SHADOWS OF MOTH

THE MOTH SAGA, BOOK FIVE

by

Daniel Arenson

Copyright © 2014 by Daniel Arenson

All rights reserved.

This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by an electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the author.

Table of Contents

- FOREWORD

- MAP

- CHAPTER ONE

- CHAPTER TWO

- CHAPTER THREE

- CHAPTER FOUR

- CHAPTER FIVE

- CHAPTER SIX

- CHAPTER SEVEN

- CHAPTER EIGHT

- CHAPTER NINE

- CHAPTER TEN

- CHAPTER ELEVEN

- CHAPTER TWELVE

- CHAPTER THIRTEEN

- CHAPTER FOURTEEN

- CHAPTER FIFTEEN

- CHAPTER SIXTEEN

- CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

- CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

- CHAPTER NINETEEN

- CHAPTER TWENTY

- CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

- CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

- CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

- CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

- CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

- CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

- CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

- CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

- CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

- AFTERWORD

- NOVELS BY DANIEL ARENSON

- KEEP IN TOUCH

FOREWORD

Shadows of Moth is the fifth volume of The Moth Saga, continuing the tale of a world torn in two—one half always in sunlight, the other always dark. If you're new to the series, you'll probably still get the gist of things here, though I do recommend reading the first four books first: Moth, Empires of Moth, Secrets of Moth, and Daughter of Moth.

Between chapters, you might like to visit the Moth website, where you can find: a large map (more detailed than the one in this ebook), original music, artwork, a Moth wiki, and more. Visit the website at: DanielArenson.com/Moth

And now . . . let us reenter a world of light and darkness . . .

CHAPTER ONE:

THE BUSKER AT DUSK

Little Maniko hobbled through the dusky forest, moving toward the searing light of the sunlit demons. He was seeking a gift for a child.

His every footstep shuffled. His gnarled fist clutched his cane. Black trees coiled around him, just as gnarled and knobby. They were small trees—they couldn't grow any larger here in the dusk, still far from the full daylight—but they towered over Maniko. He had always been small, under four feet at his tallest, and he had shrunk with age. His white beard trailed along the ground, longer than his body, thinner than he remembered. It seemed that beard grew thinner every turn, his back more stooped, his cane more wobbly.

"This might be my last trip into the dusk," he muttered, voice hoarse.

How old was he now? He did not remember. He had been old already when he first met Koyee—that scruffy urchin on the streets of Pahmey. And that had been a long time ago, he thought. A generation ago.

Little Maniko smiled, remembering. Ah, the lights of Pahmey! Lanterns floating toward the stars. Towers of glass rising to the moon. Dirty streets and shadowy corners, and him playing his lute for passersby, collecting his coins, feasting upon meals of stewed mushrooms and salted bat wings, and finally meeting Koyee, playing music with her, then fighting at her side as the sunlit demons swarmed through their streets. His same old lute still hung across his back. That city had fallen then, and now Maniko lived in a village by the dusk, a little place they called Oshy. And now he was old. And now his legs shook as he walked, and every season his eyes grew dimmer. Yet still he came here, walking into the dusk, seeking the gift, seeking a little hope in a world of darkness.

The trees grew taller as he walked, sprouting pale leaves, and moss soon covered the boulders. The light grew, casting orange beams between the trees. Pollen glimmered and the air grew warmer. The sun of Timandra was just over the horizon now; he was almost in the full daylight, in that land of his enemies, the land he had fought so many years ago. Duskmoths rose to fly around him, animals of the borderlands, this glowing strip between day and night. Their left wings were white, the right wings black, animals torn in two like this world the old books called Mythimna and most folk simply called Moth.

"Ah!" His eyes widened, and a smile curled his lips. He saw the bush ahead. The sun's rim rose behind it, a crown of gold. The plant almost seemed to burn in the light. Upon its coiling branches, like beads of blood, grew the duskberries.

Maniko hobbled forward with more vigor, his chin raised. His cane rapped against the hard earth, his lute swung across his back, and his beard whispered as it dragged along the ground.

"You've always loved duskberries, Koyee," he said, his smile widening. Or was it Madori? Sometimes Maniko stumbled, confusing the two, mother and daughter. Sometimes he thought Madori was the woman he had played music with in the dregs of Pahmey, his "partner in grime" as he called her. Other times he realized that Madori hadn't even been born then.

When you're old like me, he thought, faces blur together, and all memories become like an oil painting under rain, smudges of color and light and beauty. That was how Maniko knew his time was near, his life drawing to an end. All his life seemed to be unraveling behind him like the hem of his silken robe, all just strands of color fading into shadow.

"Best to just give both the berries," he muttered and barked a laugh. He reached the bush, squinting in the light of the sun, and began to pick the fruit into his basket.

The people of Oshy had told him to stop coming here, to stop collecting these berries. They said it was dangerous getting so close to Dayside. They said that the sunlit demons mustered here, preparing for war. Maniko snorted as he plucked the berries. He had fought hunger on the streets of Pahmey for decades. He had fought Timandrian soldiers in that city, and later in the southern empire of Ilar, slaying many, even at his size. He was very old now, and he was no longer afraid.

"Let them come." He huffed, placed another berry into his basket, and patted the dagger that hung from his belt. To him it was as large as a sword. He had slain Timandrians with this blade before. If any attacked again, they would find that Little Maniko—though smaller than ever, stooped and wizened—still had a little fight in him. If he wanted to pick berries for Madori—or was it for Koyee?—he would travel into the very courts of sunlight and pluck them right off Lord Serin's plate.

He snorted again. "Lord Serin." A silly name. A silly man. They said the tyrant was mustering his forces right beyond these hills, prepared to invade the night—just like that fool Ferius had done in the last war. Koyee had slain Ferius, and if this new demon wanted to attack, they would slay him too.

Maniko drew his dagger and sliced the air. "That's right, Serin! If you step forth, you will taste Elorian steel." As he thrust and parried in the air, he could see it again—the old war, the enemies charging, and his blade flashing. "This old busker is also an old soldier. I still have some music in me. And I still have some fight too."

He smiled as he dreamed, remembering those old turns. He had been afraid then. But he had fought alongside greatness—with Koyee, with Emperor Jin of Qaelin, with Empress Hikari of Ilar, and with Tianlong, the last dragon of the night. He had risen from a humble busker on a street corner to a warrior. His breastplate had been only a frying pan strapped across his chest, and his sword had been only this humble knife, but he had fought with heroes. He had become more than a busker. Tears filled his eyes.

I became your friend, Koyee.

He sighed. Those turns were long gone. He sheathed his dagger, hefted his basket of berries, and prepared to shuffle back into the darkness. He had taken only one step away when the voice rose from the light.

"Look, Father! A little old nightcrawler who thinks he's a warrior."

Slowly, Maniko turned back toward the light.

A young Timandrian woman stood there, beams of light falling upon her golden hair, steel armor, and drawn sword. Her eyes were so small—half the size of Elorian eyes—and they glittered with cruelty. A tall Timandrian man stepped out from the light, joining the girl. His hair too was golden, and his eyes too were small blue shards. He wore priceless armor, the steel filigreed. An eclipse sigil adorned his breastplate, formed of many gemstones.

Maniko snarled. He knew that sigil—the sigil of the Radian Order, a new movement in the lands of sunlight. They said the Radians saw Elorians as lower than worms, pests to step on. Slowly, Maniko placed down his basket of berries. He drew his dagger. He pointed the blade forward with one hand, his cane with the other.

"Return to the daylight, Timandrians!" He knew his voice was high-pitched, wavering, weak, but he gave it all the gravity he could. "You step too close to Eloria. Leave now, sunlit demons, and never return."

The Timandrians looked at each other, then burst out laughing.

"Truly a worm, Lari!" said the man. "Barely larger than the worms in my garden back home. Is this the warrior they chose to guard their border? A decrepit dwarf?"

The Timandrian man raised his hand, and a blast of air slammed into Maniko. He cried out and fell down hard. His tailbone slammed against a rock, and he gasped in pain. Tears leaped into his eyes, and his dagger clattered to the ground.

The two Timandrians stepped closer and gazed down at him. The young woman—Lari, her name was—shook her head with mock sadness.

"Now he crawls through the dirt like a true worm." Eyes soft, she knelt and placed her hand against Maniko's cheek as if to stroke him. Then her expression changed, her lips peeling back in a snarl. Rather than caress him, her hand shoved his face into the dirt. "Eat the mud, vermin!" Her knee drove into his belly. "Eat the dirt like the nightcrawler that you are."

Maniko coughed as mud entered his mouth. He pawed for his fallen dagger but could not find it. Instead he swung his cane, rapping Lari's wrist.

The young woman hissed and straightened. Her knee left Maniko's belly, and he drew a ragged breath. He coughed out mud and pushed himself to his feet, legs shaking. His basket lay fallen, the berries spilled across the forest floor.

"Return now!" Maniko said. "Or—"

"Do you know who I am, nightcrawler?" said the tall man. He tapped the eclipse on his breastplate. "Do you know this sigil? We've met before."

Maniko's eyes had dimmed with age. He had trouble seeing and remembering faces. He spat. "You're a lout. Come here and I'll rap you too with my cane."

The tall man laughed. "Yes, I remember your spirit. You were spirited even back in the war, and you were ancient even then, if I recall correctly. I was only a young soldier, fighting my first battle. I assaulted the walls of Asharo, the capital of Ilar, and I slew many nightcrawlers. And I remember one among them—a little soldier who barely reached my belt. A frying pan formed his breastplate, and he bore a little dagger like a sword. I laughed at him then. And now, twenty years later . . . I see him again. It's funny. As I prepare to conquer the night, I find not the barbaric soldiers of Eloria opposing me here, but that same silly little creature."

And Maniko knew who this was, knew who this had to be. His eyes narrowed. "Lord Tirus Serin." He swung his blade through the air. "I do not remember you from the war; you were just another sunlit fool, one among many. A fool you are still."

Maniko looked around for his dagger, and his heart sank to see that Lari had lifted the blade from the muck. She held the dagger in one hand, her sword in the other. When Maniko took a step closer to the two, swinging his cane, Serin raised his palm again. This time no air blew to knock down Maniko. Instead, Maniko's cane cracked, then shattered into countless shards. Bits of the wood slammed into Maniko, cutting his skin.

These ones are no mere soldiers, he realized. They are mages.

Lord Serin drew his sword, a magnificent blade longer than Maniko's entire body. The steel glimmered red in the sun as if already bloodied.

"I forged this blade from the steel of slain nightcrawlers." Serin pointed the blade at Maniko's neck. "I slew over a hundred in the war. I collected bits from each—a shard of helmet here, a chip of a sword there—and had Mageria's greatest smith morph them into this blade. Sunsteel, I named it. A blade for cutting worms. You should be proud, little one! You will be the first nightcrawler to die upon it."

Maniko's dagger and cane were gone. But he still had what had always been his greatest weapon—the weapon that had served him for decades on the streets of Pahmey, that had helped him survive through grime and hunger, that had given strength to Koyee. With trembling fingers, he drew his lute from across his back. With stiff fingers, he began to play.

Gentle notes rose from the lute, taking form as he played, soon becoming that same old song he had first taught Koyee, the song called "Sailing Alone." And as he played, Maniko was there again, back home on the streets of Pahmey. The great public fireplace roared across the square, its iron grill shaped as dragons. The young women of the city's crest strolled toward the market, clad in fine silk dresses, their sashes embroidered. Peddlers rode upon bluefeather birds, hawking gemstones, ointments, charms, and sundry other items from many pouches. Past the tiled roofs of the city dregs, he could see them them there—the towers of the upper city, and above them all Minlao Palace, its dome shaped like the moon. Koyee stood with him again, a scrawny merchant in a tattered fur tunic, playing her bone flute. Two buskers in a world of dirt, hunger, fear, and darkness. Two warriors.

I played this song when we met, Koyee, he thought, eyes damp. And I play it now in farewell to you. It was an old song, a song of a girl who sailed alone into a new city. And now I too sail alone . . . sail toward the great land beyond the stars.

As the blade thrust into his belly, Maniko lost only a single note. Even as he fell, even as his blood spilled into the soil, he played on.

He lay on his back, his lifeblood draining away, the notes floating around him. He looked up. The two Timandrians stood above him, mere ghosts in the mist, and Maniko smiled as they faded away, as the lights of his old city washed over him, as the lanterns floated toward starlight.

"You are a natural, Koyee Mai!" he said. "Go and play your music. Make Little Maniko proud, and perhaps someday we will play together."

A girl with long silvery hair, bright lavender eyes, and a warm smile, she kissed his forehead. "Thank you, Little Maniko."

Koyee tried to give him the coin, but he brushed it away.

"This money is yours. Now go! Make beautiful music."

She left him that turn, and she left him now, a spirit of music and warm light. Little Maniko smiled, his notes weaker now, shaking like falling leaves in the wind.

Now go! Make beautiful music.

His tears flowed as she faded, as he sailed alone upon a shadowy river. One song ended, and then he heard it—the endless music of starlight, music welcoming him home.

CHAPTER TWO:

A LEGACY OF STEEL

"I'm joining the garrison." Madori stamped her feet. "I'm joining now and you can't stop me. I will wield a sword. I will fight. I already cut off one of Serin's fingers, and I'll cut the rest of him to shreds!"

She stood on the riverbank, panting with rage. The night was peaceful. The stars shone above, no clouds to hide them. Fishermen trawled up and down the Inaro in boats constructed of leather stretched over whale ribs, their lanterns bobbing, and every few moments a glowing fish emerged like a rising star, caught on the hook. The water sang softly, and wind chimes played among the clay village huts that rose behind her. Far beyond the huts, upon the hill, stood Salai Castle, its lanterns bright, and more music rose there: the song of soldiers chanting to the stars.

But one song is forever silenced, Madori thought, eyes burning. Little Maniko will never more play his lute.

Madori's mother stood beside her. Koyee had shed tears during the funeral, but now her large lavender eyes were dry. Clad in scale armor, her katana hanging from her belt, she stared at Madori sternly.

"No, Madori. You will travel east to Pahmey. I've sent word downriver, and Lord Xei Kuan will provide you with shelter in the Night Castle, and—"

"I will not be shipped away to safety while you stay and fight!" Madori's eyes burned, and her tears flowed down her cheeks, those cheeks scarred from Lari's assault at Teel. She pointed at those scars. "See these? My face is scarred like yours. We both fought battles. We both bear the marks. I fought Lari and Serin, and I will fight their army too. Give me a sword! I will fight here in Salai Castle." She gestured at the pagoda upon the hill. "I will wear armor and wield a sword, and I will slay the Radians if they dare invade. I will avenge Maniko."

Madori's body shook. She had grown up listening to Little Maniko's music. The little old man—Madori herself was short, and he had stood shorter than her shoulders—had once performed upon the streets of Pahmey. After the war, with so much of Eloria in ruin, he had settled here in Oshy. Madori had spent her summers here, and many of those summer hours had been idled away in the village square, listening to Maniko play his lute, pipe, and harp. He would play all the classic tunes of the night: "Sailing Alone," "Darkness Falls," "The Journey Home," "Call of the Clans," and many others.

Who will play the night's music now? Madori thought, gazing at the empty village square where Maniko used to sit. Whose songs will now guide us through the darkness?

She looked back at her mother. "Please," Madori whispered. "I'm seventeen already. You were younger when you sailed alone to Pahmey, when you fought with Maniko, when you saved the darkness. Let me fight too. I am the daughter of Koyee, the great heroine. How can I hide in safety when sunfire once more threatens the night?" She tugged at the two long, black strands of hair that framed her face. "True, I have dark hair and tanned skin. I'm half Timandrian. But my father too fought for the night. I don't know if Father is even alive or dead, and I'm so scared, and I have to fight. I have to."

Koyee's eyes softened, and she pulled Madori into an embrace. "My sweet daughter. Don't you see?" She touched Madori's scarred cheek, and pain filled her eyes. "I never wanted this for you. Yes, I was younger than you when I fought a war. And I was afraid then. I was hurt. I was alone in darkness, scarred, bleeding, so afraid . . . always so afraid. When I had you, Madori, I swore to the stars of the night, and to the memory of Xen Qae, and to any god who would listen . . . I swore that I would give you a better life. That you would never have to face war like I did. That you would never be alone, scared, bleeding in the dark. How can I let you fight now? How I can break my vow?"

"It is already broken," Madori said. "I already fought, and I was already afraid, and I already saw death. I watched Lord Serin and his men murder five of my friends on the road. I lay in the mud, bleeding as his sword drove into me. I saw the cruelty of sunlight. No, I did not fight a war like you did, but I'm ready to fight one. Bravely. At your side." She touched her mother's armor, fine scale armor forged by the master smiths of Qaelin, their empire of darkness. "Clad me in armor like the one you wear. Place a sword in my hand. And you will not see a frightened, bleeding girl but a proud woman of the night. I will make you proud, Mother. That is my own vow."

For you, Little Maniko. For you, my friends of Teel who fell on the road. For all children of darkness. Her tears no longer fell, and she raised her chin. I was born split between day and night. I will find my honor as a pure warrior of shadow.

A boat sailed by along the river, its lantern bobbing. Beads of light danced upon the gurgling water. The old fisherman, his beard long and white, reached over the hull. When a glowing lanternfish breached the surface, intrigued by the lamplight, the elder caught the animal in a net. Koyee and Madori stood in silence for a moment, watching the boat until it sailed by.

Finally Koyee spoke, her voice low and careful. "I will allow you to fight with me, daughter, but only if you train."

Madori's heart leaped. "Yes! I will train in the fortress. I will swing every sword you have, I will—"

"No." Koyee shook her head. "The soldiers in Salai Castle are hardened and grim, prepared for war. They don't need a pup scuttling between their feet. You will seek Old Master Lan Tao in the darkness. He trained your grandfather in swordplay. He will teach you to become a swordswoman, ready for battle, solemn and steady with the blade, not a rash youth. Only when he says you're prepared will I let you fight in this fort."

Madori wanted to shout again. Training? To be sent off into the darkness? The battle was near! Maniko had only been buried this turn, and—

And yet her rage faded as quickly as it had risen. To train with Old Master Lan Tao . . . the man who had taught Grandfather . . .

Madori had never met her mother's father, the wise warrior Salai, but she had heard many tales of his bravery. Salai had been the first Elorian soldier to face the attacking Timandrians in the Great War, perhaps the first Elorian to ever see a Timandrian. They said he had killed many of the sunlit demons before Ferius, the Lord of Light, had murdered him. Grandfather Salai lay buried below the fortress that bore his name. In Madori's mind, Salai had always been old—even older than Little Maniko had been. She could barely imagine him as a young man, let alone that his teacher—who surely was even older!—could still live.

"He must be right old," she blurted out.

Koyee laughed softly. "Old Master Lan Tao is well into his eighties, but he's still quick of mind and blade. I myself only met him a year ago. I traveled into the Desolation, the craggy wastelands in the northern darkness. I found him in his cave, and I begged him to come to Salai Castle, to train my men. He refused. He said that after my father died, he swore to never train another soldier. He loved my father. He mourned his death. Now, Master Lan Tao claimed, he lives to meditate, to gaze upon the stars, and to breathe. Mostly to breathe, he said, though I'm still not sure of his meaning."

