Daughter of Moth (The Moth Saga, Book 4) (5 page)

"It's
beautiful," Nitomi whispered at his side, for once not launching
into an endless stream of words.

He
nodded. They stepped deeper into the town, heading toward the walls
of the university.

As
they walked, Jitomi's sense of wonder soured. At first it was a
little boy who saw them, gasped, and fled. Past another street corner
and a shop selling honeyed cakes, it was two women who pointed,
muttered, and spun away on their heels. In a courtyard with a marble
statue rising from a fountain, three men spat, and one shouted,
"Nightcrawlers go home!" before storming off into a tavern.

"We're
not very popular here," Jitomi said to his sister. He couldn't
help but admire the ingenuity of the slur—nightcrawler, the name of
a worm and, supposedly, the children of night.

The
little woman was bouncing about, gaping at the many shops, taverns,
statues, and gardens. "So what? Let them stare. Let them mumble.
Jitomi, we are the children of a great lord! I'm a dojai and you're
almost a mage already. They've just never seen an Elorian before. I
bet they've never seen weaveworms either. Do you think we might still
find weaveworms here? Maybe in the mountains up there, or—"

"Sister,
hush. Let's go quickly. I want to reach the university and get off
these streets."

A
few men were glaring at them from a roadside ale-house. One held a
knife. Another wore a strange brooch upon his lapel—it looked like a
sun eclipsing a moon. The men spoke in low murmurs, and Jitomi caught
something about how "Serin will send the creatures back into the
night." He walked on, moving to another street.

The
siblings hurried onward, and even Nitomi fell silent for once. Jitomi
was too young to remember the great War of Day and Night, but his
older siblings had told him many tales of those days. The fleets of
daylight had sailed against Ilar, the great southern empire of the
night. Those ships had smashed against the walls of Asharo, and many
Timandrians—sailors and soldiers—ended up in chains, whipped,
enslaved to their Ilari masters.

Yet
now we're the foreigners,
he thought.
Now we're
nothing but creatures in a strange land.
He took a deep breath.
The
war is over but hatred remains.

They
were near the walls of Teel University, walking across a courtyard,
when they saw the demonstration.

A
couple dozen Timandrians stood outside the university gates, raising
banners with the same eclipse sigil. An effigy of an Elorian hung
from a lamp post between them, formed of straw and wood—a twisted
creature, its eyes cruel, its fingers clawed, its fangs red. The
Timandrians chanted together in their tongue, which Jitomi had been
studying for the past few years. He understood these words and they
chilled him.

"Radian
rises!" the people cried. "Radian rises! Elorians go home!"

One
of the demonstrators, a young woman with long golden hair, rose to
stand on a box. Cheeks flushed, she shouted, "Hear me! I am Lari
Serin, a Radian warrior. Teel University is tarnished with the filth
of nightcrawlers. Send all Elorian students home! Keep all magic in
Mageria! Send the creatures back into the darkness."

Jitomi
froze in his tracks, staring. So there were other Elorian students at
Teel? That both comforted and worried him. He had hoped to fade into
the shadows here; if other Elorians had come to study magic, and if
tensions were rising, would he find himself caught in a racial war?

"Radian
rises!" shouted Lari—the young, golden-haired woman. She saw
Jitomi and his sister, pointed at them, and her voice rose even
louder. "More creatures of the night walk among us.
Nightcrawlers will burn!"

With
that, Lari brought a candle to the hanging effigy. The Elorian of
wood and straw caught flame. The demonstrators cheered, cut the
burning effigy down, and stomped upon it. Their banners rose higher,
and their voices cried out for Radian. Whether Radian was a god,
movement, or leader, Jitomi didn't know, but whatever the case, the
word meant danger.

Until
now, Jitomi had been fighting the temptation to turn back, to run
home to the night. Strangely, now he found himself clenching his
fists, squaring his jaw, and marching forward with renewed
determination. Nitomi walked at his side, silent for once, her eyes
darting.

Leaving
the protestors behind, they finally reached the university gates.
Towers flanked a stone archway, its keystone engraved with two
crossing scrolls, sigil of Teel. Guards in particolored livery stood
at the open doors, their helmets plumed. When Jitomi peered inside,
he saw a cobbled cloister, a towering elm tree, and columned halls.
Many other applicants already stood within; some were fellow
Elorians, hooded and cloaked.

