If not, she should feel it. Same with Ashyn.

But Tyrus . . . ?

They'd parted in anger. When he hadn't heard her, she should have gone after him, but at the time, she'd only thought,
I'll do that later.
What if there was no later?

And Gavril . . .

Given what may have befallen Tyrus, she ought not to spend a moment thinking of Gavril. He had betrayed her nearly a fortnight ago.

So why did it still hurt so much?

And what of Edgewood's and Fairview's children? Did they still live? Had Ronan and Ashyn found them? Or could they be here, wherever
here
was?

When the door clanged open, she scrambled up. In walked an elderly woman, her face so lined it seemed lost in its nut-brown folds. A guard followed at her heels. From his bearing she could tell he was not a mercenary, but a warrior of the empire. Sworn to protect the emperor. Now he'd sworn loyalty to a traitor who murdered innocents.

Rage filled Moria, like a flash fire that ignited all her tamped-down anger. She dug her fingers into the dirt floor to keep from launching herself at the traitor.

“This is the healer,” the guard said. “She does not speak the common language, so there is no sense attempting to converse with her. She has been sent by Lord Gavril to tend to your wounds. If you raise a hand against her, she will be taken away and will not return, and your injuries will be left to fester.”

“I'd not raise a hand against an old woman,” Moria said. “You've been too long in the company of the Kitsunes if you expect that.”

“I would suggest, Keeper, that you remember where you are and refrain from insulting your hosts. It will not help your situation.”

“Alvar Kitsune raised shadow stalkers to massacre my village.”

To her surprise, the guard laughed. “Is that what the emperor would have you believe?”

“No, it's what I saw.”

“Is it?” All humor left his eyes as they hardened. “Perhaps then you are not a gullible child, but an instrument of the tyrant on the imperial throne. Is that the tale he told you to spread? Shadow stalkers? It would be funny if it weren't so heinous an accusation. The marshal warned us that the emperor would resurrect the old accusations of sorcery.”

“Because he
is
a sorcerer.” Moria got to her feet. “As is his son. I saw Gavril—”

His hand hit her across the mouth and she fell back, tasting blood. The old woman tensed but did nothing.

“I would beg the ancestors' forgiveness for striking a Keeper, if I did not believe you have already lost their favor. What has that imperial snake promised for your lies?” The guard stepped closer, eyes narrowing. “Or perhaps the rumor is true. They say his young Seeker and Keeper have not been sleeping in their own quarters. Twin girls sharing his sleeping pallet? The old lecher may be guilty of every possible perversion, but that would not be one he's sampled before.”

Moria laughed. She couldn't help it.

“You find that amusing, girl?”

“No, I find it ridiculous. First, I can hardly imagine the emperor ignoring a declaration of war to amuse himself with young women. Second, if I'm supposedly his new plaything, why was I captured several days walk from the imperial city, fighting alongside his son? I would hope if he did bed me,
he'd not tire of me quite so quickly.”

Did she imagine it or did the old woman's lips quirk?

“You think highly of yourself, don't you, girl?” the guard said. “And you don't know when to keep your mouth shut.”

“I won't sit by and listen to lies in silence. I should not be surprised, though. How could the Kitsunes expect to woo honorable men to their side if they admitted to sorcery? To raising the dead? To unleashing monsters and massacring—”

“Enough!” He sprang at her, hand raised, but she knocked it aside and glowered at him.

He headed for the door and waved for the old woman to leave with him. She shook her head and teetered over to Moria as she said something in a language Moria didn't recognize. From the guard's expression, he didn't know it either. But he caught the tone and the name Gavril and her meaning was clear enough. Gavril had ordered her to tend to Moria's wounds, and she was doing as she was told.

“You want to stay?” the guard said. “Stay alone, then, and hope she does not snap your old neck.”

The guard stormed out. The old healer motioned again for Moria to sit and examined her head to toe with crow-sharp black eyes. She muttered under her breath and toddled off.

“No!” Moria called after her as she scrambled up. “My leg is hurt. The skin's broken, and I fear infection. If you have something clean, I'll wrap it myself—”

The woman walked out and shut the door behind her.

Moria struggled against panic.

I must warn the emperor about Alvar
'
s lies. I must get back . . .

She shifted and heard the chain scrape over the rock-strewn
floor. How was she going to escape? Gavril seemed prepared to let her rot in here.

I would not kill you, Keeper. Not kill you. Not harm you. Not ever.

That's what he'd said. But there were so many ways to hurt. Not all of them required fists and blades.

Yes, I have done whatever you believe. I have deceived you. I have betrayed you. Remember that. Whatever happens, remember that.

When the door clanked, she sat up quickly. The old woman had returned, this time with a maidservant bearing a basin of steaming water and a torch. The girl set down the basin and lit the torch, then went, leaving the door open. Moria tried to peer out, to get some sense of where she was, but she saw only a hall with more thick doors.