Madori bit his lip. "So why would he agree to train me?"

A gust of wind fluttered Koyee's long white hair and silken cloak. Koyee—the Girl in the Black Dress, the Heroine of Moth—solemnly met her daughter's gaze. They both had the same eyes, large and purple and deep as starlit skies. Wordlessly, Koyee unhooked her katana from her belt—the legendary Sheytusung. She held it out toward Madori.

Madori stared at the sword, hesitant. "You . . . want me to take it?"

Her mother stared at her, eyes unflinching. "Master smiths forged this blade in Pahmey under the light of its towers. My father fought with this sword in the great southern war against Ilar, then against the Timandrians in the dusk. I fought with this blade against the hordes of sunlight in Pahmey, in Yintao, and at Cabera Mountain. This blade has defended the night for two generations. Now it must pass to a third. Take this sword, Madori. Take it into the darkness, and learn how to wield it. I was never trained with the katana, but you will study with the master who first taught our family how to swing it. Master Lan Tao will not have forgotten Sheytusung." Koyee smiled thinly. "When he sees the granddaughter of Salai, bearing this sword of legend, he will train you."

Madori still hesitated. She had grown up hearing many tales of this blade, had grown up seeing this blade hanging upon their wall, a relic she was forbidden to touch. The sword that had killed so many Timandrians, that had defended Eloria, that had traveled with her grandfather to Ilar, that had been with her mother in her most desperate hours—on the streets of Pahmey, in the gauntlet of Yintao, in the carnage at Sinyong and Asharo, and finally at the great battle atop Cabera Mountain.

And now this sword comes to me. Madori took a deep, shaky breath. Now a torch of starlight passes into my hand, my burden to bear. Now I shall become a protector of darkness.

With a single, swift movement, she grabbed the katana and drew the blade. The folded steal gleamed, and she raised it above her head. It was light as silk and as deadly as dragon claws, and a chill ran through Madori.

She thought of Lari's mocking smile. She thought of Professor Atratus's sneer. She thought of Lord Serin's cruel eyes.

They're coming here, she thought. The wrath and cruelty of sunlight prepares to wash over the night. She looked up at her sword; it seemed to cleave the moon.

"With this blade, I will fight them. With this blade, I am Madori of the night."

* * * * *

Pain and memory.

It was all that remained.

A field of thorns had shredded the tapestry of Torin's life, and every thistle held a rent of cloth, scraps of memories over stabbing pain. Sounds. Smells. Reflections in shattered glass.

In the darkness, he was broken, scattered, clinging to those memories, reaching for them through the haze of his broken body.

He lay in a cart, he thought, the walls windowless, a box on wheels. He lay chained. He lay bruised, famished, cut, bleeding. For a long time—months, maybe years—he had languished in a dungeon. They were moving him now. He remembered them dragging him out of his prison cell, beating him, tossing him into this cart. How long had he lingered in these shadows? He didn't know. The cart jostled along a road, and every bump shot more pain through him. His head kept banging against the floor; he was too weak to raise it.

Like the scattered shards of broken bones, the memories spread around him, broken pieces.

In the darkness of the trundling cart, Torin saw the sky of Eloria again. The stars shone, a great field of constellations, a silvery path like a dragon's tail, a cratered moon, a wonder of endless depths. It was the first time he'd seen the night. He stood upon the hill with Bailey, with his dearest, his oldest friend.

"Bailey," he whispered in the cart, voice hoarse.

"Bailey," said a boy, his cheeks soft, a youth who had just joined the Village Guard.

Bailey stood beside him upon the hill, a year older, a couple inches taller, and a whole lot braver and stronger. She gave him a crooked smile, mussed his hair, and kissed his cheek.

"Scared, Winky?" she asked.

He nodded. "Yes, and you should be too. They live out there. Elorians."

Bailey only blew out her breath, fluttering her lips. "If you ask me, 'Lorians are just a myth." Then she laughed and grabbed his arm. "Come on, Babyface! Let's explore."

They ran. They ran through darkness. They ran through the fire in Pahmey. They ran through blood and death in Yintao. They ran through the fields of time, up a mountainside in the dusk, toward an ancient clock, and toward . . .

Pain.

Tears flowed down Torin's cheeks.

"Bailey!" he cried, holding her lifeless body, praying for her to wake up, to stay with him. "Please. Bailey. I love you. Don't leave me."

He stood under sunrise, and he placed flowers upon her grave.

Darkness.

Trailing stars in a lifeless land of rock, water, and shadows.

And two more lights there in the darkness, as bright as the moon and stars. Two eyes, large, lavender, afraid. The woman peered from behind a boulder as he wheeled forth the bones of her father. The woman stared from atop the city walls, firing her arrows at him. The woman lay naked in his arms, and he kissed her, made love to her. The woman walked toward him, clad in white, holding a lantern. His bride. His Koyee.

"Where are you, Koyee?" His lips cracked as he spoke. He tasted his blood. "He's coming. Serin. Into the night."

He groaned, the words scratching his throat. His many wounds throbbed. His belly clenched and his head pounded. More images floated before him, faces and smiles and bright eyes. A babe, newborn, lying in her mother's arms, wrapped in cotton. A daughter running through the fields of Fairwool-by-Night, gazing in wonder at the stars above Oshy, fishing with him in the river, growing into a wise, strong woman . . . then leaving. Vanishing in this war.

Where are you, Madori?

His family—broken like his body, scattered like these lanterns of memory.

The cart bounced, knocking his head against the floor, then rolled to a halt. Torin moaned and smelled his blood. He winced, anticipating more pain. The last few times they had stopped moving, they had hurt him. He felt too weak for more pain, for more screaming.

Curses and grumbles rose outside. A lock jostled. Rough hands tugged open the cart door.

Sunlight flooded the cart, blinding Torin. He moaned, wincing, able to see nothing but the searing light. It felt like fire burning him, driving into every cut on his body, raging inside his skull like flames inside an oven.

"Out!" rose the voice. "Out of the cart, traitor."

Eyes narrowed to slits, Torin saw them—Magerian soldiers. They had fought for Mageria long before Serin had taken power, and they still displayed a painted buffalo upon their chests—the ancient sigil of their kingdom. But now they also sported eclipse pins upon their cloaks—the symbol of Serin's Radian Order, the cruel ideology that had overtaken their land. The soldiers' eyes were cruel, their faces weathered and scarred. One man hefted a spear, thrust it into the cart, and goaded Torin. The spearhead nicked his thigh, drawing blood, and Torin shouted hoarsely.

"Into the sunlight, nightcrawler-lover." The soldier spat. "You're in Timandra now. Into the light."

Torin coughed and crawled out of the cart, chains dragging. He thumped down into grass, swayed for a moment on his feet, then fell to his knees, too weak to stand. He blinked feebly, eyes adjusting to the sunlight, and looked around him. The convoy had camped alongside a dirt road—a few wooden carts, a hundred soldiers, and three robed mages upon dark horses. Fields of wild grass sprawled toward faded blue mountains. A herd of buffalo roamed across a distant hill, and hawks glided overhead. Shattered columns rose on a second hill like broken ribs rising from a corpse—remnants of Old Riyona, the empire that had once ruled the lands north of the Sern.

We're heading down Riyonan Road, Torin thought, and a chill washed over him. Toward Markfir, Capital of Mageria. Toward Serin's court.

Torin knew what would happen once they reached the walls of Markfir. He had heard enough tales of Mageria's cruelty in its last war against Arden. Torin doubted he'd be lucky enough for a painless death. More likely they would torture him—cut open his belly, quarter him, and flay him before finally letting him die. They would hang his mutilated remains above the gates of the city, the traitor of sunlight, a lesson for all to see.

Torin winced.

But not before they hurt me some more.

Snorts rose from the head of the convoy. A massive dark horse, twice the usual size, moved off the road, a beast of black fur, oozing red eyes, and nostrils that leaked smoke and sparks of fire. Perhaps the creature had once been an ordinary stallion, augmented with magic, bloated into this terror of muscle and rank flesh. Flies bustled around it, and its stench wafted across the camp. Upon the beast rode a towering man, eight or nine feet tall, wrapped in a black cloak. Four arms sprouted from his torso, and each hand held a serrated blade. A helmet like an iron bucket encircled his head, and red eyes like embers blazed through the eye holes, staring at Torin, boring into him. Torin grimaced under the gaze; those eyes burned him like true embers pressed against his skin.

Lord Gehena, Torin thought, his teeth rattling and his jaw creaking. Serin's most prized soldier. The man who had crushed Arden. The man who would deliver the famous Torin Greenmoat to his capital.

The dark warrior dismounted and walked across the camp, heading toward Torin. Buckles jingled upon his boots, and each footfall crushed stones beneath it. Shadows writhed around the man—if a man he truly was—like smoky snakes. His cloak fluttered in the wind, its hem burnt and tattered. Tools hung from his belt: pliers, pincers, thumbscrews, hammers, and vials of acid.

Chains jangling, Torin struggled to rise to his feet. He stared at Gehena, forcing himself to meet the burning red gaze.

"My value to you lessens with every wound," Torin said. "If you want ransom, the queen will onl—"

Gehena raised one of his four hands. Bolts of magic blasted out of his black dagger, screeched through the air, and slammed into Torin.

He fell, writhing. The magic crawled into him, racing through his veins like parasites. Torin couldn't help it. He screamed. When the magic finally left him, he trembled.

One of Gehena's boots—twice the size of a normal man's foot—stepped onto Torin's chest. His ribs creaked, and Torin couldn't even scream, couldn't even breathe.

A hissing voice like astral smoke wafted out of Gehena's helmet. "I care not for ransom."

Another blast of magic slammed into Torin. The tiny shards of pain drove through him, exploring his innards, and finally tore out of his skin with a bloody mist.

"I've told you everything I know!" Torin shouted, almost blind with the pain. "I have no information to give you. I—"

Gehena laughed, a horrible sound like thunder rolling through a cave. Strands of magic tugged Torin to his feet, then into the air, squeezing him, crushing him. The magic levitated him to eye level with Gehena. The creature stared at him, those eyes all-consuming, burning with cold fire. Torin hovered two feet above the ground, his blood dripping into the grass.

"I don't care for information either," said Gehena. "You betrayed the sunlight. You fought for the night. I care only . . . for your pain."

That pain blasted out of Gehena in a holocaust of blinding fire.

Torin screamed.

The red light washed over him, and he saw no more.

CHAPTER THREE:

THE LORDS OF LIGHT

Koyee knelt by her bed, her chest constricting, barely able to breathe. Her head spun and she had to force in air. She had fought many battles, yet now she felt faint, felt her world crashing down. Her home's walls, simple clay adorned with prayer scrolls, seemed to close in around her.

"We swore to protect her, Torin," Koyee whispered. "We swore to give her a better world. Swore she'd never fight like we did."

She trembled to remember that turn seventeen years ago when Madori had been born. Koyee had been so afraid then, holding the little bundle. Most mothers felt joy when holding their babes, but Koyee had felt fear, guilt, and crushing sadness. A child of both day and night. A torn child in a torn world.

"How could I have brought life into this world?" she had whispered to Torin.

He had comforted her, telling her that the world was healed now, that Ferius was dead, that peace had come. Yet now . . . now her dear husband was missing, perhaps dead in a new war that engulfed Timandra. And now her daughter, though returned to Eloria, would train to be a warrior.

"I wanted you to be a gardener, perhaps a healer," Koyee whispered, clutching her palms upon her bed. "Not this. Not a soldier."

Why had she given Madori the sword? She could have shouted, could have insisted Madori sailed to safety. She could have dragged Madori to safety herself. What kind of mother sent her child to train to become a killer?

Koyee sighed. She knew the answer.

"Because there is no safety anywhere in Moth," she whispered to herself. "Because only killers will survive now. Because the fire of sunlight is returning to our lands, and only with steel will Madori survive now. Only in the wilderness of Eloria, training to become a warrior, will Madori find some hope."

She silently added words she would not speak. Please, spirit of Xen Qae, let her training in the darkness last for many moons. If the fire of war must blaze, let it burn and die before Madori can return. Her breath trembled. Do not let my sweet daughter turn into a killer. Do not let her take lives as I've taken lives.

Koyee did not know how many men she had killed; she had slain too many to count, and each was a weight upon her soul, another scar inside her. Madori's cheeks perhaps were scarred now, but her heart was still pure.

Every time you take a life, you chip off another piece of your soul. Koyee lowered her head, eyes squeezed shut. Please, Xen Qae, if you watch over me, keep my daughter's soul pure.

A knock sounded on the door—so loud that Koyee started. An instant later, Madori stepped into the room.

Koyee rubbed her eyes. "Madori, by Xen Qae . . . I don't know why you even knock if you just barge in anyway."

Madori bristled. "I don't know why you even talk if it's just to scold me."

Koyee sighed. "What have you come for?"

"Well, nothing now." Madori's eyes reddened. "I had a gift for you, but I'm tossing it out." She turned to leave.

Koyee's heart twisted. She leaped forward and grabbed her daughter. "Madori, wait. Please."

The girl reeled toward her, eyes red. "What?"

"I don't want to fight. All we ever do is fight. Let's not part like this." Koyee guided her daughter into the room and they sat on the bed. "What have you brought me?"

Madori chewed her lip and clenched and unclenched her fists, seeming torn between her anger and forgiveness. Whenever they talked, it seemed like this—Madori forever torn between love and hatred, confusion and rage. Finally the girl relaxed, reached into her pocket, and pulled out a silver locket on a chain.

"For you," she said.

Koyee took the gift and smiled. "It's beautiful. Where did you get this?"

"Old Shinluan made it for me in the village. It's real silver. Look inside."

Koyee snapped the locket open. Inside she saw a delicate painting of Madori's face, perfectly lifelike.

The face inside the locket smiled and waved.

Koyee gasped and nearly dropped the locket. She spun toward her daughter, eyes wide. She saw that Madori was holding open an identical locket of her own, waving toward it.

"What . . ." Koyee began. She looked back into the locket Madori had given her, and she saw her daughter's face inside again. Only it was no painting, she realized. It was a reflection of the real Madori.

"The two lockets are linked," Madori explained. "Mine and yours. One peers out of the other. Look inside your locket again."

Koyee looked back at her locket in wonder. As Madori moved her own locket from side to side, the view changed.

"They are windows," Koyee whispered.

Madori nodded. "With our two lockets, we can always see each other. Each locket is a magical eye." She grinned. "I made them with magic. See, it's very simple! Each locket actually has a mirror inside. All I had to do was magically link the mirrors. Now your locket reflects whatever light goes into my locket, and vice versa. Essentially, when you look into your locket, you're just looking into my mirror—sort of. It's a bit more complex than that. It's an application of Feshavern's Fifth Principle as applied to artifacts and the bending of light. Professor Rushavel taught us this magic back at Teel University. I can explain more about how—"

"It's all right, daughter." Koyee smiled. "I think I prefer my magic with a tinge of mystery." She kissed Madori's cheek. "Thank you. I will worry less now that I can watch over you."

Madori nodded. "I'll keep my locket closed most of the time. I don't want you always watching! But whenever the moon hits its zenith, I'll open the locket and look inside, and I'll wave to you so you know I'm all right. Will you do the same?"

Koyee's eyes dampened, and she could barely speak without crying. "Of course." She embraced her daughter. "Of course. I love you, Madori. Be safe out there."

Madori nodded. "Ouch, Mother! You're crushing me. I'll be safe. Now let go and stop crying."

After her daughter left the room, Koyee slung the locket around her neck. It rested beside her other amulet—the little gear she had taken from Cabera Clock, the gear that kept the world locked between day and night. The two talismans—one of family, one of the world—rested side by side against her chest. She placed her hand over them and stared out the window at the night.

* * * * *

Tirus Serin, the Light of Radian, the Emperor of Mageria, stood upon the hill and watched his army muster at the border of night.

Once a village had nestled in the valley, a little backwater called Fairwool-by-Night, home to that mongrel Madori. Once the little beast's house had stood here, its roof woven of thatch, its gardens lush. Once an old maple tree had grown from the village square, shading the staircase of a columned library. Once five hundred souls had lived here on the border of darkness, the most eastern settlement in all Timandra.

The village was gone.

Where Madori's house had stood now rose a great marble statue, twenty feet tall, depicting him—Emperor Serin—gazing upon the darkness. Atop the ash of burnt houses stood iron cannons shaped as buffaloes; the filthy nightcrawlers had discovered the secrets of gunpowder, and now these Magerian guns would turn their own invention against them.

Beyond the cannons, where once fields had swayed, stood Serin's troops. Five thousand horsemen mustered here, each rider clad in steel and bearing lance, sword, and shield—a vanguard to charge through the gates of darkness and smash the walls of the Elorian cities. Thirty thousand soldiers stood beyond the horses: archers clad in boiled leather, their longbows taller than men, their arrows powerful enough to punch through armor; pikemen in chain mail, their pole-arms serrated and cruel; and many swordsmen in breastplates, their longswords wide, double-edged, and two-handed, blades to crash through the thin Elorian katanas. These men would swarm through the night cities, plundering, destroying, slaying every nightcrawler they found.

Finally, in the river, anchored dozen of warships. Shields hung across their hulls, each displaying the Radian eclipse. Their masts rose tall, and slaves manned their oars—mostly Ardishmen with whipped backs and collared necks. Upon the warships' decks stood Serin's finest warriors—his mages. Their robes were black, their faces hooded. Their magic would bring the nightcrawlers to their knees.

"All this is only a single fist," Serin said softly. "Very soon now, more troops will arrive from the capital. Very soon now, we will have a host to light every last corner of the night."

"I want her to watch," Lari said, voice strained. "I want Madori to see the night burn. To see her people scream in flame. To see her cities fall and shatter. I want my filthy cousin to watch every sword thrust into every heart, to see every babe ripped from its mother and crushed, to see every every throat slit." Lari clenched her fists, and the wind streamed her hair. "Madori will witness the anguish of the night before we drag her back into the day."

Serin looked at his daughter. Lari was a proud woman of the Magerian race, tall and strong and fair, her eyes blue, her hair golden—a paragon of purity. The nightcrawlers her scarred her cheeks on the road outside of Teel, but powder and rouge now hid the two pale lines. How wonderful the Timandrian! Serin thought, admiring her. How superior we are to the sub-humans of the night! Pride welling in him, Serin stroked Lari's cheek.

Serin's aunt had married Teramin Greenmoat, a weak knight with peasant roots—that had been bad enough. But then Torin Greenmoat, Teramin's son, had gone on to marry a nightcrawler, further polluting the family's blood. The ultimate insult was Madori, a half-nightcrawler in the family. Serin shuddered in disgust to imagine that he shared blood with that beast. As pure as Lari was, Madori was filthy, a stain upon his family, a stain he must efface.

