Moth (16 page)

Ceranor's frown, already deep, deepened further. He grumbled. He had married the girl, thirty years his junior, to appease her father—an angry lord with coffers deeper than his own. The girl was a vacuous, silly thing, barely twenty and about as intelligent as a puppy.

"The commoners rage with hunger and fear, Linee," he told her. "The Sailith temples grow in power; already some say they're mightier than this palace. And across our borders, our old enemies muster, still dreaming of their revenge." He sighed. "And you want to take a nap."

She pouted. "I like naps."

Ceranor stared at the pretty, flighty young creature, a girl of golden elflocks, freckled skin, and vacant eyes. He shook his head, walked to his table, and lifted a mug of water. He always drank water, never wine. Wine dulled the senses; it was a fool's drink.

"Another drought or plague, and the commoners will storm this palace," he said. "If the Sailith grow too strong, they will convert this place into another temple. If our neighbors sense our weakness, they will storm across our land and sack our city. They will invade this chamber too, Linee. Only my wits are holding back the tide. Only this council can save my throne."

"
Our
throne," Linee corrected him. She rose from the bed, flounced toward him, and clung to him. She grinned up at him, her chin pressed against his chest. "It's my throne too. I'm the queen now. I'm the prettiest queen Arden's ever known! Nobody would dream of overthrowing me, because I'm beautiful and friendly. The people love me."

Silently, Ceranor cursed the girl's father. Sometimes he wondered if the man had truly craved an alliance with the crown, or if he'd simply wished to offload a halfwit. Ceranor knew that many men envied him for his wife, a beautiful young bride for an aging soldier. At fifty years of age, Ceranor's hair was graying and his brow was creasing, but his wife was young and fair.

Yet Ceranor saw little value in beauty alone. Unlike other kings, he donned no embroidered, dyed robes; he wore the steel plates of a soldier, the same armor he'd worn to the wars twenty years ago. Unlike other kings, he grew no luxurious beard but kept his face clean-shaven. He wore no jewels, no finery, and no gems or gold adorned his sword. Many mocked him, calling him the Soldier King behind his back. Ceranor wouldn't mind them calling him that to his face.

A soldier is strong,
he thought.
A soldier always fights on.

He looked down at his wife. She was clinging to his side, grinning like a fool, and trying to tug him back to bed. Her golden locks cascaded around her face, and her eyes gleamed with love for him.

He stroked her hair. "War has never hardened you, my sweet bride. You've never known blood, pain, or the horror of battle. I have. I must succeed or your innocence will shatter."

She blinked at him. "Do you have to go to another boring council?" She pouted. "I don't want you to leave. Your meetings are always so long and I get so bored here." She stamped her feet. "Tell those other kings to leave. This isn't their kingdom."

Ceranor sighed. "It will be, unless I can turn their armies away from our borders." He turned back to the window, stared out at the simmering city, and nodded. "We must rally the people, we must appease the Sailith, and we must turn our enemies away. Only one thing can do this, my dearest wife." He looked at her. "War with Eloria."

Linee blinked at him. "The Nightside? But it's oh so dark there. They say they don't even have butterflies or flowers in the night." She turned away from him and crossed her arms. "I don't want you go there. Stay here in the day. It's nicer here and we can have naps together."

And she wonders why I spend so long at my councils,
he thought.
I'm surrounded with raging commoners, a bloodthirsty temple, and hostile neighbors . . . yet sometimes I think my greatest bane is my wife.

He left her in their chambers to sleep. He stepped onto a spiraling stone staircase, climbed down the palace's eastern tower, and walked down a columned corridor. When he approached the oaken doors of his banquet hall, he paused and steeled himself.

Behind these doors lurk my greatest enemies,
he thought. He had fought his fellow kings in fields, jungles, and snowy mountains, leading armies to clash and burn and bleed. He had never faced them like this, trapped between stone walls, using words rather than blades. Yet now the safety of Arden would be sealed not on the battlefield, but at a simple table.

With a deep breath, Ceranor opened the doors and entered his hall.

Porphyry columns rose in two palisades, their capitals shaped as ravens, the birds of Arden. A vaulted ceiling spread above, painted with scenes of clouds and sunbeams. Marble statues of erstwhile monarchs stood along the walls, gazing upon a round granite table. Upon jeweled, ivory chairs sat his seven fellow kings of Timandra.

