Moth (2 page)

Torin's heart raced. He clutched his hilt and drew a foot of steel. For an instant, he was sure the Elorians were swarming toward her. He raced uphill, boots scattering pebbles, and came to stand beside her.

His hand loosened around his hilt, letting his sword slide back into its scabbard.

Bailey turned toward him, her eyes damp, and smiled tremulously. "It's beautiful, Torin. It's so beautiful."

He looked ahead, saw the land of Eloria, and could barely breathe.

Beautiful?
he thought. It looked about as beautiful as the black heart of a viper.

From the Watchtower back home, the night seemed a mere smudge of ink, a blackness that spread into the horizon. But standing here upon the edge of dusk, he beheld a new world. Lifeless black hills rolled into the distance. Beyond them, mountains rose against a deep indigo sky. Wind moaned, scattering dust and invading Torin's clothes with icy fingers. No plants grew here; he saw no grass, no trees, no life at all.

Upon one hill, several miles away, rose the black obelisk men called the Nighttower, a twin to the Watchtower back home. Torin had seen it before from the safety of daylight, a needle in the distance. Seeing the edifice so close chilled him, a strange feeling like seeing one's profile between two mirrors, a vision familiar yet uncomfortably different. The Nighttower rose like a stalagmite from the hilltop, black and craggy. Some men claimed it was a natural structure, carved by wind and rain; others claimed the Elorians had built their own tower to observe Timandra. Even standing here, Torin could not decide, but he had no desire to get any closer.

Above all else, even more than the barren stone and looming tower, it was the sky that spun Torin's head. Countless small, glowing dots covered the firmaments like holes punched through a black blanket. An orb floated among them, as large as the sun back home, glowing silver. It took Torin a moment to realize—it was the moon. He had seen the moon before from the dayside, a wisp like a mote of dust, but here it shone like a great lantern.

"The stars and the moon," Bailey whispered. "I've heard of them. The lights of the night."

He grabbed her arm. "Bailey, this is enough. We've crossed the dusk; this is Eloria itself ahead. This land is forbidden." He tried to tug her back downhill. "We go home. Now."

She refused to budge. "Wait. Look, Winky. Down there."

He followed her gaze, staring toward the distant land of darkness. A lump lay below upon the eastern hillside.

"A boulder," he said.

Bailey shook her head, braids swaying. "All the other boulders here are tall and jagged. This one's smooth."

She pulled her arm free and walked downhill, heading deeper into the darkness. Torin cursed and looked behind him. Back in the west, the sun still shone and trees still grew; they were gray and twisted nearby, green and lush farther back. Far above them, he could see the top of the Watchtower and the blue sky of Timandra behind it.

Home. Safety.

He turned away, muttering curses, and began walking downhill after Bailey.

"She always does this to me," he grumbled.

Thanks to her taunts, he had fallen from trees, almost drowned swimming after her in the river, and nearly gagged during a pie eating contest. And now this—walking into the land of darkness itself.

He drew his sword and held the blade before him. He had never swung it in battle; he wondered if that would change now. As he moved nightward, his boots scattering pebbles, he kept glancing around, seeking them. He had seen countless statues, paintings, and effigies of Elorians, and now those visions returned to him, mocking him with oversized eyes, sharp teeth, and claws. He sucked in his breath and held it.

Bailey knelt ahead over the lump. She looked up at him, and the last beams of sunlight filled her eyes. They gleamed, two orange lanterns.

"Torin," she whispered, voice choked.

He crossed the last few steps toward her. He knelt at her side, looked at the shadow below, and lowered his head.

We found her.

Yana lay on her back, eyes glassy and staring. Her skin was pale gray, and her hands were still balled into fists. Three gashes gaped open across her chest, and blood soaked her tunic, deep crimson in the night. A steel star, its points serrated, pierced her neck.

Bailey's hand shook as she closed the girl's eyes.

"I think we should leave now," she whispered.

Torin nodded and they lifted the girl. All the way here, they had taunted each other, laughing and groaning. They walked home in silence, leaving the darkness and returning to a day that seemed less bright.

 
 
CHAPTER TWO:
THE WATCHTOWER'S SHADOW

Torin stood upon a green hill under blue sky, the villagers shouting around him.