"We will make Madori watch," he said. "She will see every death in Eloria before we take her to her father. And then she will see his death too." His hand, which caressed Lari's cheek, was missing one finger. Madori had taken that finger from him, and Serin's pulse quickened. "But Madori will not die. She will be the last nightcrawler in Mythimna, and we will keep her alive to a very old age. With magic, we can extend her age to hundreds of years." Serin sucked in breath, already imagining it. "She will travel the world in a cage, from town to town, a freak for the people of our empire to marvel at. The mongrel will become our pet, our circus animal. All will see her and scorn her."

Serin caressed the stump of his finger, and a thin smile stretched across his lips to remember Madori: her large lavender eyes; her strange black hair, cropped-short aside from two long strands that framed her face; and the fire in her heart, the fire that had driven her to attack him. It was almost a shame that she was half nightcrawler. With that much passion within her, Madori could have made a good warrior in his hosts, perhaps even a good mate to warm his bed; Serin had not been with a woman since his wife had died. Yet fire or not, Madori was a mongrel, tainted, filthy. When Serin met her again, he would break her.

"Look, Father!" Lari said, pointing west. "The boat arrives."

Serin clasped his hands together. "Splendid!"

It was a small vessel, its hull black, its sails displaying two crossed scrolls—emblem of Teel University. Several slaves sat chained to oars, propelling the boat onward. A stooped man stood at the prow, black cloak wrapped tightly around him. His nose was as curved as his back, his eyes were beady, and a ring of oily hair surrounded the bald crest of his head. He looked like some gangly vulture, and even his fingers, which clasped his cloak, looked like talons, complete with long sharp nails. As fair as Serin was, this man was foul. Serin was a warrior of nobility, of pride, of wide shoulders and a proud stance, a lion among lesser creatures; here before him emerged a scavenger.

A useful scavenger, Serin thought. A tool, no different than my cannons and sword.

"Professor Atratus!" Serin called out. "Welcome to the dusk."

The professor's small eyes stared across the mustering armies at the hilltop where Serin stood. The mage placed his fist against his chest.

"Radian rises!" he called out.

The boat navigated between the Magerian warships, a piranha moving between sharks. Two hooded mages stood upon the deck behind Atratus, holding whips of fire. Those whips cracked, slamming against the backs of rowing slaves. As the boat drew closer, Serin noticed that several Elorian skulls—the eye sockets freakishly large—hung upon the buffalo figurehead.

You are a twisted bastard, Serin thought, staring at Atratus. A man after my own heart.

The boat docked at the pier. Ardish merchant boats would once dock here, load the bounty of Timandra, and send the gifts of sunlight—fruits, grains, wines—into the night. Serin sneered. The Ardishmen had betrayed the sunlight, feeding the creatures of darkness. It was fitting, he thought, that from this very place—the docks that had once fed Eloria—the night's doom was kindled.

As Atratus stepped off the boat, the soldiers of Mageria formed a path between them and stood at attention, slamming the butts of their spears against the earth. Atratus did not spare the soldiers a glance. He walked between them, cloak wrapped tightly around him. A sneer found his lips, and his dark eyes glittered. When he finally climbed the hill and reached Serin, the stooped mage—the new Headmaster of Teel—knelt in the dirt.

"My Lord Serin!" A bubble of spit floated out of Atratus's mouth and popped against Serin's shin. If Atratus noticed, he gave no note of it. "I've come with the traitor, O Light of Radian. We hurt her. She is broken. But she still clings to life. We've kept her alive so that you may kill her yourself, dearest leader."

"I will kill her!" said Lari. The young woman tossed back her hair and smiled down at Atratus. "I suffered under her yoke at Teel for an entire year. The old crone nearly had me throwing up every time she summoned us to the courtyard." Lari drew her silvery sword. "I will gladly pierce her shriveled old heart, the traitor." She barked a laugh. "Letting nightcrawlers into Teel! Disgusting. She'll pay for her treachery."

Atratus rose to his feet and bowed his head toward Lari. "My Lady! Perhaps you would even care to demonstrate your magic on her? It would make your old professor quite proud. Besides, your sword is too beautiful a weapon to bloody on the likes of the traitor." He looked over his shoulder. "Here she comes."

Two younger mages were walking uphill, hands raised. Between them floated a bruised old woman. Invisible chains held her aloft between the robed men. Her white hair fell over her face, and bloodied rags covered her body. She was barely larger than a child—a dying, famished thing. When the younger mages reached the hilltop, they saluted and released their magic.

The old woman fell to her knees, coughed, and raised her head.

She stared up at Serin, fire in her eyes.

She spat upon his boot.

Serin glanced at his daughter, then back at the old woman. He backhanded her. It was perhaps crude—not an elegant attack like a blast of magic—but it did the trick. Blood splattered and the old woman fell to the ground.

"Headmistress Egeria," Serin said. "Or rather, former headmistress. How lovely to see you. Are you impressed with the armies I muster here? They will soon invade the darkness. They will soon step upon the worms you sought to protect. They will soon bring me Madori, the little vermin you harbored."

Though her eyes were bloodshot and puffed with bruises, Egeria fixed Serin with a steady gaze. Blood filled her mouth, but she spoke in a clear voice.

"Remember, Serin, what Madori's parents did to the last man who invaded the night. Beware that Madori does not do the same to you."

Serin sighed. "Ferius was a religious fanatic, a mere monk, a fool who thought he could lead an army." He swept his arm across the field. "Do you see these forces, Egeria? They are mine to command. I am no village preacher who knows nothing of warfare. I am a conqueror. I am . . . an exterminator. And the nightcrawlers will perish under my heel. All but Madori, that is. Oh, that one will live a very long time." He turned toward Lari. "What say we send the mongrel a little gift—one of many to come?"

Lari nodded and a smile spread across her face, the smile a wolf gives its prey before pouncing. "Gladly."

The princess stretched out both hands.

Egeria winced and struggled to raise her own arms, but magic bound her. Lari's blast of energy pounded against the old woman's chest, knocking her down. Lari grinned, stepped forward, and leaned over the former headmistress. Coiling strands of smoke materialized in the air. The astral tendrils snaked into Egeria's nostrils, ears, and mouth like serpents entering their burrows. Egeria thrashed on the ground, the serpents slithering under her skin, their forms visible like animals moving under sheets.

"I . . . I failed you, child." Tears streamed from Egeria's eyes. "I tried to teach you, Lari. I tried to teach you integrity, morals, goodness, I—"

With a scream, Lari balled her fists. The smoky serpents vanished from under Egeria's skin, digging deeper, crashing into her organs.

With a final gasp, Egeria went limp.

Lari looked up at her father, the rage gone from her face. Suddenly she seemed like a child again, desperate for her father's approval.

"Did I do it properly, Father?" She bit her lip. "I was hoping to drive the serpents into her heart right away. I didn't think they'd crawl under her skin."

"Keep practicing." Serin frowned at her. "I expect the best from you, Lari. Next time you kill, I want it quick. You will have to kill quickly on the battlefield. Do you understand?" He clenched his fist. "Do you remember what happened when you were a child, when you failed to play the proper notes on the harp?"

Lari blanched and her bottom lip trembled. Those bruises would linger for turns. To her father, the harp was almost as important as magic; whenever Lari had played a bum note, he would knock her onto the floor, would beat her with sticks, would leave her bruised, bleeding, and begging for another chance. Lari had grown into a woman, perhaps too old to beat, but Serin still expected perfection from her.

She nodded. "I will practice, Father. I promise. I will practice on as many nightcrawlers and traitors as it takes." She kissed his cheek. "I will make you proud."

Standing beside them, Headmaster Atratus cleared his throat—a horrid sound like a vulture gagging up a chunk of maggoty flesh. "And don't forget about your old professor. After all, I taught you much magic myself."

Lari smiled sweetly at the balding, stooped man. "Of course, Headmaster. I had to leave your university early to join the war effort, but I promise you—what I miss in classes I will perfect on the battlefield." She turned back toward the corpse. "And now . . . now I will bloody my sword. Now I prepare a gift for the mongrel. A little herald of what's to come."

Lari drew her sword and swung it down several times, finally severing Egeria's head.

They walked down to the river—an emperor in bright steel, a princess with a bloodied sword, and a mage in black robes. Myriads of soldiers stood at their sides, forming walls of steel, a force of sunlight about to swarm into darkness. The warships of the Magerian Empire rose in the water, masts like a forest. Serin barked a few orders, and soon a rowboat—an old landing craft the fleet could easily spare—was lowered into the water. Serin himself stuck the head onto a spear, then propped it onto the boat's prow, forming a lurid, dripping figurehead.

He took a scroll and quill from a servant, and standing on the river bank, he wrote in his fine, flowing script.

Dearest Madori!

Last we met, you took a finger from me. I now give you a head. Poor Egeria died knowing your fate. I wanted you to know it too. When we meet again—and it will be soon, my dearest Madori—I will take a finger from you. Then another finger. Then all your fingers and all your toes. But not your head. That will remain, so that you can see the crowds of Timandrians who gape at you, so you can hear their jeers, smell your own blood as they pelt you with stones. You and I will travel my empire together—you as a circus freak, I as your trainer. I'm afraid that dear old Egeria suffered a fate far kinder than what awaits you.

I am coming for you, and I will see you soon, sweet mongrel!

Your dear uncle,

Emperor Tirus Serin

He rolled up the scroll, nailed it onto the boat's hull, and sent the vessel floating eastward. He stood with his daughter, watching as the boat moved toward the dusk. Soon it entered the gloaming, and beads of light gleamed upon its wake like drops of liquid metal. Then the boat was gone into shadows, gone toward the village of Oshy. To Koyee. To Madori. To all the Elorians who would see his might and fear him.

"Perhaps they will fight as we march in," he said softly. "Perhaps they will beg. Perhaps they will flee. No matter what they do, the outcome will be the same. They will die."

Lari leaned against him. He slung his arm around her, and they stood together, watching the darkness. Behind them, the army stood ready to invade. Very soon now, the last troops would arrive from the capital. Very soon now, the darkness would burn.

CHAPTER FOUR:

SWAMP AND STONE

Madori stood upon the hill, the wind whipping her cloak and two strands of black hair. She gazed down upon her home—the village of Oshy, the Inaro River, Salai castle, and beyond them the dusk. She had spent many of her childhood summers here. She had sought sanctuary here. When the invasion began, she would shed blood here.

"For now I say goodbye, Oshy." The whistling wind drowned her words and nearly tugged off her cloak. "I go into shadow."

For the first time in her life, she wore Qaelish clothes—garments she, half Timandrian, had once rejected. A qipao dress hugged her body, its indigo silk embroidered with golden fish. A silver sash encircled her waist, inlaid with pearls, and her silken black cloak sported dragon motifs. Across her back hung her greatest possession: Sheytusung, fabled katana of her father.

Now I travel into the Desolation, to find the master who trained my grandfather. She touched the silk-wrapped hilt. I've learned to fight with magic. Now I will learn steel.

She sighed. Once she had dreamed of being a healer, not a soldier. When her mother had miscarried years ago, leaving Madori an only child, she had vowed to learn to heal others, not slay them. At Teel University, she had made her greatest progress in Magical Healing class, not Offensive Magic. Yet now she—the girl who had wanted so badly to mend broken bodies and souls—would march into the darkness to become a killer. Perhaps her fate was to be torn—between day and night, between healing and hurting.

She turned to look northeast, away from the dusk and the village in its light. The full darkness of Eloria stretched there, empty, lifeless, nothing but black hills and plains beneath the stars. The wilderness. Madori was half Elorian, but the sight of so much darkness, such vast empty land, chilled her. She would not be sailing upon a river that reflected the stars, that glowed with lanternfish, that eventually led to cities of light. She would be traveling into the emptiness; she might as well have been walking across the surface of the moon.

She gulped.

"You're out there somewhere, Master Lan Tao," she whispered.

She unrolled her parchment scroll, revealing fields of stars. When Koyee had given her this starmap, Madori had only nodded, rolled her eyes, and insisted that she understood the directions. She had lied. She could barely understand the runes, arrows, and coiling lines that snaked between the illustrated constellations. Yet she had needed to quickly leave her home in the village, to leave her mother, to begin her quest. Every moment back in Oshy, she was tempted to defy her mother, to race into the dusk, to find Serin and challenge him to another duel. That would have meant her death, she knew. As much as she hated Serin, her training was not yet complete; a single year at Teel had not made her powerful enough to defeat her enemies. So she had stuffed the map into her belt. She had raced here to the hill, too anxious for teary partings. And now she stood out here in the wind, on the cusp of pure darkness, afraid, alone.

She took a deep breath. "I survived the searing light and cruelty of Timandra." She smiled crookedly. "I can survive the cold, empty darkness of Eloria."

She took a single step—the first of many, the beginning of a new journey.

A voice rose behind her, tugging her back like a rope.

"Madori."

She spun around to see Jitomi walking uphill toward her.

The young Ilari, once her fellow student at Teel, wore the raiment of his southern, island-empire. His black silk robes fluttered in the wind, embroidered with small red flames. Upon his belt hung a tanto dagger, a traditional weapon of Ilar. A red bandana encircled his brow. His nose ring gleamed in the moonlight, as did the smooth, white hair that hung across his brow. His dragon tattoo coiled up his neck and cheek, the scaled head resting above his eyebrow.

Madori nodded at him, a new lump forming in her throat. "Jitomi."

He stepped closer and stood before her. His blue eyes—large Elorian eyes like hers, twice the size of Timandrian ones—stared at her. "You are leaving without saying farewell?"

She looked away. "I don't like goodbyes." Her voice sounded too thin to her, too hoarse.

"I'm leaving Oshy too. I'm returning to Ilar, to speak to my father, to try and enlist help for the border." He stared south into the darkness as if already seeing his distant homeland. "This is not only the border with Qaelin but with all the night. I'll make my father understand; he holds sway in the court of Empress Hikari. When he speaks, she listens. Ilar will help us, Madori."

She turned back toward him. "I thought you came here to say goodbye, not to speak of armies and empresses."

Jitomi nodded. He held her hand, and he leaned forward, trying to kiss her. She pulled back and took a step away.

"Madori?" His voice was soft, hurt.

She shook her head and looked away. "Go, Jitomi." Her voice caught in her throat. She remembered that time in Teel, the time they had kissed in the infirmary, how she had lain in his arms. "Go to Ilar; that is your path. And my path leads into the wilderness. There's no need for farewells, no need for your kiss, no need for any of this." Her voice cracked. "We must tread different paths. Perhaps they will never cross again."

She hefted her pack across her back and began to walk away from him, heading into the darkness.

"Madori, wait." He stepped toward her, held her shoulder, and touched her hair. "Do you forget all we've been through? Do you forget the year we spent together at Teel, the long moons we spent together on the road?" His voice dropped to a whisper. "Those turns we slept in each other's arms, those secrets we whispered, those—"

"That's all over!" Her voice rose so loudly she was almost shouting. Tears burned in her eyes. "Don't you understand, Jitomi? We're not youths anymore. All those turns together have ended. It's war now. War like the one my parents fought, like we'll have to fight." She tasted a tear on her lips. "There will be no more embraces, no more kisses, no more sunlit turns of youth. We're in darkness now. We must walk our paths alone."

Pain filled his eyes. He touched her cheek, lifting her tear onto his fingers. His voice was barely a whisper. "Madori, I love you."

That only sent anger flaring through her, a rage fueled by her pain. "Well, I don't love you." She shook her head wildly. "What can love bring us now? Only heartbreak. Go, Jitomi. Go! Go to your homeland and I'll travel my own road. That is what's left for us." She laughed, though it sounded more like a sob. "I told you I hated goodbyes. I told you to leave. Now look." She gestured at her tears. "Now look what you've done to me. I hate you, Jitomi. I . . ."

Yet somehow she found herself embracing him. Somehow she found herself kissing him again, and it tasted of her tears.

She placed her hands against his chest and shoved him back. She turned away, eyes damp, and walked as fast as she could into the shadows. The stars spread above, and the icy wind cut through her, and she did not look back.

* * * * *

Tam Solira, Prince of Arden, and Neekeya, a daughter of Daenor, crested the rocky hill and beheld the swamplands sprawl below into the horizon.

"Daenor," Neekeya whispered. "Home."

The young woman stood bedecked in crocodile motifs—a helmet shaped as a crocodile head, a shirt of scales mimicking crocodile skin, and a necklace of crocodile teeth. Finally, a sword with a crocodile-claw pommel hung from her belt. Her tattered green cloak fluttered in the wind, as did those strands of her black, chin-length hair that escaped from her helmet. The rising sun gleamed upon her brown skin and lit her large, chocolate-colored eyes. She smiled wistfully, gazing with love upon her kingdom.

"I missed you, Denetek." She turned toward Tam, her eyes bright, and her smile widened to reveal her teeth. "Isn't it beautiful? We call our land Denetek in our tongue; Daenor is what the kingdoms of Old Riyona call it."

Tam looked back toward the view. Three years ago, he had visited the rainforest of Naya and thought that land harsh. Now, viewing the marshlands of Daenor, he understood what true harshness looked like. Daenor was not just lush and wet; it looked like a flooded apocalyptic nightmare. The water stretched for miles, covered in algae and lilies. Mangroves grew like spiders of wood and leaf, their roots twisting. Boulders jutted like islands from this green sea, looking as sharp and cruel as blades. Mist hung in the air, birds cried out discordantly, and distant pyramids rose upon the horizon, as grim as tombstones.

If ever the world fell to ruin, to flood, to decay, he thought, it would look like Daenor.

He suppressed a shudder and forced himself to nod. "It's lovely, Neekeya. It's very . . ." He thought for a moment. ". . . full of life."

Of course, "life" probably meant man-eating crocodiles, insects the size of his fist, and snakes that laid eggs inside human skulls, but he felt it safest not to vocalize those thoughts.

She held his hand and pointed across the marshlands. "Do you see that distant pyramid? That's my home. My father rules all these lands, as far as you can see. They'll be our lands one turn, Tam. We'll be married and rule together, a wise lord and lady of the swamps."

He looked at Neekeya—her ready smile, her bright eyes, the goodness that shone from her. Perhaps Daenor seemed forbidding to him, but Neekeya was beautiful and pure. He squeezed her palm. "But first we must stop the Radian menace. We must convince your father and the other lords of Daenor that Mageria must be fought. Or else these lands might fall as Arden fell."

A twinge twisted his heart to think of Arden, his homeland. The memories of its fall still hurt him—the enemy troops snaking across its roads, the Radian banners upon Kingswall's towers, and mostly the fear . . . the fear for his family, for his friends. He did not know if his family had survived. Would Serin keep the royal family alive, or was Tam the last survivor? He thoughts of them now—his wise father, King Camlin; his kind mother, Queen Linee; his twin brother, Prince Omry. Did they languish now in a Radian prison, did they lie dead in a field, or had they too fled to foreign lands? Even more than he wanted to free his homeland, Tam wanted to find his family again. With every breath, worry for them flared. It had been four months since he had parted from Madori outside the conquered city of Kingswall; he had heard nothing of his friends or family since.

Tam closed his eyes, the memories suddenly too strong to resist.