Teel
University... center of learning, wisdom, and magic.

Jitomi
turned toward his sister. She stared at him, her large eyes damp, her
lips quivering.

"It's
time to say goodbye," Jitomi said softly and held her hands.

She
nodded and sniffled. "I'll miss you, baby brother. I'll miss you
so much. It won't be the same at home without you. Please do well
here. Please become a very powerful mage very quickly, then come back
to Ilar. I'll think about you every turn. I promise." She
unclasped one of her many daggers from the strap across her chest.
She handed it to him. The tantō was curved, the hilt wrapped in
silk, and the sigil of Ilar—a red flame—was engraved onto the
blade. "Take this. It's good steel and it will protect you here.
It's the only gift I have to give."

He
took the dagger and slid it into one of his cloak's deep pockets. He
was about to turn and leave when Nitomi leaped, wrapped all four
limbs around him, and hugged him tightly.

"Goodbye,
brother," she whispered.

"Goodbye,
sister."

Tears
filled his own eyes. He turned to step through the archway, leaving
her there—wishing he had more to say, wishing he had more time with
her. He felt stiff, awkward, afraid. He dared not look back.

If
I pass these trials, I won't leave this place for four years.

He
entered a cobbled cloister surrounded by columned galleries. Towers
soared at all sides, and a great dome—large as a palace—rose ahead.
Blinking furiously, struggling to keep his eyes dry, he stared at the
elm tree. Its leaves rustled against the blue sky, and Jitomi thought
of the stars of his homeland.

 
 
CHAPTER FOUR:
FRIEND AND FOE

Head spinning, Madori took a deep
breath and stared around at the fabled Teel University.

She stood in a sprawling
cloister surrounded by porticoes. The place seemed large enough for
an army to muster in. Many other youths walked around her, all
highborn. All were better dressed, better bred, and quite a bit
taller than her. Born to an Elorian mother, Madori stood barely five
feet tall; women of the night rarely stood taller. Full-blooded
Timandrians, children of eternal daylight grown on hearty sunlit
fare, dwarfed her. As she moved among the crowd, Madori saw them
stare at her, mutter, even point.

"An Elorian?" one boy
whispered, gaping her way.

His friend shook his head.
"Hair's black, skin's tanned. Half-breed, I reckon. I heard of
those."

Madori sneered. She was about to
march over to the two boys and clobber them—how dared they talk of
her as of some animal!—but her father appeared in her mind. She
could hear his damn voice again.

You
will achieve greatness on your terms, not letting others drag you
into the mud.

Madori grumbled. Father invented
stupid puns, told jokes only he'd laugh at, and was overall a huge
embarrassment, but he was also the wisest person Madori knew. Fists
clenched, she walked away from the two slack-jawed boys, heading
deeper into the cloister.

"Country bumpkins, they
are," she muttered under her breath. "They'll never pass
the trials."

She kept moving, worming her way
through the crowd. She thought she caught glimpses of a wooden stage
ahead. Used to being the shortest person around, Madori knew she'd
have to step close if she wanted to see any speaker who might appear.

As she walked, she passed by
some of the strangest youths she'd ever seen. Most applicants seemed
to be local boys and girls, Magerians in cotton robes, their eyes
bright and their hair golden. But many foreigners crowded the
courtyard too. Some applicants seemed to be from Arden, Madori's
homeland; they wore leggings, tunics, and tall leather boots. Others
hailed from all over the daylight realms: jungle dwellers clad in
tiger-pelts, their hair flaming red; northern Verilish youths,
hulking and wide, wearing bear furs; southern desert children, their
skin deep bronze, their tunics white; and even some dwellers of the
distant savanna island of Sania, their clothes formed of many beads,
elephants embroidered onto their cloaks.

Diverse as they were, all of
them were Timandrians, Madori realized with a sigh. All were children
of Timandra, the sunlit half of this broken world men called Moth.
The day never ended here; these children had never known darkness.
She, Madori, would always be a stranger among them—a girl born to a
mother of darkness, an Elorian from across the dusk.

Her eyes stung.
Will
I be an outcast here too?

She was nearing the stage when
she saw another group of applicants; these ones huddled close
together, clad in robes and hoods. Madori tilted her head, squinted,
and stepped closer.

Her heart burst into a gallop.

"Elorians," she
whispered, a tremble seizing her.