The old woman said something in her own language. When Moria looked over, the healer motioned for her to undress, waving toward the door as if to assure her no one would come and see her naked. Moria could have laughed. That was truly the last thing she was worried about.

She stripped out of her filthy clothes and began to bathe as the old woman tended to her injuries.

When Moria was done bathing and her ankle had been cleaned and bound, the old woman gave her fresh clothing. As Moria pulled on a shift, the woman passed the bundled tunic and trousers. Moria motioned that she was still getting herself into the shift—the silk stuck on her damp skin—but the woman took Moria's hand and pressed it against the fabric. There was
something hidden in the folds. Something small and hard.

Moria reached in and felt a knobby thing small enough to close her fist around. She pulled out her hand, then carefully opened it.

In her palm lay a black figurine. Obsidian carved in the form of a wildcat. Moria raised her gaze to the old woman.

“Does this mean . . . ?” she whispered, unable to finish.

The healer's words came thickly accented and awkward, like a magpie repeating a phrase it had heard.

“He lives.”

Moria squeezed the stone figure tightly as tears filled her eyes. The old woman laid a hand on her arm and said something, again in her own language, the words incomprehensible, but the intent clear. Words of comfort and reassurance.

Then, the old woman said, “Keeper.”

Moria looked into the woman's black-bead eyes and understood. She was showing her this kindness—the wildcat and the comfort—because Moria was a Keeper. Did the old woman follow their ways? Or perhaps someone else here did, some pious warrior, who'd given her the figurine and the message.

“Tyrus,” Moria said. “Prince Tyrus. Does he . . . live?”

Moria could see a glimmer of comprehension in the old woman's eyes.

“I was with Prince Tyrus when I was captured,” Moria said, speaking slowly. “He is a friend. A very good friend. He was in danger, and I fear . . . Is Prince Tyrus all right?”

The old woman seemed to search her face then. Searching for what?

After a moment, the healer shook her head.

“No? You mean . . .” Moria could barely force the words out. “He's dead? Tyrus is dead?”

The woman shook her head more vehemently this time. Then she shrugged and shook it again before patting Moria's arm. She didn't know if Tyrus lived or not. That was all she'd been saying.

“What about the children?” Moria asked.

The old woman's face wrinkled in confusion.

“Children?” Moria said. “The little ones? From my village and from Fairview?”

The healer continued to look confused. It did not seem a problem of language comprehension but of context. She knew nothing of captive children. Like the guard, she'd been fed lies. That meant the little ones were not being held here.

Moria finished dressing while the healer brought stew. It was hardly palace-worthy cuisine, but it was hot.

The old woman departed as Moria ate. When the door opened again moments later, it was the guard from earlier, bearing a bucket and a thick wool blanket.

“You'll need this to piss in,” he said, throwing the bucket across the cell. “Mind that you do. As for this—” He threw the blanket on the floor beside the bucket. “The old witch thought you might be cold.”

He started to leave, then stopped and turned. “I know you Northerners aren't too bright, so let me show you how to use that bucket.”

He walked over to it and reached into his trousers. Moria looked away and waited for the sound of him relieving himself in the bucket. When she heard nothing, she glanced over to
see him urinating on her blanket. She lunged to grab it, but it was too late.

“Huh,” he said. “It seems I missed. It's so dark in here. An easy mistake.”

He hitched his trousers up, grinned at her, and sauntered out the door. Moria lifted the blanket, in hopes that perhaps he'd only soiled a corner. Of course he hadn't. The middle was soaked through, rendering the blanket unusable. Worse, the smell . . .

She threw the wet blanket into the corner, curled up on the floor, clutched her wildcat figurine, and shivered against the cold.

“H
e's going to die,” Guin said as she gazed down at Tyrus's still form.

“No.” Ashyn wiped a cool cloth over Tyrus's sweat-soaked forehead. “He is not.”

“He will. It was a powerful poison.” The girl glanced at the dark form lying beside Tyrus. “The wildcat may pass, too. He seems to have gotten less of the poison, but there's still a chance.”

Ashyn gritted her teeth and kept cooling Tyrus's brow. They'd laid blankets on the floor of the abandoned hut and put Tyrus and Daigo on them. Ronan had undressed Tyrus to help with the fever, but had draped an extra blanket from his midriff to his thighs, for modesty. When Ashyn had returned from refilling the water bucket, she'd caught Guin peeking under the blanket. The girl hadn't been the least bit ashamed of her actions—instead making observations that
Ashyn was still trying very hard to forget.

She'd like to forget Guin herself, as well, but that was more difficult. She couldn't even send her off in good conscience—there was no one to take her. The expedition was lost.