Catch me! little Madori cried, only a child, short and scrawny, her knees scraped. She laughed and ran through the sunlit gardens, and Tam ran in pursuit, a mere boy, laughing, his face tanned and freckled, his world full of joy. His twin, Prince Omry, was stuck in the stuffy court, heir to Arden, a serious boy groomed to rule. But Tam, a few minutes younger, laughed as he chased Madori outside. They splashed through the stream, collected frogs, and finally lay on their backs in the grass, watching the sky.

That one looks like a dragon, Madori said, pointing at a cloud. I'm going to ride dragons some turn.

Tam pointed out another cloud. That one looks like a ship! We're going to find our own ship some turn, Billygoat, and sail far away from here, far away on adventure.

So many summers they had lain like that in the gardens of Kingswall, dreaming, speaking softly of the distant lands they'd visit, of all the monsters they'd slay, the villages they'd save. Her—a girl torn between day and night. Him—a prince so jealous of his twin, his inheritance stolen by a few minutes of sleep in the womb.

They had finally gone on their adventure together, traveling to Teel to become mages . . . yet now Madori was so far from him. Now this adventure did not seem like much fun at all. It had been a journey of pain, of bloodshed, of fear and hunger. And now Madori was gone from him, traveling deep into the darkness on the other side of Moth.

I miss you, Billygoat, he thought. And I must find aid here in Daenor. I must or all the night will burn.

He turned back toward Neekeya. She stared at him, and her face hardened, and her eyes filled with determination.

"We will find aid," Neekeya said. "We've come here to prepare Daenor for war. We will protect our borders. Daenor will stand."

Hand in hand, they walked downhill, heading into the swamplands.

When they reached the water, Tam grimaced. The green, dank soup rose to his knees, thick with moss. Dragonflies flew around him, frogs trilled upon lily pads, herons waded between reeds, and he even saw a snake coil across the water. The mangroves rose around him, twisted like goblins. The air was hot and thick and filled his lungs like smoke. He wondered how he'd even walk a hundred yards here, let alone several leagues toward the pyramids. Neekeya, however, seemed to suffer no mobility problems. Despite her armor, she bounded from boulder to boulder, log to log, twisting root to twisting root. Her boots barely touched the water.

"Come on, Tam!" she said. "It's not a sea. You won't have to swim." She grinned. "Just hop your way over."

"I don't hop!" he said. "I'm not a frog."

She shrugged. "Well, you might not be, but you're wearing one as a hat."

He reached to his head and felt something slimy. When he pulled it free, the frog hopped away, and Tam grimaced.

They kept moving through the bog—Neekeya hopping from log to rock, Tam slogging through the knee-high water. He made a few attempts to leap like Neekeya, only to fall face-down into the muck, covering himself with mud, moss, and peat. The leafy mangrove branches hid the sky, and the song of the swamp filled his ears: squawking birds, chirping insects, trilling frogs, and gurgling water. An egret snatched a dragonfly. Snails perched upon a floating branch. Drops of water gleamed upon countless spiderwebs. Tall grass and reeds grew upon tussocks, rich with grasshoppers and toads.

"At least this land would be a nightmare to invade," Tam muttered as he waded forward, algae tangling around his legs. "I can't imagine Mageria's horses and chariots slogging through this."

Neekeya nodded. "I'd like to see them try. Our soldiers would rain arrows down upon them." She pointed up at the canopy, then waved. "Hello, boys!"

Tam looked up and lost his breath.

"Idar's shaggy old beard," he muttered.

Several Daenorians perched among the branches, clad in dark green cloaks and gray tunics. Brown and green paint covered their faces, and leaves covered their helmets of boiled leather. They held bows and blowguns, and daggers hung from their belts. With their camouflage, Tam doubted he'd have noticed them were they not waving back toward Neekeya. When he looked behind him, he saw that many other Daenorians filled the trees he had already walked under.

Neekeya gave Tam a solemn look. "Daenor is defended." She nodded and gripped the hilt of her sword. "If Serin invades the swamp, he will find his watery grave."

Tam stared east across the marshlands—east toward the distant Teekat Mountains and beyond them Mageria.

Will Daenor remain a last island of freedom? he thought. Will all the world fall as Arden fell, and will the night burn, while we linger here in the mud? He did not speak these concerns. But he knew: We cannot simply hide as evil rises beyond the mountains. We must face that evil, and we must attack it, or the Radian noose will choke us.

They kept walking, heading east. The marshlands thickened. The water soon rose to Tam's armpits, and the mangrove roots twisted everywhere like a lattice. He was forced to hop forward with Neekeya, jumping from root to log to mossy rock. After a few spills and bruises, he got the hang of it. Soon, with the help of dangling vines, he was able to move above the water almost at normal walking speed. He marveled at how Neekeya, with her heavy armor, managed the task; he wore only wool and felt clumsier than an elephant in quicksand.

After hours of traveling, they reached mossy old ruins. Arches of dark stone rose from the marsh, a hundred feet tall, like the ribs of a fallen giant. No roof or walls rose among them, but Tam saw other remnants half-submerged into bogs: the massive stone head of a statue, large as a boat; an orphaned archway, its doors long-rotted away; and sunken columns, their capitals shaped as crocodiles. At first Tam wondered if Serin had already invaded and lay waste to Daenor's cities, but he quickly realized that these ruins were thousands of years old.

"Relics of the Ancients," Neekeya said. She nodded solemnly. "They were great in magic, and many of their magical artifacts are still hidden under the bogs. Now magic is lost to Daenor, but the whispers of our forebears remain." She whispered a prayer in her language, clasping her necklace of teeth.

Tam thought back to the history books he would read in Arden. Like Mageria and Verilon, Arden had once been part of the Riyonan Empire; all three of those kingdoms, neighbors north of the Sern and east of the mountains, now spoke similar dialects and worshiped Idar, the god of sunlight. But Daenor, this swamp between the mountains and the western coast, had spent most of its history isolated from the rest of Timandra. Its people looked different, their skin darker, their frames taller, and they spoke a different tongue and worshiped older gods. It was said that even when Riyona herself had been young, Daenor had already been ancient.

They walked under the mossy arches, pushing back curtains of vines. They had just emerged from the ruins when Tam saw the men ahead. He froze and reached for his dagger.

Magerians, was his first thought.

A dozen men stood ahead, seeming as foreign to this swamp as Tam was. When he squinted, he saw that they bore the banners of Daenor—a black crocodile upon a green field—but they looked different from any Daenorian he'd ever seen. Their skin was a lighter brown, and their eyes were green. Their helmets were not shaped as crocodile jaws or their armor as crocodile skin; their helmets were simpler, their breastplates unadorned. Rather than green cloaks and necklaces of teeth, they wore gray cloaks clasped with silver brooches.

"North Daenorians." Neekeya froze, reached for her sword, and sneered at the men ahead. "What are you doing here in the swamps? I thought the south was too muddy for you fine, fancy folk of the northern plains." She spat and looked back at Tam. "They think they can bear a crocodile banner, maybe a little crocodile pin, and be as mighty as the beasts. They plow fields, live in castles, and look down upon their southern brothers and sisters."

One of the men stepped forward, his smile dripping disgust. He was tall and thin, perhaps forty years old, his black eyebrows plucked to perfect arches, his olive-toned skin scented of myrrh. Golden filigree shaped as herons bedecked his breastplate, and a diamond pendant hung from his neck, large as an acorn. A ruby-studded saber hung from his belt, and sapphires formed a decorative crocodile upon his shield. Here were pieces of artwork for display, not for battle.

"Look, friends." The man pointed at Neekeya. "One of the barbarians. The southerners are barely more civilized than beasts. It's no wonder the rest of Timandra sees our kingdom as a cesspool. The southerners are an embarrassment." His eyes flicked toward Tam. "And what's this now? A foreigner? You've strayed far from home, pup."

Neekeya drew her sword. "Out of our way, northerners. You speak to Neekeya, Daughter of Kee'an, a latani of Denetek. My family rules these lands you stand on. Return to your northern plains or I'll thrust this sword into your guts."

The tall, jeweled man did not lose his smile. "Land? Your family rules over a puddle. Do you not recognize me, Neekeya? We met once, many years ago, when you were just a little beast. I am Felsar, son of King Fehen, Prince of Daenor. Your lord."

Neekeya froze and sucked in air with a hiss. Then she seemed to recollect herself and spat. "Southern Daenor needs no fancy northern princes. For thousands of years, you minded your business in the plains, thinking yourself too good for us. You're more like Magerians than true Daenorians. You have no pride in our land; you only ape the Old Riyonans east of the mountains. Denetek needs no northern prince or king." She shoved her way past him. "Return north or drown in our mud, but whatever you do, spare me your prattle. Tam! Come with me. These louts are crocodile food."

She shoved past the men, elbowing them aside. They scoffed at her, and one spat at her feet, but Neekeya kept walking. Tam followed, moving between the North Daenorians. As he crept along a jutting mangrove root, he glanced more closely at the men, and his breath died. Upon their cloaks they wore small Radian pins. One of them, a mustached man with one eye, gave Tam a small nod and smaller smile.

"Tam, hurry up!" Neekeya shouted.

He looked away from the men and followed her, leaving the northerners behind and entering thick brush.

* * * * *

They must have been walking for a full turn, and they had barely halved the distance toward the pyramids. When Neekeya looked at Tam, she found him sweaty, wheezing, and ready to collapse. She sighed. In her eagerness, she had been driving him too fast. She had forgotten that he'd been raised in Kingswall, a city of cobbled streets and fancy carriages. While she hopped easily from rock to root, the journey through the marshlands had left Tam looking like a dying cat.

She paused upon a tussock of grass that rose from the water. She stretched out her arms and yawned.

"I'm so weary I can barely keep moving," she lied. Of course, she could have easily reached home on her own by now, and she could easily keep moving for another turn. But she didn't want to be dragging an exhausted, drowning boy out of the water, nor did she want to hurt his pride. "I need to rest and sleep."

He climbed onto the islet and stood beside her, breathing raggedly. Mud and moss covered him from head to toe. He managed to nod. "Very well. If you'd like to rest, I suppose we can."

She rolled her eyes. "Don't pretend you don't need a rest yourself." She mussed his muddy hair.

They lay on their backs in the grass. The frogs trilled around them, the water gurgled, and the leaves rustled above. Fireflies floated across them, and the hot, soupy air made their lids heavy. Neekeya had forgotten the richness of this place—the thick, lush scent of water and leaf, the languorous heat, the music of the life and water around her. She had gone to Teel University to learn magic, and now she realized that all of Daenor was magic; the very air here filled her with wonder.

Home. Would this home now be lost? She had seen the Radian pins upon the northerners—traitors to their own kingdom. Traveling here, she had seen Mageria's armies muster east of the Teekat Mountains, camps of many tents, archers, and swordsmen prepared for war. She had seen Arden fall under Serin's grip; would her own home now follow? Would this beautiful land burn in the Radian fire, its trees cut down, its waters dried, and the pyramid of her father crumbled to dust? As she lay here in this beauty beside the man she loved, a wave of fear rose within Neekeya, and she saw in her mind a great eclipse—a Radian sun not only hiding Eloria's moon but all lands of free folk.

Lying on his back, Tam reached out to hold her hand. He breathed deeply. "You know, lying here, Daenor isn't all that bad. I like the birds, and even the dragonflies are pretty. And the music of frogs and crickets is soothing. And—Idar's bottom!" He leaped to his feet and drew his sword. "Neekeya!"

She looked up, yawned, and stretched. "It's only a crocodile."

The reptile emerged from the water, placed its front claws upon the islet, and opened its jaws wide. Tam scrambled backwards, holding his blade before him.

"It's a bloody swamp dragon!" he sputtered.

Neekeya rose to her feet and approached the crocodile. "He's cute." She pointed back to the water. "Go, boy! Back into the water. No food for you here. Go!"

The reptile snapped its teeth, but after a few harsh words from Neekeya, it slunk back into the water and floated away in pursuit of less vocal meals.

"I'll never be able to sleep here," Tam said.

Neekeya shrugged. "There are worse animals that could visit. Take that python for example." She pointed across the marsh. A great snake coiled around branches, possibly even larger than the crocodile, deep in slumber.

Seeing the beast, Tam paled and fell to his knees. "I'm definitely not sleeping."

"Good." Neekeya nodded. "You can watch while I rest."

She pulled off her armor, lay back down, and closed her eyes. A moment later, she felt Tam lie down at her side. She peeked through narrowed eyelids to see him looking at her.

"I set up an alarm around the islet," he said. "I changed the grass and soil like Professor Fen taught us. The magic will trumpet if anything larger than a toad sneaks up on us. I suppose I should sleep a little." He yawned. "I've never been more tired in . . ."

He was asleep before he could complete his sentence. Neekeya looked at the muddy Ardish prince. As a child, she had been taught that the eastern royals beyond the mountains were cruel, that they looked down upon Daenor, seeing the swamp-people as little better than Elorians. But now Neekeya had met Elorians; she had met Madori and Jitomi and she loved them dearly, and she missed them. And now Neekeya had met Tam, and she loved him with more fire than a burning forest, more light than a blazing sun. She held him close, kissed his cheek, and nuzzled his neck. He placed his arm around her, and they slept entwined together.

When they woke, she built a fire and they ate a breakfast of grilled frog legs; she chewed hers lustfully while Tam only nibbled, looking queasy. They kept walking through the water, brush, and clouds of insects. After several more hours, they finally saw the pyramids ahead—the great realm of Eetek.

Thirteen pyramids grew from the swamps, thousands of years old, arranged into the shape of a great reptile. The pyramids seemed as alive as the swamps. Their lower bricks were green with thick moss. Higher up the pyramids, the moss faded, but many weeds, vines, and even trees grew between the craggy bricks. Birds fluttered above; their droppings stained the slanting walls. The pyramids were ancient and they showed their age. Those in the north, Neekeya knew, would mock the southern lords for letting nature invade their structures; they would call these pyramids neglected, infested with moss and leaves and wildlife. But to Neekeya and her family, these halls were not separate from nature but an extension of it, and the greenery upon the stone only enhanced their beauty.

She pointed at the largest pyramid, the one forming the reptile's eye. From this distance, she could just make out the gateway near the peak. Men in armor stood there upon a stone ledge. From here they seemed smaller than ants, but she could hear their horns. The silver trumpets were announcing a new turn, and the song brought tears to Neekeya's eyes. A song of home.

"We stand before Eetek Pyramid, the greatest in these swamps," she said, "and its song calls us home."

They walked through the marshlands, stepping over tussocks of grass and mangrove roots when they could, wading through mossy water when they could find no steppingstones. Other Daenorians traveled the marshlands around them. Men oared reed sheh'an boats, holding baskets of fish and cages of birds. In the south, people speared frogs and dived for mollusks. Reed huts grew upon grassy hillocks, and other huts nestled among the branches of trees. Here were the commoners of Daenor, clad in seeken homespun, a fabric woven of lichen and leaves. Bracelets and necklaces of copper jangled around their wrists, and beads filled their hair. They smiled at Neekeya as she walked by, calling blessings toward her.

Finally she and Tam reached the great pyramid and stood at its base. Chipped statues, shaped as men with crocodile heads, guarded a staircase that climbed the pyramid's eastern flank. The pyramid rose five hundred feet tall; Neekeya's father claimed it was the tallest structure in the world. Priests stood upon a stone outcrop near the crest, playing brass horns; the sound rained down, keening and deep and metallic. At the pyramid's base stood several guards. They wore scale armor, green cloaks, and crocodile helms with steel teeth, and they held spears and bows.

"Latani Neekeya!" the guards said. "Welcome home, Latani!"

"What does latani mean?" Tam whispered.

"It is our word for 'lady,'" she said, feeling her cheeks heat up.

Tam's eyebrows rose so high they almost touched his hair. "Lady! I didn't realize I was in the presence of a fine, pampered lady of the court." He sketched a mocking bow. "My dearest Lady Neekeya, would your ladyship care for some crumpets, perhaps—"

She nudged him with her elbow, scowling. "Be quiet! I'm no fancy lady. I'm no North Daenorian or Ardishwoman. I'm a proud swamp warrior. It's not my fault your language has no proper word; your people don't even say the name of my kingdom properly. Just think of me as a latani—a warrior lady, if you will." She grabbed his hand. "Come with me and we'll see my father, and don't bow to me again, not even in jest. The Deneteki bow to no one, not even to their lords. We're proud. We're free. In the swamps, to bow is to be a slave."

And we will never bow to Serin, she thought, lips tight. Even if all the world kneels before him, Daenor will stand tall, strong, unbent.

They climbed the stairs up the pyramid, leaving the marshlands below. Two guards framed every step, clad in their reptilian armor, their spears decorated with bright feathers. Craggy limestone statues, shaped as reptiles with hanging tongues, lined the staircase like bannisters, their backs furry with moss.

Tam was wheezing and even Neekeya felt lightheaded when they finally reached the top of the staircase. Above them still towered a good hundred feet of pyramid, and before them stretched a ledge of stone. Priests in green robes stood here, red feathers in their hair, blowing brass pipes. They lowered the instruments as Neekeya approached and called out blessings to her.

"Welcome home, Latani Neekeya!" Their old faces creased with their smiles. "May Cetela, God of Water and Leaf, forever bless you."

"May Cetela forever bless you too, my friends." Her eyes stung; it had been over a year since she had seen these dear old men. Abandoning decorum, she raced forward and embraced the priests one by one. "I'm so glad to see you again. I missed you. How is my father?"

Their smiles faded and shadows filled their eyes. Neekeya stepped back, frowning. A chill washed her.

"Many difficulties have tested us this past year, Latani," said Rekeena, the oldest of the priests, a wiry man with a bald, wrinkled head. "Many troubles have weighed upon your father's shoulders, though he still leads us wisely, and we still pray to Cetela. A great menace musters beyond our borders . . . and in our very kingdom. But it is not for us, priests of Cetela, to dabble in the affairs of men." He gestured toward the archway behind him. "Enter, child. We have seen you many miles away, and your father awaits you."

She glanced at Tam hesitantly, and she saw the same fear in his eyes. She thought back to the North Daenorians she had encountered on the journey. She had not spoken of it to Tam, but she had seen the Radian sigils upon their cloaks.

Radians . . . in our own land.

She swallowed, nodded at the priests again, and took Tam's hand in hers. They stepped forward together, under the archway, and into the shadows.

CHAPTER FIVE:

THE DESOLATION

Madori walked through the darkness.

She walked alone.

She had thought the Elorian wilderness was empty. She had been wrong. The stars were a multitude, a sea of endless, distant life. They clustered above. They swept across the heavens like rivers of spilled milk. Madori had always thought the stars were white, but in the wild she realized that they were silver, blue, red, yellow, and countless other shades. They moved slowly or quickly, trailing above in an ancient dance. The constellations guided her: the leaping fish, the running wolf, the wise old philosopher, the glowing whale. Her parchment starmap was only a crude thing; the heavens above were a great tapestry whose secrets she would never fully understand. Headmistress Egeria had taught that some stars were distant worlds, that life flourished upon them too. As she walked, Madori wondered if any souls were traveling their own paths upon those worlds, looking toward Mythimna and also contemplating distant wanderers.