With shuffling robes, chinking beads, and creaking armor, they all rose to face him. They stared silently.

Ceranor paused for only a heartbeat, resisting the instinct to draw his sword. He had fought these seven too many times; a couple he had dueled hand-to-hand. Three were fellow kings of fallen Riyona, an empire which had collapsed a thousand years ago, splitting into four. The others governed foreign lands nearly as strange as the night. As their armies mustered, here the Eight Sunlit Kings would duel with words . . . or his throne would burn.

He approached his seat, the one empty chair, but did not sit. He placed his hands on the table, leaned forward, and spoke in a slow and steady voice.

"Welcome to Arden! Welcome to the kingdom of the raven. It has been many years since all Eight Kings of Sunlight gathered in one hall. I am honored to host our great council. You have crossed great distances to be here, traveling by ships and carriages. Some of you have traveled for two full months. It is my pleasure to—"

"Enough with the pleasantries!" one king blurted out. He slammed hairy fists against the tabletop. "Bring us
wine
, damn you."

Ceranor frowned. He stared at the man, if a man he was; the King of Verilon seemed more like a bear, the sigil of his kingdom. Tall and burly, he wore brown furs; beneath them, his arms and neck were nearly as hairy. His beard sprawled out like the roots of an oak, all but hiding his red cheeks. Ceranor remembered how, twenty years ago, this brute had nearly slain him with a hammer; if not for Teramin Greenmoat's shield, Ceranor would have died that winter in the snow.

"Very well," he said. The interruption peeved him, but the memory of that swinging hammer chilled his anger. He snapped his fingers, and two servants stepped forward from the shadows. "Pour the kings wine. We shall drink and talk."

"More the former than the latter," said the hirsute King of Verilon. He snorted, grabbed a pitcher of wine from a servant, and drank deeply, the red liquid pouring down his beard and robes.

Barbarian,
Ceranor thought, disgusted.

When all the kings held goblets of wine, Ceranor cleared his throat and tried again. "My fellow kings, the past few years have been difficult for Timandra. The plague has ripped through our land of Arden; it has felled many in your lands too. Drought has covered the plains, stretching north and south, and—"

One of the kings, a thin and tall man with golden skin, stood up.

"A drought for you, King of Arden, would be a season of rainy blessings for us in Eseer." He smiled, showing teeth as white as his robes. "What do you know of drought, king of green lands? You should visit the desert; there you would see true hardship and true hardiness."

Ceranor bit his tongue, cutting off an acrid reply. The people of Eseer, a southern desert land, were even deadlier than the barbarians of snowy Verilon. Their sigil was the scorpion, and their sting was just as deadly. Ceranor thanked Idar that at least Arden didn't share a border with these sandy warriors.

"Thank you for your invitation," Ceranor said, forcing himself to speak diplomatically and ignore the barb. "Yet we in Arden, and in the other northern kingdoms, are unaccustomed to dryness and heat, for our lands are lush and blessed." He couldn't help but sling a barb of his own.

He looked across the room, wanting to drink to clear the bile from his throat, but daring not; he would need his senses. Each one of these kings ruled armies primed for war. Together they could devastate Arden as the kingdom of the raven struggled to recover from its woes.

"Have you summoned us here to weep?" demanded one king, a red-headed man clad in tiger furs. Two spears and a shield hung across his back, and beads filled his fiery beard. He was King of Naya, the jungle realm south of the Sern River, land of the tiger. "I have traveled for many days, and I am hungry. Will you not serve us food?"

"He speaks wisdom!" shouted another king, a tall man with shaggy blond hair, a walrus mustache, and a horned helmet. He was King of Orida, the northern island kingdom of the orca, ruler of seafarers and raiders. "I desire no talk; first let us feast. Bring us some meat fresh off the bone."

Other kings voiced their approval. The King of Daenor, the western coast of crocodiles, muttered that he'd not traveled two months to stare at a barren table. The King of Sania, the southern island of elephants, smoothed his clanking garment of gold and silver beads, licked his lips, and spoke of tasting the delicacies of the north.