Lost. That was one way of putting it. The expedition was dead—that was another.

Everyone who'd accompanied them from the imperial city had been slaughtered by the bandits and Lord Jorojumo's men.

Ronan and Ashyn had returned shortly after the warlord's treachery to find only one remaining warrior. Tyrus was with him. He'd been fighting like a whirlwind. Before Ronan could join the fray, Tyrus had fallen.

He'd not been attacked—he'd simply fallen. Poisoned by a blade or a dart, as they later realized. Aided by Daigo and Tova, Ronan had managed to fend off all attackers and drag Tyrus from the battlefield. That's when Daigo had fallen, too. The remaining warrior only survived long enough to cover their retreat before being cut down.

Later, Tyrus had roused and managed to tell them what had happened. How the warlord had betrayed them. How Moria had vanished. Tyrus had spotted her on the edge of the battlefield with one of the warlord's men. Then she was shouting his name, and he'd turned just in time to avoid a fatal blow from the warlord.

By the time he managed to get off the field, Moria was gone. Presumably taken by the young warrior. Now held captive by the warlord? Perhaps. More likely by Alvar Kitsune himself.

If Moria was with Alvar, Ashyn hoped Gavril was there.
While Moria believed he'd betrayed them, Ashyn had seen them together on the road. Gavril cared for Moria. He'd not let her be harmed.

Please let her be with Gavril. Let her be safe. Let her return to me soon.

And let her return to Daigo. The wildcat lay unmoving by Tyrus's side. He was conscious. Ashyn suspected he wasn't even asleep, though he kept his eyes shut. His leg had suffered a sword slice, and as the poison took hold, the wound had festered until he couldn't walk. Which was just as well. When he'd still been able to hobble, he'd kept trying to go after Moria.

Ronan had followed Daigo a few times, in case he did in fact know where Moria was, but the wildcat was only searching blindly, so they'd confined him to the hut. Since then, he'd barely lifted his head to drink. He chose not to move. He chose not to eat.

After they'd found the hut, they'd gone searching for the rest of the convoy and found only two survivors.

When they'd seen the warlord's men coming for them, riding hard, the scholar Katsumoto had insisted Simeon take their scrolls and hide in the woods. Ashyn and Ronan had found him there, and he'd volunteered to take the only remaining horse and ride for help. Ashyn had suggested Ronan go instead—so he could get back to his brother and sister. Ronan refused, and she was, admittedly, glad of it. Simeon would have been useless out here, and while Ronan might not be a shoulder to cry on, he understood how much her sister's absence affected and worried her.

So Simeon had gone. By now, he should have reached the imperial city. The emperor would know what had happened and be sending troops.

Guin was the other survivor. Confined to the wagon, she'd kept silent during the attack. Ashyn had released her and occasionally regretted that. It seemed that once one became a spirit, one's capacity for human compassion evaporated. After two days, Guin had suggested they abandon Tyrus and Daigo, forget Moria, and let nature and fate run their course. Ronan had told her—repeatedly—that she was free to leave. He'd eventually offered her one of his blades and half their food. She'd still stayed.

Ronan came in and slung a bag on the broken table. “Apples, rice, dried fish . . . I even found some honey.”

“Honey?” Guin perked up. “Do you know how long it's been since I've tasted honey?”

“It'll be longer still,” Ronan said. “This is for Tyrus and Daigo.”

“They need sustenance,” Ashyn explained. “They can only take water and that's not enough. I'll mix in the honey.” She smiled at Ronan. “Thank you.”

She didn't ask where the food came from. He'd stolen it. There was no choice. They were still deep in Jorojumo's lands and didn't dare appeal to his farmers and peasants. Ashyn hoped Ronan stole only from those who could afford the loss, but she knew she was being foolish if she expected him to heed such concerns. They were in fear for their lives while nursing an imperial prince from the brink of death. Ronan would take supplies wherever he could find them.

Guin looked down at Tyrus. “I'm sure he wouldn't mind if I had a little of his honey . . .”

“He's a prince,” Ashyn snapped, more harshly than she intended.

“A bastard prince. It's not quite the same thing. But I take your meaning. The emperor will reward us handsomely if we do manage to save his life.”

“That is not why we're—”

“Go for a walk with Tova, Ash,” Ronan said. “I can look after Tyrus.”

“I ought to watch Tyrus.”

“He's sound asleep.”

As if on cue, Tyrus groaned. He writhed under the sheet, moaning. Ashyn quickly wet a cloth and pressed it to his forehead.

His eyes opened, and he smiled. “Moria . . .”

She'd corrected him the first few times he'd woken, fever-fuddled, mistaking her for her sister. He wouldn't listen. Daigo was at his side, and when she leaned over him, he saw Moria. The few times he'd woken while Ashyn was out, he'd flown into a delirious rage, attacking Ronan and Guin, as if they'd stolen Moria from him.