As a child, Madori would gaze up at the stars and imagine life on other worlds. She had imagined worlds of wonder and magic, of dragons and monsters, even one world where people could turn into dragons. She used to speak of building a great hot air balloon, of traveling with Tam up to the stars, of finding a place where day and night cycled, where she wouldn't feel so strange, so alone, where she could become a dragon—powerful, blasting out fire, a beast who could feel no pain.

The silly dreams of a child, she thought. Now those worlds in the sky seemed so distant, so out of reach, so cold.

Not only stars filled the wild. Other wonders filled the night. She had thought the wilderness black and jagged, but now she saw smooth lavender rocks in a dried-out riverbed, great indigo boulders shaped as men, and hillside crystals that reflected the stars. The bones of an ancient creature, as large as a dragon, rose from black dust, the ribs so large Madori could walk beneath them like she'd walk under the arches of Teel's cloister. Upon a cliff, Madori saw fossils of seashells and birds embedded into the stone, and even a fossilized tree—an actual tree, like in Timandra. Thousands of years ago, folk would say, the world had turned, and day and night would cycle around Mythimna. Here perhaps were the remnants of Old Eloria, the life that had flourished here and vanished when endless night had fallen.

She did not know for how long she walked. Koyee had given her an hourglass, but Madori did not bother using it; it would only tilt over as she walked. Time vanished here. When she was weary, she paused to sleep. Mostly she walked. She ate the foods she had taken from home: jars of matsutake mushrooms, salted bat wings, dry lanternfish, and even fruit imported from Timandra. She ate little; fear crushed her appetite.

Does the fire already burn in Oshy? she thought as she walked. Does my father still live? Have Tam and Neekeya found safety? Has Jitomi found the road south?

Her eyes stung. She hated people. She hated these bonds of family, fellowship, friendship, love. When you cared for people, perhaps you were always worried, always afraid. Even here in the wilderness, she was not a lone wolf. She was still a daughter, a friend, a soul torn away from those she loved.

"I will return to you." Madori drew her sword as she walked, and she raised the curving blade. Its weight and soft silk grip comforted her. "I will learn to use Sheytusung, and I will return. I will see you again, my parents, my friends, my Jitomi." She clenched her jaw. "But not before I drive this blade into Serin's heart."

She kept walking, navigating by the stars, seeking the Desolation, that wasteland of canyons, craters, and craggy boulders where lived Old Master Lan Tao. The wilderness spread on. A few scattered mushrooms grew from the soil, their innards glowing with coiling strands of light. As Madori kept walking, the few mushrooms became many, and soon she moved through a great field of lights like a second sky of stars. The mushrooms grew taller as she traveled—tall as her knees, then her shoulders, and finally taller than her head. Their stems raced with dancers of light, and their great heads glowed, lanterns of blue, pink, and silver, lighting her way. She walked on, feeling small as a spirit, a mere moth in a forest of light.

She had begun her journey under a full moon. It was a sliver, a mocking dragon's smile, when Madori emerged from the mushroom forest and beheld a landscape of black, jagged hills.

"The Desolation," she whispered.

Boulders rose like the scattered teeth of giants. Valleys, craters, and peaks formed a jagged landscape like the ruins of an ancient city. Walking was slow here. She traveled along coiling paths, under overhanging stone, and between granite steeples that cut her hands if she touched them. Glowing eyes peered from inside caves, but when Madori approached for closer looks, the creatures within fled deeper into their lairs, and she dared not enter after them. Bats fluttered over her head, moving between hidden eyries. The towers and peaks of stone hid most of the sky, and hills became mountains, cruel and sharp and steep. She kept walking, knowing she was close now. They said the old master lived in a cave, and every time she saw glowing eyes, she wondered if it was him watching her.

"Old Master Lan Tao!" she shouted. Her voice echoed across the landscape. A boulder tilted. Pebbles raced under her feet. She winced, expecting an avalanche, and kept walking gingerly, navigating between fallen stones. She dared shout no more.

A tilted black mountain, shaped like a wilting sail, loomed ahead. She walked along a ragged path, pebbles creaking under her boots. She barely dared to breathe. A shelf of stone loomed above her, and boulders perched like dragon eggs at her side. She thought that if she sneezed, she'd set the whole structure tumbling. Below stretched a valley, perhaps a crater, strewn with many boulders. A stream flowed through it, reflecting the moonlight. The mountains, boulders, and canyons spread as far as Madori could see. For the first time in her life, she was thankful for her Elorian eyes, eyes that had branded her a foreigner in Timandra. Here they collected even the softest of lights, guiding her way.

"Where are you, Lan Tao?" she whispered. Her mother had only told her he lived in a cave. Madori saw dozens of caves here. If she shouted his name again, she was likely to send boulders tumbling. If she began to enter each cave in search of him, she was likely to encounter some slumbering nightwolf or other beast.

Have I been a fool to come here? Have I traveled all this way to find only rock and water?

She was walking across a cracked valley, boulders rising around her like columns, when she heard the growl.

At once she paused and spun around. Her heart leaped into her mouth.

Yellow eyes gleamed above upon a mountainside, but the creature itself remained hidden in shadow. She saw only those eyes and long, sharp fangs.

Madori dared not move.

If you run, he'll see you as a prey. She forced herself to remain calm. If he smells your fear, he'll pounce. Stand your ground, Madori.

The growl rose again, loud and coarse as boulders rolling down a mountain. The creature padded forward, emerging into the moonlight. A nightwolf.

Madori sucked in her breath. She had heard of nightwolves before—her Uncle Okado and Aunt Suntai, fallen heroes of the night, had ridden them in the war—but Madori had never seen the beasts. She had always imagined them the size of Timandrian wolves, animals no larger than sheepdogs, but this creature could dwarf most horses. Its thick gray fur bristled. Its body was wide but graceful, made for leaping, and its claws were long, made for tearing flesh off bone. Madori remembered the scars that marred her mother's face; they had come from such claws.

She met the nightwolf's gaze. Its eyes were even larger than hers. Wise, deep eyes. This was no mindless hunter; this was a sentient being. And it was hungry. She saw the hunger in those eyes, in those bared fangs, in its lanky body. Yes, its fur was thick, but that pelt hung over a thinned frame. Its every movement spoke of hunger, the need for meat. Most nightwolves hunted in packs; if this one was alone, it must have been a wild beast, an animal too unpredictable, too proud to serve a master. It must have wandered the wilderness for many turns, far from the plains where its brethren claimed territory and hunted. It must not have eaten in as long, and Madori knew how she appeared to it.

Like a feast.

The animal took one more step forward. Madori stared upward. A good fifty feet separated the two, but Madori knew he could easily jump the length. Yes, she thought of the wolf as a he now, no longer an it; she saw his story in his eyes, and he became almost a companion to her, a fellow wandering, hungry, lonely creature.

Slowly, Madori chose the air between them.

The nightwolf snarled.

She claimed the air.

The wolf leaped.

She changed the air, forming a thick shield, pressing the material close together like bunching silk into a thick rug. The nightwolf slammed into the force field and yowled, shocked at the impact. But the beast was too powerful to stop completely—he weighed several times more than a man—and he tore through the air like a diver through water.

The nightwolf slammed into Madori.

She fell beneath him.

His weight nearly crushed her. A thick, soupy layer of air still lay between them, remnants of her shield. The wolf's teeth drove down, and Madori winced and funneled the air upward, knocking the wolf's head aside. His claws scratched along her arm, and she cried out in pain. Her blood spilled. He leaned in again to bite, and the pain of her wounds drove her magic away.

Focus. Think. Fight him!

She chose his fur. She claimed it. She changed it.

The fur rustled madly, crackling like Madori's hair when she dragged her feet across a rug. Several sparks flew across the wolf, little bolts of electricity. The animal yowled, and Madori kicked, pulled herself out from under him, and jumped to her feet. She snarled, nurtured the sparks upon the animal, and with a single puff, the fur burst into flame.

The nightwolf whimpered, turned tail, and ran a few steps. Then he fell to the ground and rolled, struggling to extinguish the fire. The smell of burning fur filled Madori's nostrils.

She doffed her cloak. She raced toward the animal, tossed the cloak over him, and patted out the flames. The nightwolf didn't attack, only lay and whimpered as she worked. Finally the fire was extinguished.

"There you go," Madori said. "Just singed a bit. Didn't burn the flesh."

The wolf lay before her. He rolled onto his belly, legs splayed out, a mark of surrender. When Madori patted his snout, he licked her with a tongue as large as her hand.

"Good boy." She rummaged through her pack, produced a dried lanternfish—her last one—and held it out. Still lying on his back, the wolf ate the paltry meal. "It's all I can give you, friend."

Her own belly grumbled. She had only a single jar of mushrooms left, barely enough food for another turn. Then she too would have to wander the wilderness, desperately seeking bats, fish, or moles. Perhaps she would turn into something like this wolf, a wandering, feral thing, slowly dying of starvation. She slumped beside the animal and stroked his fur.

"What are we doing here, boy?" She sighed. "We're both lost."

A voice rose from a hilltop behind her, an ancient voice like crumpling parchment.

"Why didn't you kill it?"

She spun around, drawing her sword in a single, fluid movement.

He stood on the mountainside upon an outcrop of stone. He was an old man—ancient—his face wrinkled, his beard long and white, his head bald. And yet he stood straight, his shoulders still squared, his eyes still sharp. He wore blue robes and a silver sash, and he kept his hands tucked within his wide sleeves. A katana hung at his side.

"He was hungry," Madori said, staring at the stranger.

The old man nodded. "An invader is hungry for your soil. A thief is hungry for your treasure. A murderer is hungry for your blood. Would you not deal death to them?"

She glared up at the elder. "That's different. Those are humans. Humans are cruel. Animals are kind."

He raised an eyebrow. "This kind animal almost ripped out your throat." The man hopped off the outcrop, and Madori winced, sure he would smash down into the valley, snapping every bone in his body. Yet the elder effortlessly glided down a good ten feet, landed neatly, and knelt to absorb the impact. He straightened and walked toward her. "A great nightwolf attacked you, and you did not draw your blade. You could have sliced out its throat before it reached you. Instead you fought with clumsy, crude magic like a Timandrian. Now you see a frail old man and draw your steel." He shook his head sadly. "A fool has come to see me."

She sneered. "I told you." She stepped closer to the old man, her blade drawn. "I don't like people. I like animals. Stand back or this blade will cut your throat." At her side, the wolf stood up and growled at the man.

He came to a halt a few feet away from her. His long white beard and flowing mustache fluttered in the wind. His gaze was haughty, she thought, and the hint of mockery twisted his lips.

"Kill it," he said. "Kill the nightwolf. It is hungry. So are you. You won the fight. Slay the beast and eat its flesh."

Madori pointed her katana at the man. "I'd rather kill you and feed you to him. He won't be hungry and I'll be rid of your prattling."

"And soon after you would die of hunger." He shook his head sadly. "You are foolish. You are rash and angry. Slay the animal. Prove yourself strong and I will train you. Otherwise turn and leave. I have no patience for fools."

Madori grumbled. "And I have no patience for cruel masters, Lan Tao. That is your name, is it not?" She spat at his feet. "I had a cruel master at Teel University. One was enough."

The old hermit smiled thinly. "Did that cruel sunlit master teach you to fight with magic? Perhaps he saved your life. If not for him, that wolf would now be digesting your flesh. Perhaps a cruel master is exactly what you need, for a great wolf of sunfire rises in the west. Yes, I have seen it, even from here—a great light mustering along the dusk. If you show the enemies any mercy, as you've shown your adversary here, they will cut through you and all those you love." He stepped closer, and his eyes narrowed. "Now kill the wolf."

She shook her head and sheathed her sword. "No. If I kill without reason, I'm no different from the sunlit demons. You cannot fight a monster by becoming one yourself. If you do, you've already lost. Salai of Oshy, my grandfather, was a noble man. He would scoff at your words." She turned to leave.

His voice rose behind her. "Did you know your grandfather, child?"

She froze. She looked over her shoulder back at Lan Tao. "I heard tales of his great deeds."

"Tales turn killers into heroes. Tales turn monsters into men of valor. Legendary men were rarely honorable; the poets of later generations ennobled them." Lan Tao nodded. "You bear his sword, Sheytusung. A sword I taught him to wield. A sword he slew many with. How many widows did your grandfather create, how many orphans? How many did your own mother slay with this blade? Most were not murderers, not criminals, not bloodthirsty beasts. They were boys and girls like you, caught in a war. They were souls like that wolf, simply hungry and lost, seeking a meal or a coin. And your grandfather killed them. He killed dozens of them. He did not let his morals get in the way. He did not pause to ponder the nature of life or death. He slew his enemy because that is all the world is, child. Enemies to slay. You kill or you are killed. That is all."

"The world is not black and white!" she insisted.

He nodded. "The world is infinite shades of gray. But not to a soldier. Not to a soldier who wants to survive. In war, a soldier must see the world in black and white, must destroy his or her enemy. We leave philosophy to the philosophers. We soldiers deal in steel."

With that, he drew his own steel. His katana arched down toward her. Madori parried. The two blades clanged together.

"You are slow," said Lan Tao. "I could have slain you a dozen times by the time you parried."

She summoned her magic. She chose his sword and began to heat the hilt. He replied by slamming the flat of his blade against her cheek, and she yowled in pain.

"Magic is slow." He slapped her again, a blow to her arm. "A blade is fast as lightning, sharper than a dragon's claws, and as elegant as a nighthawk across the moon."

Her wolf growled and leaped forward, placing himself between Madori and Lan Tao. The animal's fur bristled, and he bared his fangs at the old man, protecting Madori, shielding her with his body.

Madori stared over the wolf at Lan Tao. "I won't kill my nightwolf. He is mine now. I showed him mercy and I earned his loyalty. Now he defends me." She smiled crookedly. "You call my mercy weak, but it just saved me from another swipe of your blade. Perhaps I have a thing or two to teach you as well."

The old man stared at the nightwolf, then back at her. He nodded. "I will let you keep this companion, but I will not let you keep your pride. If you stay here, I will break you. I will shatter your impudent soul until, like the wolf you tamed, you are subservient. You will surrender your will to me . . . and I will forge your soul into a weapon harder than steel."

She placed her hand upon her nightwolf. "Teach me, Master Lan Tao." She sucked in breath and grinned savagely. "I could not defeat Serin with magic, but I cut off his finger with steel. Teach me how to cut out his heart."

CHAPTER SIX:

THE STONES OF EETEK

Neekeya raced across the hall, tears in her eyes.

"Father!"

Kee'an, Lord of Eetek Pyramid, sat on an obsidian throne which rose upon a limestone dais. He was a tall man, powerfully built, his dark skin deeply lined. A string of gilded crocodile teeth and feathers hung around his neck, and nine gemstones—each as large as an egg—gleamed upon his silvery breastplate, symbolizing the Wise Mothers, founders of Daenor. His arms were bare and wide, and a headdress of golden claws topped his bald head. Two crocodiles lay guarding his throne, mouths open, their collars and leashes golden.

The lord rose to his sandaled feet, climbed down his dais, and stretched out his arms. "Daughter!"

For a moment she paused, staring into the hall, for the place had changed.

Gilded archways rose along the walls, affording views of the swamplands—miles of mist, mangroves, and mossy water leading to distant haze. Statues of men with crocodile heads—idols of Cetela, god of the marshes—stood in neat rows. Soldiers clad in feathers and iron stood holding spears and swords. The Hall of Eetek was as she had left it. She knew all its imperfections like the lines on her palms. The same scratches marred the floor, the same scars marked the guards, and the same patches of moss grew between the archways. Down to the last nick, the place was the same, and yet it could not have seemed more different to her.

Because I've changed, she thought. She looked down at herself. Her armor, the metal shaped as crocodile skin, was dented and chipped; the swords of Magerians had slammed against it. Her limbs were ropier; countless miles on the road had hardened them. But mostly her soul had changed, she thought. It too was leaner now, harder, stronger.

Over a year ago, I left this place a wide-eyed girl, a child who believed in magical rings, in heroes vanquishing villains, in adventure and wonder . . . a child who had never fought a battle rougher than a swamp-scuffle with the frog hunters' boys. She took a deep breath. I return home a woman.

Her father's smile faltered, and his eyes softened. "Neekeya?"

Her eyes dampened and something cracked inside her, a chip in the armor she had worn around her heart for so long. A hint of that old girl, innocent and full of wonder, leaked through, and Neekeya ran. Her boots thudded against the floor, and she crossed the distance in several bounds and leaped into her father's embrace. She held him tight as if she were a child again, not a warrior all in steel.

"Father." Her tears fell. "I'm home."

He kissed her forehead, held her at arm's length, and admired her. "These old eyes have missed you, Neekeya. Even in these dark times, you fill an old man's heart with joy."

"You are many years away from being old, Father." She smiled and wiped her eyes. Her father had fought many wars for many years, only taking a wife after returning from his final war, the great War Of Day and Night. The swamplord was sixty years old now, his body covered with many scars, and often Neekeya had caught a deep sadness in his eyes, haunting ghosts of those old battles. He hid that pain from her, she knew; whenever around her, even now, his eyes filled with warmth and his lips smiled. Neekeya had never understood those shadows she would see as a child, that memory in his eyes, those times he wandered the halls, seeming lost, alone, unable to find rest. Now, returned from her own war, her sword stained with blood, Neekeya understood something of old ghosts, and she understood something of the importance of family, of love, of joy in a dark world.

Kee'an raised his chin and looked over her shoulder. "And who is your companion?"

Neekeya turned to look at Tam too. She was about to announce him as the Prince of Arden, but she hesitated. Would Father only scoff? After their long journey through war and wilderness—six months had passed since leaving Teel—Tam looked nothing like a prince. His tunic and cloak were in tatters. Mud and moss covered him from head to toes, and stubble grew on his cheeks, thick with grime. Leaves still clung to him. Indeed, he looked like one of the mythical heekeni, monsters said to rise from the swamp and snatch misbehaving children.

"Father, this is . . ."

Tam stepped forth, leaving muddy footprints. He knelt before the Lord of Eetek. "My lord, I am Tamlin Solira, second son of Queen Linee and King Camlin of Arden. Our noble kingdom, an ally to Daenor, has fallen to the buffaloes of Mageria. I've come to you for sanctuary and for aid."

Neekeya looked at him, for a moment dazzled; for the first time perhaps, she saw the true prince in him. When she turned back toward her father, she felt a twinge in her heart. There it was—the old pain in Lord Kee'an's eyes, the old ghosts that lined his face.

"Tales have reached us in Denetek of the war in the east," Kee'an said. "Rise, Prince Tamlin. You will find sanctuary here, for Arden and Daenor have long been allies. Memories of my visit to Kingswall nearly twenty years ago still fill me with warmth; your parents welcomed me kindly, walked with me through their gardens, and we shared many laughs. I grieved to hear of Arden's fall, and I pray to Cetela that your parents find their own sanctuary in the wastelands of war." When the prince opened his mouth to say more, Lord Kee'an raised his hand to hush him. "You have many more stories to tell! That I know. But you are weary from the journey. First you and Neekeya will bathe, and we'll serve a feast for your return. Over a hot meal, you'll tell me all your tales."