Madori had seen many Elorians
before. Her village was near the border with the night, and her
mother often took her into the darkness. Madori had spent many hours
admiring the stars and moon, feasting upon mushrooms and glowing
lanternfish, and playing with Elorian children under the dark skies.
Yet aside from her mother, she had never seen other Elorians in the
sunlit half of Moth.

They were a slender folk, their
skin milky white, their hair long and smooth and the color of
starlight. Their ears were large, thrusting out, meant for hearing
every creak in the deep darkness. Their robes were made of silk,
embroidered with dragon motifs. Their most distinguishing feature,
however, was their eyes. Those orbs were twice the size of Timandrian
eyes, oval and gleaming blue and lavender. Madori herself—though
tanned of skin and dark of hair—had those eyes.

Eyes
for seeing in the dark.

She took a deep breath, sudden
hope lifting inside her. Here in the sunlight, she was a curiosity, a
girl for others to gape at. She was no more Elorian than Timandrian,
but perhaps among the children of the night she could find some
acceptance. After all, they too were curiosities here; Madori saw how
the others stared and pointed at them. If Madori and these Elorians
did not share the full bond of race, they shared the bond of
alienation.

One of the Elorians noticed her.
He raised his eyes and stared her way. His large, gleaming eyes were
deep blue. A tattoo of a dragon crawled up his neck and cheek,
finally coiling over the eyebrow. Strands of hair fell across his
forehead, milky-white, and a silver ring studded his nose. He didn't
speak, didn't step toward her, merely stared, his gaze penetrating.
Slowly, the others in his group turned to follow his gaze, and Madori
saw the confusion in their eyes. Like everyone, they too were trying
to decide what she was—a girl with Timandrian hair and skin, her
eyes large as an Elorian's.

She took a step toward them,
needing that comfort, that acceptance, that security of a group. But
before she reached them, she paused.

No.

A voice spoke in her head again,
but this time it seemed to be her own voice, not her father's—a
voice from deep within her.

This
is not the path to acceptance.

She was in Timandra now, about
to apply for admission in a university full of Timandrians. She had
to make a choice how to live here, which side of hers to embrace. If
she chose to mingle with Timandrians, perhaps she could still find
some acceptance in the sunlight. If she chose to live as an Elorian,
she would forever be an outcast here—just one more outsider, a
misfit among misfits.

She caressed her own tattoo—a
small duskmoth upon her wrist, its one wing white, the other black.
Duskmoths were creatures shaped like the world, torn between day and
night. They were creatures like her, forever halved. Madori tore her
gaze away from that strange, tattooed Elorian boy and his comrades.
Leaving them, she walked toward the wooden stage.

Several men and women stood upon
this stage, clad in flowing robes.
Mages
,
Madori knew—each from a different school. One mage, a stern looking
man with cold eyes, wore the black robes of offensive magic—dark
spells used in warfare. Several other mages wore white, green, and
red robes, though Madori did not know what those colors signified;
her father had met only the dark mages in the war. She wondered which
of these professors could teach her healing; it was the skill she had
come here for, the skill she refused to leave without.

One mage, an elderly woman clad
in blue robes, stepped toward a podium on the stage. She was a frail
little thing, barely larger than Madori, her hair white and her skin
deeply lined. The woman raised her arms, and when she spoke, her
voice boomed out, loud as a crashing oak. Applicants started and
gaped as the thundering words pounded out of this dainty woman's
mouth. Already they saw magic at work.

"Welcome, applicants, to
the Teel Trials!" The mage gazed across the crowd. "I am
Headmistress Egeria. You've traveled here from many lands to prove
your mettle. I see applicants from across Mythimna. I see boys and
girls from our homeland of Mageria." Cheers rose from the crowd
at this; most here were local Magerians. "And I see applicants
from the pine forests of Verilon, from the plains of Arden, from the
cold arctic isle of Orida, from the jungles of Naya . . ." As
the headmistress named every sunlit nation, its applications cheered.
The old woman continued. "I see students from the swamps of
Daenor, from the desert of Eseer, from the savannah of Sania."
She cleared her throat and fixed the round glasses that perched atop
her nose. "And, for the very first time in Teel University
history, I am proud to see that Elorians—children from the dark half
of Moth—have chosen to cross into the sunlight to join our quest for
knowledge."