"We will slay them all!" one man cried, waving a bread knife.

"It's time to kill the savages!" shouted another man, clutching a sickle.

Torin raised his hands and called out, his voice ringing over them. "My friends, calm yourselves. Please!"

Yet they kept bustling and shouting, and Torin sighed.

Five hundred people lived in Fairwool-by-Night, this peaceful village on the border of Eloria. It seemed every one of them now crowded the grassy Watcher's Hill.

The sun shone overhead, the air was warm, and birds sang, and yet a chill clung to Torin. He was back in Timandra, the sunlit half of the world, but his knees still shook and ice still filled his belly. Whenever he blinked, he saw it again—the dusky borderlands withering and fading into the blackness that lay beyond, the barren realms of night. Yana lay in the village temple now, wrapped in a shroud and awaiting her burial, but Torin could still see her glassy eyes, her bloodstained tunic, and the metal shard embedded into her neck.

He shuddered, took a deep breath, and looked down the western hillside upon the good half of the world. The village of Fairwool-by-Night, his home, nestled in a grassy valley. Thirty-odd cottages, their clay walls supporting thatched roofs, surrounded a pebbly square. A brick temple rose above the homes, a stronghold of the new Sailith Order that had recently spread from the capital. The gurgling Sern River flowed south of the village, its banks lined with rushes and wildflowers, its water mottled with sunlight. Several boats swayed, tethered to the docks, awaiting loads of wool for the capital. West of the village spread farmlands, barns, and pastures. A distant flock of sheep grazed like clouds in a green sky.

Home,
Torin thought.
A place of peace and greenery on the edge of darkness.

A small rye field rustled south of the hill, and a forest spread to the north. When Torin turned eastward, he saw the trees slide toward the dusk, the shadowy strip that still made him shiver. Beyond loomed the darkness, a stain across the sky. He could see the top of the Nighttower rising from the shadows, a lone sentinel, and wondered if any Elorians now stood upon that obelisk, watching Fairwool-by-Night. In all of Timandra, the blessed lands of sunlight, no other settlement lay so close to Eloria, the land of darkness.

We live on the very border of evil,
Torin thought,
a sheep grazing just outside the wolf's den
.

Finally he looked behind him at the Watchtower, a stone steeple that rose from the hilltop. It dwarfed every other building in the village, even the temple, and battlements crowned its top. Torin had climbed the tower many times since joining the Village Guard last autumn. From its crest he could see for miles, past the dusk and into the night itself. For hundreds of years, the Watchtower had guarded the border of night. For hundreds of years, its guard had been peaceful.

And now a child lies dead,
Torin thought.
And now this peace is shattered.

He returned his eyes to the crowd of villagers. Farmers, shepherds, and tradesmen, they wore woolen tunics and leather shoes, and they clutched what weapons they had—sickles, hammers, and knives. Their faces were pale. Their eyes darted. Some shouted for vengeance, others for calm. One woman wailed that Fairwool-by-Night was too close to the border, and that the entire village should be uprooted and moved upriver.

"Everyone, calm down and listen!" Torin said, but the villagers ignored him.

He turned toward Lord Kerof, the mayor of Fairwool-by-Night, who sat by his side in a wicker chair. Torin placed his hand upon the old man's shoulder.

"Grandpapa, they need you to speak," Torin said softly. "They're frightened. They need to hear that everything will be all right."

The old man looked up at him, blinking rheumy eyes. The breeze ruffled his thinning white hair. He licked his lips and tried to speak but only coughed.

Torin lowered his head, remembering how strong the man used to be. Ten years ago, after the plague had torn through Fairwool-by-Night, Kerof had adopted two children to live in his manor. One was Bailey, his granddaughter, her parents fallen to the illness. The other was Torin, the quiet son of a soldier. Lord Kerof had been a tall, bluff man in those days, his shoulders broad, his hair thick and grizzled. The loss of his sons, the passing years, and the infiltration of the Sailith Order had done their work. Now Kerof could only walk with a cane, speak with a rasp, and see little but smudges.

"Grandpapa," Torin said again. He always called him that, despite not sharing his blood. "Will you speak to them?"