Servants arrived to escort them out of the hall, down the pyramid's western flank, and to the public baths of Eetek. Columns surrounded the complex, each bearing a statue of another holy animal: not only reptiles but many birds, insects, and fish forged of bronze. Within the colonnades, wet tiles surrounded a pool of steaming water fed by a hot spring. Mangroves, ferns, and hemlocks grew between the columns, forming a green wall. Egrets flew overhead.

Tam blushed to see both men and women sharing the public bath, for the Ardish separated their baths by gender. But Neekeya only grabbed his hand and helped him undress. He entered the pool quickly, hiding his nakedness behind ferns and steam until he was submerged. Neekeya entered the water beside him; it was piping hot and luxurious, and the steam plumed around her. The water rose to their shoulders.

Neekeya waded closer to Tam and wrapped her arms around him. She pressed her nose to his. "We'll find aid here, Tam. I promise." She kissed his lips. "You'll see your family again, and we'll see Jitomi and Madori too. This war cannot last forever. I don't believe that the light of Radian will forever sear the world."

After they bathed, servants brought them new outfits to wear: soft seeken tunics, a grayish-green fabric woven from lichen and leaves; leather shoes inlaid with beads; and new suits of armor, polished and freshly forged. Undressed, Tam stood out in Daenor with his pale skin and shy, foreign ways. But soon he stood before Neekeya looking like a true warrior of Daenor; like her armor, his breastplate and helmet were forged to mimic a crocodile's skin and head, and a crocodile-claw sword hung from his belt. A green cloak hung across his shoulders. He could have easily been a prince of Daenor, and Neekeya felt her cheeks blush to think that, if her father approved their marriage, he would become a prince of the marshlands.

They met her father again in a courtyard west of the baths. The cobbled expanse lay within the jungle like a bald patch on a man's head. The marshes surrounded them—rustlings reeds, twisting mangroves, and ponds green with lily pads. Monitor lizards lounged in the water, occasionally emerging to sunbathe upon the cobblestones. Jabiru birds, as tall as men, wandered about on their long pink legs, pecking for food.

A table was set out, its legs carved as claws. Lord Kee'an sat at its head, and Tam and Neekeya sat across from him. Servants brought forth a feast of roasted meats, stewed vegetables, and steaming stews.

Neekeya drank from a clay mug of huckleberry juice, the blue liquid filling her with vigor. Bolstered, she stared at her father over the many steaming plates. "Father, I've not returned home only to bathe, to feast, and to see you again. I've come here with a warning. Tirus Serin has seized the throne of Mageria, as you must have heard. What you might not have heard is this: He musters many troops east of the mountains. For almost half a year, Tam and I traveled hidden across the wilderness of both Arden and Mageria, moving through the forests, surviving by hunting and gathering when we found no tavern or town. Whenever we stepped onto a road or visited an inn, we saw them—the Magerian troops. They no longer raise their old buffalo banners; they now hoist the Radian sigil, a golden sun hiding the moon. As they've attacked Arden, I fear they plan to attack Daenor."

Tam was struggling to crack open a crab leg. He gave up, placed down the claw, and turned toward Kee'an. "My lord, my kingdom has fallen to the enemy. I've heard no word from my parents or from my brother, Prince Omry." His eyes flinched with pain. "But should Arden rise again, and should her people throw off the yoke of tyranny, I would see Arden and Daenor aligned against the enemy. I ask that you help fight this enemy. So long as the eclipse banners rise, no kingdom of Moth is safe, not in daylight or darkness."

Neekeya swallowed a bite of spicy snake, the meat hot and springy. "Father, let us muster the warriors! Let the marshland clans gather, and let us march to glory. We will pass through the mountains, and we will cut through the enemy marshaling there, and we will march all the way to Markfir, capital of Mageria, and stick Serin's head on a pike." She rose to her feet, passion burning through her. "I will personally cut off his head. I have seen Serin upon the road. I battled his own daughter. He is a monster that cannot be tamed, only killed, and he hates Daenorians as much as he hates Elorians. He calls the nightfolk worms, and he calls us Daenorians barbarians. If we are barbarians, then let us show him our strength! He will not look down upon us as we crush the walls of his capital."

Her chest heaved, and lust for battle filled her. She had spent many turns on the road, hiding in forests, in farmlands, sometimes in barns when they could find them. She craved no more hiding; it was time to march to war, tall and proud and swinging steel.

Her father listened quietly, sipping from a mug and nibbling fried frog legs, stewed greens, and honeyed flamingo breast. He sighed and spoke in a low voice, and Neekeya heard the old weariness in him. "The Magerians have often looked down upon us Daernorians, it is true. All of Timandra has; even our northern brethren, Daenorians who live in the open plains, look upon us southerners with scorn, ashamed of their swamp-dwelling kin." He gripped his knife as if gripping a sword. "Yet if they march into our marshlands, the bogs will be their graves. We will fight them, Neekeya."

She placed her fists upon the tabletop and leaned toward him. "It's not enough to defend our borders. We must march into their lands. We must join the other pyramids. We must enlist the aid of the Northern Daenorians; they have horses, chariots, great siege engines of war. We must attack."

Before her father would reply, a smooth voice spoke between the trees. "Yet none will join you, lord and lady of the swamp. You are alone in this world."

Neekeya spun toward the voice. She growled.

A man emerged from the brush and stepped onto the courtyard. He wore fine silvery armor, and a jeweled crocodile appeared upon his shield. A saber hung from his belt, the hilt bright with gems. The man's light brown skin was perfumed; Neekeya would smell it even over the feast. She remembered the man she had encountered in the marshlands on her way here.

"Felsar," she said, not bothering to mask the disgust in her voice.

He nodded, a thin smile on his lips. "Prince Felsar. Your prince." He looked around him, lip curled in distaste. "I was told that the southern lords lived in palaces, finding some splendor even in the marshlands. I see only a decrepit pyramid—it should be torn down—and a courtyard of craggy bricks barely finer than a slaughterhouse floor." His gaze turned toward Lord Kee'an. "Ah, and here he is! The great Swamp Lord, Master of Mud." He turned toward Tam. "And the Hatchling of Arden, a baby raven who fled war in his homeland, forsaking his own kingdom to the buffaloes. A coward in the company of barbarians—what a feast this is!"

A glint caught Neekeya's eyes; the prince's Radian pin. She spat toward him. "You wear the Radian eclipse upon your cloak, proudly displaying your treachery." She drew her sword. "I will have your head for this."

The prince sneered and drew his saber. "I will teach you manners, girl."

She scoffed. "With that needle you call a sword? I clean my teeth with larger toothpicks." She swung her own blade—a wide, doubled-edged weapon. "Come closer, prince, and I'll show you how we treat traitors in the marsh—"

"Enough!" Lord Kee'an's cry rang across the courtyard. "Neekeya, sheathe your blade. Prince Felsar, I ask you the same. We are all Deneteki despite our differences. We will resolve these differences over a meal, not over spilled blood. Sit, Prince Felsar. Eat. Drink. And we will talk."

The prince glared at Neekeya, hatred simmering in his eyes. His lip trembled with hatred. Finally he nodded, sheathed his blade, and walked toward the table but did not sit. He lifted a skewer of grilled scorpions, sniffed, and tossed it aside. A monitor lizard scuttled toward the meal and crunched the scorpions between its powerful jaws.

"I will not eat this vermin you pass off as food," said the prince. "And I do not have many words to say to you, Master of Mud. I will speak simply so you may understand. You are an embarrassment. For centuries, we true Daenorians of the north had to suffer the swamps, the way a noble man would suffer the embarrassment of some twisted, parasitic twin growing from his torso. Yet we have found a way to join the true light of Timandra, to become an equal nation among the other kingdoms of sunlight. You say Deneteki? That is an old word, a word for barbarians, the word we used before we could read, write, forge metal, and live like proper men." Felsar's eyes flared. "Under the Radian banners, all are equal. All who serve Tirus Serin, the Lord of Light, will find grace in his court. I've come to these bogs to convey the order of my father, your king: Daenor will raise the Radian banners, and we will join Serin's empire in conquest of the night. A new order rises. All those who oppose it will perish. Daenor will not perish; we will join Radianism's great light."

"Join? You mean serve the light." Neekeya shook her head sadly. "You truly think Serin will see you as equal, Felsar? He loathes Daenorians. He sees us as lower than worms—even you, oh mighty northern prince. Do you truly think you can join him? No. You can at most serve him as a slave, a useful tool, a trained animal for him to sic upon his enemies. But I will never join Serin. I will fight him, and if you stand in my way, I will fight you too."

Neekeya bared her teeth, ready to fight. Even Tam now drew his sword and stepped forward, face red. Kee'an had to slam his fists upon the table, rattling the plates, to restore calm.

"Hear me!" said the Lord of Eetek. Suddenly he no longer seemed a weary old man. His old pride returned to him, and he stood tall, shoulders wide, back straight. "Hear me, Prince Felsar. You are young; you barely remember the last war. But I am old. Twenty years ago, I joined another so-called Lord of Light. I joined Ferius, ruler of the Sailith faith. I sailed with him into darkness with many ships. I fought the Elorians under the stars." His voice shook. "I fought that war hoping to forge an alliance with the rest of sunlight, to prove our worth to our fellow Timandrians. I killed Elorians for them. I spilled the blood of innocents, and their blood still stains my hand. And still the other children of sunlight mock our ways, see us as weak, as benighted, as uncivilized. Only a generation has passed, and already they ask us to spill Elorian blood again." Kee'an raised his chin and drew his sword, a mighty blade, five feet long and bright in the sun. "Never more will we join the forces of evil. We bowed before Ferius, killed for him, shattered our soul for him. Now we will stand against this new tyrant. Now we will redeem our honor. Leave this place, Prince Felsar! Return north and tell your father that we in the marshlands will not bend the knee."

The prince stepped closer to the old lord. Rage twisted his face. "You speak treason! You owe allegiance to my father, your king. The swamp is not its own kingdom, free to choose its wars."

"I am a free man," Kee'an replied simply. "And I choose the path of justice, not of service to evil."

"Treason!" The prince drew his sword, leaped forward, and swung the blade. Kee'an parried, and the two swords locked. The prince screamed, spraying spittle. "We will have your head for this!"

Neekeya and Tam snarled and stepped forth, blades drawn. The prince spun from side to side, glaring at each in turn.

"We do not bow before our enemies," Neekeya said. "We slay them. And you've made yourself our enemy."

The prince spat at her. "You cannot defeat Emperor Serin, fool. Thousands of Magerians muster to your east beyond the mountains. How can you hope to stop this swarm? Thousands of troops serve my own father; they marshal to your north, and when they hear of your treachery, they will crush you. In the south, the desert warriors of Eseer already raised the Radian banners; they too will march upon you. You are nothing but rebels to your own crown, and the noose tightens around you. The swamps will fall, and Daenor will serve the Radian Order, and—"

Kee'an swung his sword. The iron crossguard slammed into the prince's head, knocking him to the ground. The prince lay limp, moaning, blood trickling down his forehead.

The Lord of Eetek looked at Neekeya and Tam. His eyes were hard, his voice stern. "For twenty years, I have sought peace, yet now war is upon us again—not only with the enemy beyond our mountains, but with our own kin to our north. Felsar will remain with us in chains. And the marshlands will fight!"

Neekeya had spent the journey here praying to raise arms, to fight her enemies. Yet not like this. Not her father alone, a rebel to their own crown. A tremble seized her knees.

She looked at Tam and saw the same fear in him, but she saw strength too. He stared back at her, his sword drawn.

"We defeated Serin in battle before," Tam said softly. "We will defeat him again."

She nodded but little hope filled her. When they had faced Serin on the road outside of Teel, only ten troops had protected the emperor. Now myriads prepared to invade. Neekeya's breath shook in her chest, and her sword swayed in her grip. The trees rustled and the birds sang on, unaware that they soon might burn.

CHAPTER SEVEN:

LOST SON

Jitomi stood at the prow of the Do Tahan—the Salt Spirit—staring across the dark sea toward the coast of his homeland.

"The Isle of Steel and Salt." His voice was so soft the wind nearly drowned it. "Land of the Eternal Flame. Blade of the Night. Ilar."

Ilar—the great island-empire in the night. Ilar—a land of warriors, fortresses, and flame. Ilar—perhaps the greatest military power in the world. Jitomi had not seen his home in over a year, and he dreaded his return.

Rain fell and wind shrieked. The sea was rough and the Do Tahan, a geobukseon ship, rose and dipped and swayed. Many rowers oared to the beat of a drum, their faces wet with rain and sweat, and their long white hair fluttered like banners. Two battened sails, their silk painted with Red Flame sigils, aided the rowers' efforts, pushing the ship toward the island. Ahead of Jitomi loomed the figurehead, an iron dragon that doubled as a cannon. It was shaped as Tianlong, the last dragon of the night and a symbol of Ilar.

Across the miles of black, salty waters stretched Yakana Peninsula, a tongue of black rock reaching into the sea. Clouds hid the moon, but many lanterns rose along the peninsula, their lights orange and red. Jitomi could make out the walls that lined the landscape, topped with parapets and turrets and banners. Beyond these battlements rose narrow houses, minarets housing archers, and pagodas with several tiers of red roofs. At the seaside edge of the peninsula, rising high above both the town behind and the water ahead, rose the ancestral home of his family: Hashido Castle. Seeing the black, jagged fortress perched like a demon above the water, Jitomi shuddered and swallowed down a lump. It was home, but it was also a place of dark memories.

"Good to be home, son?" said Captain Sho Hotan, an old man with a long white mustache, tufted eyebrows, and wise blue eyes. He came to stand beside Jitomi, the wind whipping his silken blue robes, and gazed toward the shore.

Jitomi sighed. "No. My father never wanted me to leave, to study magic. He called it the trade of an old, superstitious woman. After fathering several daughters, he hoped his only son would become a great warrior, a heir to his power. I thought to become a powerful mage—to prove to him that mages could be powerful—and yet now I return after only a year, a failure, a—"

He bit down on his words. Why was he telling all this to Sho Hotan, a man he barely knew? He felt like a fool, spilling his secrets to a stranger. Perhaps fear of seeing his father again made him foolish.

The wind whipped him, thick with rainwater and saltwater, and Jitomi tightened his black cloak around him. He missed his friends. He missed them so much his belly twisted and his chest ached. If Tam and Neekeya were here, he would feel braver. And if Madori were here . . .

His heart gave another twinge. He thought of the last time he had seen Madori, how she had scolded him, fled him into the darkness, shattered his soul with her talk of separate paths . . . but not without also kissing him. Not without giving him that memory of her warmth, the love and light he had still seen in her eyes.

If she came home with me, a half-Timandrian, I don't think my father would even scowl. His heart would crack and he'd fall down dead. And perhaps that would only make things easier.

He sighed. With the Radians mustering for war, he needed his father's help. The old lord held sway in Ilar's imperial court. He commanded many troops, and Empress Hikari heeded his counsel. Jitomi would need to convince the man that Magerians prepared to invade, that Ilar had to send troops into Qaelin to stop the attack. If Jitomi failed, the night would burn. Yet how could Jitomi speak sense to a man who loathed him, who thought him lower than the old women who washed his clothes?

As they navigated closer to the shore, Jitomi wanted to ask the captain to turn back. He wanted to dive into the water and swim away. He wanted to be anywhere but here, returning to this empire he had fled. He could try to find Madori, to walk whatever path she took, or he could even travel to find Tam and Neekeya, or perhaps he could still find his sister Nitomi in the wasteland of Arden, the last place he had heard from her.

No.

He forced himself to take deep breaths.

If I cannot enlist Ilar to fight this war, Madori will die in the Radian flames. Tam, Neekeya, my sister—all will perish in the inferno of war. I must do this. I need my father's help.

The Do Tahan navigated into the port, entering a calm harbor between two breakwaters. Many other military ships floated around them: triple-tiered panokseons with a deck for rowers, a deck for cannons, and a deck for soldiers; lumbering geobukseons, vessels similar to the Do Tahan, turtle ships with many oars and dragon figureheads that belched out smoke; towering atakebunes, floating fortresses covered in iron plates, pagodas upon their decks, their panther figureheads made for ramming into enemy ships. Civilian vessels navigated these waters too: the junk ships of Qaelish merchants, the small rowboats of fishermen, and cogs shipping everything from iron ore to silk. Their lanterns shone all around, and their sailors stared—eyes almost as large and bright—as the Do Tahan headed toward the pier.

Jitomi had been only a babe when the Timandrians, led by the monk Ferius, had attacked this empire, slaying many. Most of the enemies had attacked Asharo, the great capital city, which lay northeast from here, but some had landed upon Yakana Peninsula, and the wreckage of their ships still lay upon the rocks. If Serin attacked, igniting a second war between day and night, he wouldn't be a simple monk leading a rabble. Serin would be the greatest general in Timandra leading a trained army of killers. Would even these military ships, and the tall walls that rose ahead, be able to stop his light?

They docked at a pier. Jitomi walked along the plank and, for the first time in over a year, stepped onto the shore of his homeland.

Ilar. Land of my fathers. Land of—

He felt queasy. His legs swayed. He leaned over the pier and lost his lunch into the water.

He wiped his lips and sighed. The proud warrior returns.

Fishermen in silk robes moved about the boardwalk, pulling in nets of glowing lanternfish, angler fish that sprouted dangling bulbs of light, and octopi with glowing tentacles. Soldiers stood here too, beefy men in black and red armor. Their helmets were shaped as snarling faces complete with bristly fur mustaches, and many tassels hung from their breastplates. Katanas hung at their sides, and through holes in their visors, their blue and violet eyes stared at Jitomi. If they recognized him, the son of their lord, they gave no note of it.

Now I am a disgraced son, Jitomi thought with a sigh. Even the fishermen's children, scrawny little things who wore rags, had more honor here now.

A mountain rose beyond the boardwalk, its slopes jagged with boulders the size of horses. A narrow stone staircase stretched up between the boulders, the steps carved into the living rock. Two palisades of lanterns framed the stairway, their iron carved into the shape of demonic faces, red fire burning within their eyes and mouths. The passageway stretched upward, hundreds of steps long, leading toward the castle. Jitomi craned back his neck and stared at his old home.

"Hashido Castle," he said, the wind whipping his words away.

The pagoda loomed, five tiers tall. Its roofs were tiled crimson, their edges curling up like wet parchment. Upon the black walls, arrow slits revealed red fire that blazed within; the slits reminded Jitomi of blazing panther eyes. Upon the uppermost roof perched a dragon statue, life-sized and carved of iron, its jaws raised to the sky. From within those metal jaws rose a fountain of fire, shrieking and crackling, a living representation of the empire's Red Flame sigil. Hundreds of soldiers served in this fortress. A dozen warships patrolled its waters. Thirty thousand souls lived upon the peninsula it defended. In all of Ilar, perhaps only the Imperial Palace in Asharo was mightier. Here was the Blade of the Sea, the stronghold of the Hashido noble family, a family that had produced many warriors, dojai assassins, captains of warships, and . . .