“Moria,” he said again now, reaching for Ashyn's hand, fumbling to find it, as if his vision was as fuzzy as his mind.

“I'm here,” she said, and clasped his fingers in hers.

She sat beside him and held his hand. He never noticed that she didn't act or sound like Moria. She looked like her, and that was enough. His eyes fluttered open and closed as he murmured things she couldn't make out, fevered mumblings,
clasping her hand so hard it almost hurt. Then he drifted off again. She waited until his grip relaxed and slid free.

“He loves her, doesn't he,” Guin said.

Ashyn looked at her.

“The prince,” she said. “He loves your sister.”

Now it was Ashyn mumbling something unintelligible. A few days ago, she'd have said only that Tyrus cared for Moria and she for him. Now . . . ? Was it love? Perhaps, but it seemed an invasion of Tyrus's privacy to speculate, especially with Guin.

“It's very romantic,” Guin said. “I hope they don't die.”

Ronan turned on Guin. “If you don't stop that, I swear I'll send you back to the spirit world. Moria is Ashyn's sister. Tyrus is our friend. We care about them. We do not want them to die.” He turned to Ashyn and muttered, “I can't believe I needed to explain that.”

“I don't want them to die either,” Guin said. “That's what I said.”

“How about you don't mention the possibility of their deaths at all.”

“But it is a possibility. A very real one. I'm only—”

“Stop. No one needs the reminder.”

Guin looked confused, and as much as Ashyn agreed with Ronan, she said, “I'm glad you don't want them to die, Guin. That's . . . kind of you.”

“Thank you. I know people think romantic stories are better if the lovers die, but I can assure you, there is nothing romantic about death. I would rather see them live. The dashing bastard prince and the brave and beautiful Keeper.” She
pursed her lips. “Perhaps not beautiful. Quite pretty, though, for a Northerner.” She glanced at Ashyn and said, “And, of course, you're pretty, too,” in a halfhearted way, as if she was not Moria's identical twin. Guin turned to Ronan. “Do you think I am?”

“What?”

“Do you think I'm pretty?”

“It's not a question I've spent a single moment contemplating.”

Guin rolled her eyes. “I'm not asking if you're attracted to me. That would be very awkward. I'd need to remind you that you're a lowborn boy, and that I could never return your attentions.”

“Goddess be praised,” Ronan muttered.

Guin turned to Ashyn. “Do you find the body I'm inhabiting pleasing?”

Ashyn stared at her as Ronan choked on a laugh.

“I don't believe I understand the question,” Ashyn said slowly.

“I'm asking if I've chosen an attractive form. I had to act quickly when the vessel was free, and I did not have time to properly assess it. I do not recall any obvious deformities, and from what I've seen when I disrobe—”

Ronan coughed. “We do not require details. If you're asking if the girl you inhabit was pretty, she's . . .” He glanced at Ashyn for help.

“Yes, she is pleasant in appearance,” Ashyn said. “However, right now, it is more important that she is strong and healthy, so that she may survive this ordeal.”

“Certainly, but I intend to survive, and after that, beauty will stand me in far greater stead than strength or health. I was twenty summers when I passed, and not yet wed. Nor had I any suitors. My mother blamed my face and form. I was not an attractive girl, and too thin by far. That was why no man had chosen me.”

“Not necessarily,” Ronan muttered again.

Guin settled on the floor and crossed her legs. “In my village, I saw many girls who were as dull as a hoe and as stupid as a cow, all wed by their fourteenth summer, so long as they were fair of face.”

“Fourteenth summer?” Ashyn said. “When did you live?”

Guin shrugged. “It was a very long time ago. But I learned the value of beauty, and if I have been given a second chance at life, I'm relieved that I've overcome that obstacle. This time, I will wed, and wed well, and I will grow fat and old, surrounded by every luxury.” She looked at Ashyn. “That's the advantage women have. To improve their station, they need only stay charming and beautiful long enough to catch a good husband. It's much harder for men. To better themselves, they must work at it their entire lives. I'm glad I'm a woman.”

Ashyn looked at Ronan.

“Best not to comment,” he said.

She turned to Guin. “I believe you may find times have changed somewhat.”

“I still need to be beautiful to wed. That never changes.”

“Well, if I may be so bold, I've always found that one of the keys to beauty is frequent bathing. The longer one goes between washings, the more the dirt and grime become engrained in
one's skin, until it is quite impossible to remove. The best water of all is fresh from the source.” She handed Guin the bucket. “Do you know where the spring is?”

“A goodly walk from here.”

“Yes, but you need not hurry. I have enough water to last until sundown. And the longer your bath, the more your skin and hair will shine.”

Guin thanked her for her advice, and left as Ashyn turned her attention back to Tyrus.