Ceranor stood, flummoxed, moving his head from side to side. The feast he had planned was still cooking, and the bizarre humor of the situation nearly stilled his heart.

I survived wars, hungry commoners, and power-craving monks,
he thought.
I never imagined my downfall would be a late dinner.

Finally a voice rose, thin and soft like a sharpening stone against a blade, cutting through the ruckus. All other voices died. Ceranor's hackles rose, and his teeth ached as if the voice had loosened them. He turned to see a man regarding him. Though he must have sat there the whole time, for no seats had been empty, Ceranor had not noticed him until now, as if the man had blended into the others, a whisper under screams, a shadow in a cavern, a smile behind the blade of a killer.

"Calm your bellies, close your mouths, and open your ears," said the man, his voice but a gentle hiss, a pleasant voice that just hinted of malice. "We are guests in a hall of kings, not a tavern." He bowed his bald head. "Please, King Ceranor, speak."

Ceranor's heart sank. Here sat the King of Mageria, the land west of Arden, a realm of plains and towering mountains. Unlike the others, this man wore only a white robe; he could have easily passed for a humble philosopher. And yet Ceranor thought him the most powerful of the kings; the lands of Mageria were revered for their magic, and their warriors fought not only with blades, but with bolts of lighting and arrows of power.

Twenty years ago,
Ceranor thought,
I found your armies in this very palace. I found the corpse of our old king bloodied at your feet.
Ceranor couldn't help but clench his fists. With an army of twenty thousand, Ceranor had driven the enemy out of Arden. He had since sat upon the throne himself, a soldier turned king . . . and he had since waited for these enemies to return.

The kings fell silent, and Ceranor spoke again.

"I've not summoned you here to weep," he said. "I've summoned you here to find solutions to our problems. Our fields wilt and our people riot. In all eight kingdoms, hunger rips through towns, farms, and villages. The plague still rages in Naya and in Daenor; many fear it will return to the rest of us. Our armies have grown large and our generals thirst for war; our troops still clash at our borders. This cannot continue. This risks all our thrones."

The King of Verilon snorted and slammed down his mug. "My throne is safe; I am no weak southerner."

This time Ceranor could not curb his anger. "Last time our armies met in battle, the forces of Arden marched halfway through your forests and burned half your kingdom. None of us is safe." He looked toward the other kings. "You have fought Arden in the past, and we defeated you. Yet now we face a common danger—the threat of hungry, frightened people. They are a force greater than any army. A raging peasant with a hungry belly is more powerful than ten armed knights. I've called this council to tell you: Timandra must fight united. All eight sunlit kings must face the darkness together. Let us join our armies. Let us rally our people around a common cause, turning their rage away from us. Let us march into the night itself, our banners flying high, and conquer the land of shadows."

For a long time, silence filled the hall.

Then all seven began to shout, shake their heads, or laugh. Some cried out that Eloria was but a dead land, that the night dwellers were but a myth, a story told to frighten children. Others sighed and said it was a pointless adventure, that Eloria was too cold, too dark, too dangerous.

Ceranor raised his voice.

"You have seen my city!" he said. "You rode through its streets and saw its people burn fires. They scream with fury. Yet not against me. Against Eloria. Against the darkness. My throne is safe so long as my people hate somebody else. Are your thrones as secure?" He balled his fists. "You muster armies, but if you attack Arden, you gain nothing. If you attack Eloria with me, you gain something far more valuable than my lands." He forced himself to smile thinly. "You gain a scapegoat. Join me, my friends. Together we will do something that has never been done. We will conquer the night."

Finally they fell silent and stared. And Ceranor knew he had them.

The scents of cooking meats filled his nostrils, and he turned to see servants entering the room, carrying dishes of roast boars, stewed greens, and steaming pies.

"Ah!" he said and rubbed his hands together. "The food has arrived."

"Will they join us, Your Highness?" said the monk. "Will they fight?"

Ceranor sat upon his throne, an artifact of oak, ivory, and gold that rose upon a dais. He had never liked this seat. Twenty years ago, he had found the old king dead at its base, body mangled and burned. With his armies, Ceranor—a young commander—had driven the Magerians from this hall. He had taken the throne for himself, but he rarely sat upon it. It still felt foreign. He still felt more a soldier than a king.