"And me," Jitomi said. "A skinny failed wizard."

He raised his chin. He squared his shoulders. Perhaps he would seem weak here, but now he had a task, and he would complete it. He began to climb.

The stairs curved madly, tall and narrow, threatening to send the weak and infirm crashing down to the boulders below. Any invaders who attacked would have to climb these stairs in single file, heavy in their armor. When Jitomi glanced to his sides, he saw hidden pillboxes carved into the boulders. Soldiers lurked within, holding bows and arrows, ready to fire. Jitomi nodded at the arrowslits in the boulders, hoping the hidden men within recognized him as a son of this fortress. No words came in reply, but no arrows either. He kept climbing.

Not only living soldiers lined the mountainside. Skeletons lay between the boulders, still wearing rusted armor. The eye sockets were small, only half the normal size—Timandrian skulls. Here were the remains of the sunlit demons who had attacked Ilar years ago, who had fallen attempting to capture this fort. Jitomi's father had left the bones here, a warning to future invaders.

Some of these skeletons were mages trained at Teel University, Jitomi thought and winced. Every time his father climbed these stairs, he would think of Jitomi studying at Teel, and his rage would grow.

After climbing several hundred steps, Jitomi paused, winded. When he looked behind him, he could see all the port. The breakwaters stretched out like arms, holding the warships within their embrace. Lanterns bobbed as the vessels swayed. When Jitomi turned to look eastward, he could see the city sprawl across the peninsula: thousands of tall, narrow homes with curling red roofs; black temples to the Demon Gods; and many smithies to forge blades and armor.

Finally Jitomi reached the end of the staircase. The gates of Hashido Castle rose ahead, shaped as a great dragon's mouth complete with a fanged portcullis. Fire burned in two alcoves above the doors, the dragon's red eyes. Guards in lacquered black armor stood here, bristling with blades and spears and arrows.

"I have returned!" Jitomi said to them, struggling to keep his voice strong. "I am Jitomi Hashido, only son of Lord Okita. Open the gates for my homecoming, and may the Red Flame forever burn in your hearts."

One of the soldiers clattered forward. He was so heavy with steel, he reminded Jitomi of a great metallic beetle. No fewer than a ten katanas and spears hung from his belt and across his back, and a hundred red tassels decorated his armor. His black helmet was shaped as a scowling warrior, the mustache formed of white fur. His stare blazed through the visor's eyeholes.

"You are not welcome here, Jitomi, wayward son of Ilar." The man reached for the hilt of a katana. "You father has barred these gates for your return. Things are not as you left them, traveler of sunlight. Ilar has changed. So has this fortress."

"Then I will hear of these changes from my father," Jitomi said. "If he will cast me aside, let him do so, not you. Step aside, guard."

The man was of noble birth—only a noble son could defend a fortress of such might—and Jitomi knew that calling him "guard" was like calling a mighty mage a parlor magician.

The man sneered and began to draw a katana. "That I cannot do. I—"

Jitomi chose the sword. He heated the weapon, and the guard hissed and dropped the searing hilt.

"I will enter." Jitomi took a step forward, chose the air, and sent a gust of wind against the soldiers, knocking them sideways. Another gust of magic blew the great doors open with a clatter. "Try to stop me and your skeletons will litter the slope with the rest of them."

His heart thudded, and it was a struggle to keep his voice steady, but he forced himself to stare at the men, to keep advancing, to seem strong and proud. Strength and pride—those were the languages of Ilar, the only languages these men would understand.

"Sunlit sorcery!" they muttered . . . but they stepped aside.

Jitomi nodded at them. "I've learned the ways of our enemy, it is true. And I've come bearing warnings of that enemy's might."

Without sparing the men another glance, he stepped into the dragon's mouth, entering the shadows of Hashido Castle.

Along the hall, tapering columns rose in palisades like teeth. Arches stretched above like a metal palate. At the back of the hall, a hundred feet away, burned a great fireplace like a dragon's flaming gullet. Before the hearth rose a metal throne, shaped like a rising tongue; it loomed ten feet above the floor. A dark figure sat there, silhouetted by the raging fire.

Jitomi stepped closer, his boots thumping against the floor.

"Father!" His voice echoed through the hall. "I return with a warning. Enemies muster in the sunlight. We are in danger."

The lord did not reply, only sat still, perched upon that rising tongue of metal, only a shadow.

"Father!" Jitomi called again. "Will you not speak to me?"

Slowly, Lord Okita Hashido raised his head. Two blue eyes stared across the hall like forge fires. A gust of wind blew into the hall, and the lanterns that stood upon the columns—demon faces with flaming gullets—belched out heat and flames. The new light fell upon the lord, illuminating a burly frame, a white mustache, tufted eyebrows, and a black breastplate sporting the Red Flame sigil.

"And so, the boy who disgraced his father, who betrayed his proud empire, returns to grovel at the first sign of danger?"

Jitomi stiffened. He forced himself to take several deep breaths. "Father, this is no time for games of pride. The Timandrians are mustering for a new invasion of the night. Their armies gather on our borders. They—"

"On our borders?" Lord Hashido said. He rose to his feet, standing upon his dais. "Our borders are the sea, child. Or do you mean the dusk, the border of that wretched empire they call Qaelin? Dare you count the Qaelish, those weak rats, amongst our people?"

Rage filled Jitomi, overpowering his fear. "The enemy does not distinguish between Ilar, Qaelin, Leen, Montai, or any other nation of the night. To them we are all Elorians. Nightcrawlers, they call us—creatures to be stomped upon, and—"

"Nightcrawlers!" Hashido spat. "Worms. And who gave them that impression, boy? When they named us worms, did they see proud warriors of the Red Flame, killers clad in steel, swinging blades? Or did they see a weak, groveling, sniveling boy come begging to learn their parlor tricks?" He snorted. "Yes, you are like a worm that crawls in the dust. You have nine older sisters, each mightier than you. They are soldiers, dojai assassins, the captains of warships. And you!" Lord Hashido pointed, finger trembling with rage. "You, my only son, my heir . . . are weaker than them all. While your sisters, sharpen blades, you read from books. While your sisters slay their enemies, you come here as a weakling, begging me to fight your battles."

Jitomi closed his eyes for a moment, the pain driving through him. He had to steel himself with a deep breath before staring at his father again.

"No, Father, I am no warrior like my sisters. Yes, I traveled into sunlight to learn the magic of our enemies. And now those enemies threaten to burn us all. They—"

"Serin will not burn us," Hashido said. "He is not a fanatic like Ferius was, not a mindless brute. He is a sunlit demon, it is true, but his heart is a heart of flame and steel—a heart I admire. I know of his Radian Order, boy, and I do not fear it as you do. I am no coward. We will not fight against Serin but alongside him, warriors of darkness and light, and our empires will rise."

Jitomi blinked. He took several more steps forward until he stood right before the throne. Forgetting himself, he blurted out, "You're mad! You don't know the Radians. They hate all Elorians. They vow to kill us all, Qaelish and Ilari alike. An alliance? Empress Hikari would never agree to such a thing. She—"

"Do you mean this Empress Hikari?"

It was a new voice that had spoken—a crackling, cruel voice that spoke not in Ilari but in the tongue of Mageria. Catching his breath, Jitomi stared to the back of the hall. A figure stood there, cloaked in shadow; Jitomi had not seen the man until now.

The man stepped closer, clad in black robes. The firelight fell upon him, revealing a balding head ringed with oily black hair, a hooked nose, and beady eyes.

"Professor Atratus," Jitomi whispered.

The Radian held out his arm, and Jitomi nearly gagged. In his talon-like fingers, Atratus held a severed head. The hair was long and white, the eyes large and blue, and mouth still open in anguish. Jitomi had been to the capital city enough times to recognize it.

"You killed Empress Hikari." A tremble seized his knees.

Lord Hashido stepped off his dais and came to stand beside Atratus. The two men—a lord of Ilar and a Radian mage—stared together at Jitomi.

"Hikari was indeed a weak worm," Hashido said. "Much like you, my son. We travel to the capital! The Ilari and Radian empires will stand united. Together we will defeat the Qaelish rats and rule both day and night."

CHAPTER EIGHT:

A BATTLE ON THE ROAD

The cart trundled on and Torin lay in the darkness, feeling his life slip away.

They had hurt him, but he could barely feel the pain anymore. He knew what awaited him at the end of this road—a public execution at Markfir, capital of Mageria. He looked forward to it. Death would be an end to pain. In death he would see them again.

"Mother and father," he whispered, lips bleeding. "Grandpapa Kerof. Hem." His eyes watered. "Bailey."

They had been waiting for him, he knew. They had waited for so long as he lingered here in the sunlight, in the darkness, growing older. Now he would join them. He did not know what the afterlife was like—even among Idarith priests, none could agree—but he knew they would be there. His only regret would be leaving the two women of his life behind.

Koyee. Madori. I'm sorry. I wanted to make this a better world for you. I failed.

The cart rolled on. He slid across the floor, chained, bruised, famished. He did not know how long they'd been traveling. He did not know how close they were to Markfir. He only knew that this was the last journey he would take. After so many travels—to the bright city of Pahmey, to the wonders of Yintao, to the terrifying beauty of Asharo, to the rainforests of Naya, to the gleaming towers of Kingswall—this was his last road. A road in darkness.

Shouts rose outside the cart and Torin winced. His captors often shouted, railing against Elorians, Ardishmen, and all other "undesirables." Whenever a man fell ill, a meal burned, or an item of clothing tore, they would take out their rage on him.

"Damn Ardishmen!" rose a cry outside.

Torin grimaced, anticipating their wrath.

A whistle sounded. A shard of metal and wood crashed through the cart wall. The arrow tilted and fell down by Torin's head.

"The bloody Ardish!" shouted another man outside. "The Ardish attack!"

Torin inhaled sharply. The Ardish.

Cam.

With strength he hadn't known remained in him, Torin shoved himself to his feet and stumbled toward the wall. He peered through the hole the arrow had left. Rye fields spread outside, and archers in black and gold—Arden's colors—were rising from among the stalks. Horses galloped and raven banners streamed. The Magerians—a couple hundred soldiers and mages—were already firing back, drawing swords, and casting magic.

Not all have died. Hope welled in Torin. Arden still fights.

His manacles clattering, he spun away from the cart wall. His head swayed and he nearly fainted. Stars floated before his eyes. Ignoring the pain—by Idar, every last inch of him was cut and bruised—he knelt and grabbed the fallen arrow. Its head was long, sharp iron made for punching through armor. As the ringing of swords and the whistles of arrows sounded outside, Torin twisted his wrists, grabbed the arrow's shaft between his teeth, and just managed to thrust the arrowhead into the padlock securing his chains.

"Slay the Ardish scum!" rose an inhuman shriek outside, a sound like shattering glass—Lord Gehena. The air howled—mages forming their projectiles.

Torin grunted. The arrow kept slipping, and he had to bend his wrists so far they almost snapped. Gripping the arrow's shaft between his teeth, he worked the head in the lock. His heart pounded. Sweat dripped into his eyes.

"Drag out the prisoner!" shrieked Gehena; it was a demonic voice that pounded through the cart walls, shrill as rusty nails on stone. "Drag out their favorite traitor so they can see him broken."

A gruff voice answered. "Yes, my lord."

Heavy footfalls moved toward the cart.

Dizzy and bleeding, Torin cursed and worked with more fervor.

Keys jangled in the cart door's lock. A heavy hand tugged the door open, revealing Hesh, one of the convoy's guards—a squat man in boiled leather studded with iron bolts. He had a gruff, unshaven face, a wide nose, and dry bloodstains on his gloves—Torin's blood. Behind him a battle raged; Torin could glimpse flying arrows and two men locking swords.

"Out you go, maggot." Hesh barked a laugh, spraying spittle. "Going to hurt you a little in front of your friends. Out!"

Torin curled up on the floor, moaning. He twisted the arrow in the lock one more time and heard a clank.

The stocky guard cursed. "Idar's hairy bottom! Come on, you roach." He stomped into the cart. "I'll drag you out by the ears if I have to." He leaned down to grab Torin. "Up or I—"

Torin thrust the arrow.

The iron head drove through Hesh's eye and deep into the skull.

Torin tugged the arrow back; it came free with a gush of blood and bits of eyeball.

Heart thudding, he kicked off the last chains binding him, drew Hesh's sword, and peeked outside. The battle was raging in the fields. Blood stained the rye stalks. Several Ardish horsemen were galloping around the Magerian convoy, firing arrows and thrusting lances. Other troops fought on the dirt road, swinging swords. Gehena stood with his back to Torin, brandishing four swords, one in each hand. His blades crashed into Ardish soldiers and sent them flying.

Cam's troops, Torin thought, and hope welled inside him. Last he had heard of his friend, Cam had been leading a host to Hornsford Bridge. Torin had assumed that force fallen. Were these the remnants of the king's army?

All his captors were busy fighting. While their backs were turned, Torin stumbled out of the cart. His bare feet hit the road, and for a moment he swayed, the sunlight blinding him. He took two steps and collapsed, nearly falling on the sword he held. With a bolt of pain, his face hit the dirt. Soil entered his mouth and stones jabbed his chest.

Breathe. Move.

He ground his teeth, struggling not to pass out. Clutching his sword in one hand, he crawled off the road and into the rye field. The golden stalks rose tall around him, swaying in the wind. The smell was intoxicating. The soft brown soil crumbled under him; several ants walked across it, holding seeds. The sky was blue and a cool breeze rustled.

It's beautiful, Torin thought, eyes dampening. It's so beautiful. He had forgotten the scent, the freshness, the beauty of the world outside the cart.

"Damn your hide to the Abyss!"

The voice shouted beside him. The stalks swayed. A boot slammed down near Torin and blood sprayed. With a thump, a corpse thudded down, cracking stalks. The head hit the ground beside Torin, staring at him with lifeless eyes. The man wore a black and gold cloak—a man of Arden. When Torin glanced upward, he saw a Magerian soldier tug his blade free. The man did not see him; he cursed and stepped away, already attacking another Ardishman.

Torin kept crawling.

Boots stomped around him, blood sprayed, and more bodies fell, but none of the living saw him. Torin kept moving. A horse galloped by, its hooves missing him by inches. A fallen helmet crashed down before him, and Torin placed it over his own head.

Soon Gehena’s shriek tore across the field. "The traitor has escaped. Find him!"

Sword clutched in his hand, Torin kept crawling forward. The rye kept him hidden, but the field wouldn't shield him for long; the stalks creaked and bent as he moved. Boots thumped before him and a man leaned down. A cruel face leered.

"I foun—" the man began

Torin swung his sword, slamming the blade into the man's face. The Magerian crashed down with a shower of blood. Torin cursed, rose to a crouch, and ran while bent over. Another Magerian raced toward him. Torin swung his sword again, cut the man's hand, then slammed his blade into his neck.

"Find the traitor and drag him back to me!" The shout rose behind Torin, a typhoon. "Slay the scu—"

"For Arden!" rose a high voice—a familiar voice. "Slay the enemy!"

Hooves thundered by. Boots raced. The banner of Arden—a black raven upon a golden field—streamed above. And there Torin saw him, clad in armor, his cloak billowing in the wind.

"Cam," Torin whispered. He rose to his feet. "Cam!"

The king rode upon a white courser, a lance in his hand. His armor was dented and bloody, and a bandage covered his arm. Around him, his fellow riders looked scarcely better—their armor was cracked, their weapons were chipped, and their flesh bore both old and fresh wounds. Yet still the Ardishmen charged toward the Magerian convoy. Magic blasted forward. Smoky tendrils tore off a horse's legs, and the beast tumbled, spilling its rider. Swordsmen charged.

"Torin!" Cam shouted, then turned back toward the battle. His lance drove into a mage, piercing the robed man's chest. Swords, magic, lances, and arrows crashed all around in a storm.

Torin snarled and ran toward the fight. He was wounded, maybe dying. He was thin, feverish, famished, but still he ran. He would not cower as others fought. He would—

He swayed. The world spun. The ground seemed to shake.

Red eyes turned toward him, all consuming. Lord Gehena saw him, and the creature's malice drove into his heart.

Arrows slammed into the demon.

More Ardish forces swarmed across the field, several hundred strong. Torin could barely stand upright, but he forced himself to run with them. He swung his sword and slew another man. The Magerians fell, one by one, their blood splattering the field. Hooves trampled over mages, and spears drove into soldiers' chests.

Torin leaped over bodies and finally stood before Lord Gehena.

The giant towered above him; Torin's head did not even reach the creature's shoulders. A chill emanated from the mage's black robes, but his stare burned like fire. Arrows and lances pierced the dark mage, and black blood dripped from him. His blades swung.

Torin parried and thrust.

His sword drove through the black robes and into flesh.

With battle cries and bright steel, fellow Ardishmen thrust spears and swords, piercing the demon lord.

Even as blades cut into him, Gehena stared at Torin. Those red eyes narrowed with malicious mockery. A deep, unearthly voice spoke in Torin's mind, echoing within his skull, scuttling inside him like snakes.

We will meet again, Torin. And you will meet your daughter. Madori will be mine, and you will watch me break her.

Torin screamed and swung his sword.

The blade cut through empty cloth.

The black robes fell onto the road, no flesh within him. The iron helmet clattered down, empty and colder than winter's heart. Ardish soldiers cursed, kicked at the robes, and stabbed them. Some men laughed and chanted for victory, but Torin knew the dark mage would return.

He trembled. He knew Madori's name.

"Torin! By Idar, you look horrible." Cam raced toward him, grabbed Torin's arm, then looked over his shoulder. "Cade! Lale! Fetch a healer!"

Torin could no longer stay standing. He fell into his friend's arms, and he was only vaguely aware of Cam placing him on the road, holding a wineskin over his lips, and shouting for the healer to hurry. All colors blended together, then went dark.

CHAPTER NINE:

YIN SHI

Madori spoke in a slow, strained voice. "Give me. Back. My sword."

The Desolation stretched around her. Pillars of stone tilted like the ribs of giants, a hundred feet tall. Boulders like the stone blades of giants rose from the earth. Cracks stretched across craters, full of tar, and the fossilized skulls of ancient reptiles gaped upon cliffs, embedded into the stone. The stars shone above but the moon was gone. Madori had been here almost a moon's cycle now, and still the old master withheld her blade.

That old master now stood before her, calm, his arms crossed and his hands tucked neatly into his sleeves. His long white mustache and beard fluttered in the wind.

"First you must learn how to breathe," he said. "Then I will return your sword to you."

Madori's rage exploded out of her. "I've been breathing for a moon now! Stars damn it, I've been breathing all my life. If I didn't know how to breathe, I'd be dead. I—"

"If you knew how to breathe properly, you would do so now instead of shouting," he replied calmly. "You are learning the breathing of Yin Shi, an ancient wisdom, not those snorts and huffs you call breathing. Now—again like we practiced."

Madori growled. It was intolerable! Only a turn after arriving here, the old man had snatched her blade away and hidden it somewhere in the Desolation. She had searched every cave and cranny but hadn't found it.