As the villagers bustled and cried out, Lord Kerof clutched the arms of his wicker chair. His fists trembled as he pushed himself to his feet. Torin helped him stand, holding his arm. Kerof cleared his throat, then spoke in a scratchy voice.

"Fellow Fairwoolians!" he said and raised a shaky hand. "Hear me."

The villagers finally fell silent. If they ignored young Torin, a humble gardener, they would still listen to their mayor, old and feeble as he was. Kerof cleared his throat and continued.

"You have nothing to fear, my people," said the elderly lord. "You're safe here in the sunlit lands. Our courageous Village Guard protects you."

Faces in the crowd soothed, and men lowered their sickles and clubs. Torin looked around at his fellow guards. Bailey stood up in the Watchtower now, her bow and arrow aimed at the night beyond. The remainder of the Village Guard stood by a mulberry tree here below—young Camlin, wiry and shrewd, and Hemstad, large and lumbering and licking mulberry juice off his fingers. The two friends were seventeen—a year younger than Torin—and inseparable.

He sighed. The Village Guard was only the four of them; not one had yet turned twenty. Torin was gardener, Cam was a shepherd, and Hem was a baker. As for Bailey, the mayor's granddaughter, Torin wasn't sure she even had a trade. Every few hours, one of them donned a breastplate, grabbed a sword and a bow, and climbed the Watchtower to gaze into the night. The rest of the time, Torin tended to his gardens, Cam herded his sheep, Hem baked his breads, and Bailey explored the countryside to return with scraped knees, bee stings, and stories of adventure.

We're not much of a military force,
Torin thought, sighing as he watched Hem bite his tongue and wail.
But if we can calm the villagers, we've done our job.

"We've increased our patrols," Torin spoke up, drawing confidence from Kerof standing at his side. "At any given moment one of us is up in the tower, watching the night. We're always here to protect the village. So long as we stay out of the dusk, we're safe. I promise you."

His words seemed to have the desired effect. Women lowered rolling pins and pans. Men grumbled and lowered clubs and pitchforks. One by one, the villagers began to disperse, heading downhill and back toward the village.

Torin breathed a sigh of relief . . . then froze when he saw the robed figure trudging uphill.

His relieved sigh turned into a groan.

"Ferius," he muttered and clenched his fists.

The short, broad-shouldered man wore the yellow robes of the Sailith Order. Three of his monks walked behind him, their faces hidden under their hoods. Ferius raised his fist and cried out to the crowd.

"Turn away soothing words that seek to blind you!" His voice hissed like a viper. "Only the Sailith Faith speaks truth. And the truth is that danger lurks. You are all in grave peril, friends of mine."

The people paled and mumbled fearful prayers. Once more, the villagers raised their makeshift weapons. Torin muttered under his breath.

He hated Ferius. He hated him more than all the weeds, bee stings, and leaf-rot in the world. The monk, as he called himself, had arrived in Fairwool-by-Night three years ago to build his temple and spread his faith.

These monks called Sailith the one true religion, but Torin didn't see how it was a religion at all. He and his friends, like most decent folk, followed the old faith of Idarism; they worshiped Idar, the god of sunlight, and the green things that he grew. If this new Sailith Order had a god, its adherents never spoke of him. They preached only one message: hatred of Eloria.

"Ferius, return to your temple," Torin said, not bothering to mask the disgust in his voice. "Do not spread your fear here. I told the villagers we were safe. I do not lie."

The monk reached him and hissed, tongue darting between small, sharp teeth. Torin was not a tall man, and Ferius stood even shorter, though his strong frame bulged against his yellow robes. The monk's skin too bore a yellow tinge. His eyes were beady, far-set, and pale blue. His eyebrows were so sparse Torin could barely see them. The monk was only in his thirties, but already his black hair was thinning; he wore it slicked back from his broad, protruding brow.

"Oh, but you do lie," Ferius said in that slithering voice. He leaned closer, squinted, and scrutinized Torin like an undertaker examining a body. "All you speak is falsehood, Torin the
Gardener
." He spat out that last word as an insult, then turned toward the crowd and raised his voice. "My people, reject those who would pull the wool over your eyes. The heathen speaks of safety, and yet a child lies dead. The heathen is nothing but a coward. His cowardice would bring the enemy to the very edge of the dusk—to your very doorsteps. His lies mean more dead children."