Huffing, she turned toward her gray nightwolf. She patted the beast's thick fur; she had cut off the charred bits and it was growing back nicely. "Come on, Grayhem, sniff. Use your nose and find the sword."

Grayhem only sniffed her fingers. She had given him that name a few turns ago, combining his color and the name of the statue inside The Shadowed Firkin tavern back home—Hem, the hero baker of the war. However, it didn't seem the nightwolf even understood the concept of names. He began to sniff at her pockets, seeking mushrooms.

"Go on. Grayhem! Sniff for the sword."

The towering canine, large as a horse, only snorted and slumped down.

Lan Tao stroked the animal and stared at Madori. "It is time, my student. Your Yin Shi lessons."

She gripped her head and shouted at the sky. "I came here to learn how to fight! You promised to teach me swordplay. How can I learn fighting without a sword?"

"That is the only way to learn," Lan Tao replied. "I've been teaching you swordplay from the moment you entered this place. With every breath, you learn to swing the blade. Now sit down. And we will breathe."

Grumbling, she sat down, crossed her legs, and closed her eyes. She heard pebbles creak as Lan Tao sat down before her.

"A deep breath," he said, voice calm. "In . . . slowly . . ."

She dutifully inhaled, letting the air fill her from the bottom of her lungs to the top.

"Good," he said. "Focus your awareness on the air in your lungs. Let it flow to your feet. Let it fill your fingers, your head, all your body. And . . . exhale."

She exhaled slowly, trying to focus all her awareness on the air leaving her lungs. Yet her mind kept racing. She thought back to Teel University and how the Elorians had died on the road. She thought of Jitomi, who had traveled alone into Ilar, and she wondered if he was safe. She thought of her father, who had gone missing in the battle,

and of Tam and Neekeya who were seeking aid in Daenor, and—

The air whistled and pain slapped against her arm. She opened her eyes to see Lan Tao holding his katana; he had slammed the flat side against her, as he had so many times.

"Ow!" She glared and rubbed the red mark.

"You are not focusing. I can practically hear your thoughts. Your mind is a storm, but the Yin Shi mind must be a clear pond. Now—try again. Every time a thought comes into your mind, let it go. Let it be as a cloud in the sky, floating away. Let it be as a ripple on a pond. As every thought enters, gaze upon it curiously, like gazing at a passing light . . . then let it leave you. Keep returning your awareness to nothing but the air, nothing but the breath entering and leaving your body. No thinking. No remembering. Simply being."

"Can't I even think of swordplay?" she asked.

He raised his katana again. "You will do as you're told. Now again—we breathe."

She muttered but she closed her eyes. She breathed again. A slow breath in, letting it fill her slowly, letting the air flow to every part of her: her toes, her legs, her torso, her head, her fingertips. She held the breath, and at once those damn fears returned to her, anxiousness for her friends, for her family, for Serin's armies mustering. She had to stop them! She had to learn to fight. She—

Let your thoughts be a cloud. Watch them float away.

She tugged her awareness back toward her breath, exhaling slowly. She let those thoughts flow away with the air.

"Good . . ." said Master Lan Tao. "Very good. The Yin Shi mind lets all thoughts ripple away. The Yin Shi mind is a clear, still pond. And breathe in . . ."

She breathed in again, held the air, released it slowly.

"Remember, child, the mind of a Yin Shi warrior is pure, focused only on existing. Never on the past. Never on the future. Only in the present. Only on what you are feeling right now, where you stand or sit, where you breathe, where you exist." He inhaled deeply. "Feel the air. Feel the wind around you, the starlight above, the cold stone beneath you. Only sensing. Never thinking."

She kept breathing slowly, trying to do as he taught, to only be. She pretended that she were some mollusk in a shell, clinging to stone, unable to think, to remember, to plan, only to exist in the present moment. Yet her thoughts kept rising. Every breath or two, the damn fears returned to her. She saw the dead. She saw the enemy soldiers. She—

She breathed.

Let the thoughts flow away.

She breathed in. She breathed out. Only being. Never thinking. Never remembering. Slowly, breath by breath, her mind cleared.

They sat like that for hours most turns, simply breathing, never thinking.

His voice flowed across the night. "Become like a stone, like a river, like a beam of light, part of the world, always in the present, always here."

When finally their session was done, he allowed her to eat. They sat together, three souls—Madori, Master Lan Tao, and Grayhem—gathered around a fire. They ate from an iron pot, a simple meal of stewed mushrooms and wild shahani—furry black animals who lived in the burrows of the Desolation, the size of Timandra's hares. After so long in silence, Madori kept speaking between mouthfuls.

"When will I get to swing my sword? When will I learn how to parry and thrust?" She gulped down a piece of the fatty meat. "Will you teach me how to pierce armor?" She bit into a greasy mushroom. "I want to learn how to fire arrows too, so I can fight from the walls of Salai Castle. Do you know how to fire arrows, Master Lan Tao?"

He simply stared over his bowl, smiling thinly. "You are learning all these things already."

She licked the bottom of her bowl. "Nonsense." She snorted. "I only learned boring breathing so far. I want to learn how to fight, Master." She jumped to her feet and snarled across the campfire at him. She swung an imaginary sword. "To slice! To cut! To kill my enemies! To—"

He vaulted over the flames so quickly she barely saw him move. His palm connected with her cheek with a flare of white light. The pain blinded her.

"Why did you not see this blow?" he said. He slapped her again, harder this time. "Why don't you defend yourself?"

She gasped, the pain blazing. She gulped and raised her arms defensively, then felt pain on her ankle—his foot slamming into her leg. She fell.

He loomed above her, his face no longer calm but a cold, hard mask. The firelight painted him red, and he no longer seemed an old man but a demon. His sheathed sword flashed, and the scabbard hit her shoulder.

"Go on, fight! You wanted to learn violence?" He snorted. "You wanted to learn to defeat an enemy? I am your enemy! Defend yourself. Defeat me!"

She growled and leaped to her feet. When his hand lashed toward her again, she blocked the blow. She claimed the air like she had learned at Teel. She sucked in the smoke from the campfire, particles of ash and dust, forming a ball to hurtle against him, to—

His hand thrust again, slapping her face a third time. Her magic dispersed.

"You have no time for magic." Another slap. "You must defeat me now—within the space between heartbeats. Fight!"

She tried to block his blows. She howled, lunged toward him, and attacked. He blocked every fist, every kick, and his blows kept landing upon her. The pain throbbed. She knew that bruises would cover her. Ahead she saw all her enemies. He became Emperor Serin, Professor Atratus, Princess Lari, a million soldiers of Mageria. She had to stop him! Surely she could defeat him, but the pain was too strong, and he was too fast, and her fear flooded her. Another blow from him sent her sprawling to the ground.

He leaned above her. He grabbed her collar.

"Why do you not fight?"

"I am fighting!" she shouted, blood in her mouth. "You're too fast."

He laughed. "Fast? I'm an old man. I'm over eighty years old; you're not yet twenty. You're faster, stronger, lither. Why then do I defeat you?"

She growled and tried to rise, but he pinned her down. "I don't know!"

He shook her. "Because I am aware. That is why. In battle, I am only in the present. I sense every movement. Every tension in your muscles and in mind. Every flick of your eyes. Every twitch of your legs or arms. But you . . ." He shook his head in disgust. "Your mind is a storm. You think of the past and future." He snorted. "You think of your enemies—how they wronged you, how you crave revenge, how you hurt from their blows. A warrior of Yin Shi cares not for revenge, not for the past, not for the future, not for the faces of foes. A warrior of Yin Shi does not think, does not feel; only senses. A warrior of Yin Shi lives the air, the starlight, the dance. Ah, yes, it is a dance. It is the same as breathing, that is all—the breath of battle, the air coming and going."

She blinked up at him, tasting blood in her mouth. "How is breathing anything like this? Breathing is simple."

He nodded. "Laying one brick upon another is simple, yet that is how you build a palace. The turning of a gear is simple, yet attach enough gears together and you can build a great clock. To fight is to be aware. The way you are aware of your breathing, focusing all your consciousness on the air coming and going, thus you can be aware of a battle. The sluggard thinks while she fights. The coward fears, the brute hates. The wise Yin Shi warrior never thinks, never feels; she is simply aware. Do you understand?"

She nodded. "I do."

He grunted. "You lie. There is no understanding in Yin Shi; understanding is a thing of thoughts. There is only awareness. You will know this wisdom when you experience it, not when you claim to understand my words. Words are thoughts. Words are the invention of the mind. Yin Shi is not about the mind. You are not your mind, no more than you are your foot or hand. You are not your thoughts. You are your soul. Only when you become your soul, removing your thoughts from your essence, will you become Yin Shi."

She nodded slowly. She rose to her feet. She took a deep breath, and she felt the air around her. She let the starlight fill her eyes. She let her awareness spread through her.

"Good . . ." he said. "Let the awareness spread like roots. Let it flow through your body and into the stone beneath you, to the canyon walls, to the wind, to the sky above. Hold it all in your awareness. Be part of it. You are not Madori, a trapped mind in a skull. You are the world around you."

She nodded, took another deep breath, and let that awareness spread. She gasped. Suddenly she was no longer trapped in her body; he was right. She was one with the Desolation.

"It's like magic," she whispered.

With magic, she had to choose her material, then claim it, and finally change it. Yin Shi is the same! she realized. Yin Shi is simply another application of the same principles! She had to choose not just one material but the universe and herself in it—the air in her lungs, the landscape around her, all other souls . . . and claim them all, hold them all in awareness the way she held materials in her magic. But instead of changing them, she simply experienced them, become . . . aware.

She was one with the night.

Lan Tao's muscle twitched.

Madori raised her arm.

Before his palm could strike her, she blocked the blow. At once she saw the subtle tension in his leg, knew he would kick her. She hopped back, and his foot passed through air. She blocked another blow. She thrust her hand, and her fist drove into his chest.

Master Lan Tao fell.

Madori gasped.

"Master!"

At once she dropped her Yin Shi awareness. It felt like waking from a dream. She knelt above the fallen old man and touched his cheek.

"Master, I'm sorry! Are you all right?"

Lying on the ground, he smiled up at her. "Finally," he whispered. "Finally you learn."

She helped him stand, and suddenly she realized how frail he was; he weighed no more than she did, maybe even less. She supported him, and they climbed the craggy hill together. Grayhem walked at their side, eyes bright in the darkness. They entered their cave, and Madori helped the old man lie down upon his bed—a simple stone alcove in the wall.

Once Lan Tao was sleeping, Madori tiptoed toward the cave opening. Grayhem stood at her side, and she placed her hand in his fur. She stood for a long time, looking out into the night. She knew that Lan Tao did not like her thinking, remembering, planning, yet as she stood here, she imagined fighting Serin with her new skill, and she smiled.

CHAPTER TEN:

THE RAVENS IN THE NORTH

Five hundred Ardish soldiers rode through the snowy forest, bearing the treasures of their raid: two hundred Radian swords and shields, three coffers of the enemy's gold, and one freed prisoner.

Torin swayed on his horse, still weak. Bandages covered his wounds, and as he rode, he nursed a wineskin. His head still spun, and his limbs were thinner than he'd ever seen them. He had been imprisoned for almost eight months, Cam had told him, most of them spent in a Kingswall dungeon. It had felt like eight decades.

But he was healing already. After several turns of riding in the open air, eating real food—bread cooked fresh over campfires, roasted venison, and wild berries—the pain had begun to fade, the haze to lift. He wore armor now, no longer rags. Arden's raven appeared upon his breastplate, and a new longsword hung at his side. He looked around him at the other riders, the survivors of Arden's army. They looked healthier than him, but they too were haggard. Stubble covered their faces, dents and scratches marred their armor, and their eyes were sunken and hollow.

"All right, old boy?" Cam rode his destrier closer to him.

Torin nodded and scratched his newly trimmed beard. "I feel like one of your shorn sheep. My beard and hair grew monstrously long in captivity. I must have lost half my weight when I finally trimmed them."

Cam smiled wanly. "You're looking stronger every turn."

"I'm ready to face Serin himself in battle." Torin gazed at his hazy reflection in his vambrace. "Even if I have a few more white hairs on my head. A prison cell will do that to you."

Snow began to fall around them, and icicles hung from the oaks, maples, and birches. Several coyotes stared from between the trees, eyes golden, then turned to flee. As the riders traveled northward, the land became colder. Torin had lived most of his life at Arden's southern border along the Sern River, the great pipeline connecting Mageria, Naya, Arden, and Qaelin in the night. Here they were traveling across the northern hinterlands of Arden, a thickly forested land near the border of Verilon, the sprawling kingdom that ruled the sub-arctic realms of North Timandra. Frost covered the riders' armor, their breath plumed in clouds, and steam rose from the horses' backs. Here was a vast, cold, empty wilderness, a place to hide, to survive, as the Radian fire burned in the south.

"There it is," Cam finally said. He pointed north between the snowy trees. "Welcome, Torin old boy, to what remains of Free Arden. Welcome to our camp."

A palisade of sharpened logs stretched between the trees, forming a crude wall. Trophies hung from some logs—the helmets and cloven shields of the Radian empire, still coated with blood. Ardish troops patrolled the perimeter, clad in frosted steel, and upon makeshift, wooden towers stood archers in snow-coated cloaks. A dirt path led toward gates in the wall, and the convoy—led by King Camlin—rode into the camp.

Riding close behind his friend and king, Torin gazed around. After long moons of war and fear—parting from his family, seeing Kingswall fall, enduring torture and hunger—Torin finally felt a little ray of hope pierce the clouds.

Arden has not yet fallen.

Thousands of Ardish men and women moved about the camp, most of them soldiers in steel, swords at their waists. Tents and wooden huts stretched in neat rows. Deer cooked upon campfires, and fur pelts hung on ropes, freshly cured. In a dirt square, men were drilling with blades, polishing swords, and practicing their archery. Many here were wounded—some bandaged, others burnt, and a few missing their limbs—but most still seemed strong, ready to keep fighting. The raven banners rose proudly above the camp, thudding in the wind.

"We have fifteen thousand men and women here," Cam said to Torin. "Most are soldiers, the survivors of the war, but many are townsfolk and farmers who fled the Radian onslaught. Food is lean and the winter is harsh, but we're surviving. We're still fighting."

As they rode by, soldiers bowed and cried out, "King Camlin! King Camlin returns!"

Cam nodded to all those they passed. Behind the king, the soldiers who had ridden south upended sacks, spilling out their treasure—the armor, weapons, and gold of the Magerians they had slain on the road. Men cheered and rushed forward to collect the bounty.

"We'll use the armor and weapons for those who joined our camp," Cam said. "We must all become soldiers. Now come, we'll find something to eat—and some good company too."

Riding side by side, Cam and Torin made their way down the dirt road between the soldiers. They rounded a great oak, rode into a dirt square, and approached a campfire. Several people stood here, tending to roasting deer.

Torin's eyes widened. "Linee! Omry!"

The Queen and Prince of Arden ran toward him. Rather than a gown—her usual raiment—Linee now wore tan leggings and a vest of boiled leather. Her golden hair spilled from under a round helmet, and a sword hung from her belt. Prince Omry wore heavy steel armor—a breastplate, greaves, and wide pauldrons—and a double-handed sword hung across his back. When Torin dismounted his horse, the two crashed into him, wrapped their arms around him, and squeezed.

"Go easy on me!" Torin winced. "I'm still wounded."

Laughing and shedding tears, Linee jabbed his chest with her finger. "You're late."

He nodded. "I was delayed. Took a little detour with our Radian friends." He pulled Linee back into his embrace. "It's good to see you again."

A high-pitched voice rose from farther back. A small dark shape bounded forward. "Torin! Torin, you've come back! I was so worried about you. We searched all over with our hot air balloon, but they took you away, and it was horrible, and I had to take the others here, I had to!" Little Nitomi, the Elorian spy, jumped onto Torin, wrapped all four limbs around him, and clung. Tears filled her eyes. "Thank the Red Flame you're here. I've been watching over the others while you were away. Are you hurt? Do you want to eat some mushrooms? We have mushrooms here! Not as good as the ones in Eloria, but I found some that I like, and I'm so happy you're here!"

Tall, pale Qato—never far from his cousin—stepped forward. The towering Elorian stared at Torin with a blank, stony expression. "Qato happy."

Soon the companions sat around the fire on logs, eating a meal of roasted deer, stewed mushrooms Nitomi had cooked, and oatmeal. They washed the food down with red wine and cold ale, bounty captured in a previous raid. As they ate and drank, Cam talked, bringing Torin up to speed.

"Serin's mustering on the eastern front now, Tor," he said, chewing on a strip of venison. "I didn't want to tell you on the road, not with you still recovering from your injuries. Serin plans to invade Qaelin. Maybe the invasion has begun already."

The food turned to ash in Torin's mouth. He turned toward Linee and spoke softly. "Any news of Koyee and Madori? Last Cam heard from them, both were in Oshy across the border. Has any news arrived while Cam and I were away?"

The queen lowered her head. "No news from the east for a month now. According to our last report, Madori had crossed Arden behind enemy lines, entered the darkness, and joined Koyee at Salai Castle. We know nothing more."

Torin's eyes stung. "That plucky little thing. All my months of captivity, I was so worried about the Billygoat. And there she is! She made it across the war and into the darkness."

But Cam's eyes remained dark. "Tor . . . there something else I didn't want to tell you on the road. Last we've heard, Serin had destroyed Fairwool-by-Night. He burned down the houses. He . . ." Cam's voice choked. "He slew everyone there, we think, and now he musters an army on the ruins. Koyee and Madori are right across the border. I pray to Idar that they fled to safety deeper in the night."

Torin lowered his head and his eyes burned. "After I saw what Serin did to Kingswall, I feared as much." His breath shook in his lungs. "Our home is gone."

A dead, empty space filled Torin, a cavity in his chest. Fairwool-by-Night. His home. Burned down. The Shadowed Firkin, the tavern where he had spent so many hours with his friends. His home, the cottage where Mayor Kerof had raised him, where he had grown up with Bailey, where he had married Koyee, where he had raised Madori. The maple tree. The library. The fields of rye and the gardens he had spent his life tending to. All gone. All his friends and neighbors—fallen.

How can I go on? he thought. How can I keep fighting when it feels like I have nothing left to fight for?

Nitomi looked up from her bowl of mushrooms. She spoke softly, interrupting his thoughts. "And I pray for my brother, for little Jitomi. He was with Madori at Teel, did you know? In her last letter to us—it was a whole moon ago!—Koyee said that Jitomi was with her in Oshy, but that he planned to leave, to return to Ilar, to my father." Nitomi shuddered. "Oh, my father was always so mean to him."

Torin rose to his feet, his appetite gone. "Serin is attacking Qaelin through the dusk? So we cut off his supplies." He pounded his fist into his palm, sudden rage washing over his grief. "Mageria is in the west. Qaelin is in the east. We're here right in the middle, sitting above his supply lines. We keep raiding the roads. We cut off his eastern host from his western kingdom. He can't fight a war if he's starved for food." He gripped his sword. "Why are we here? Let us organize another raid, a larger raid. Surely Serin's wagons are rolling east along the roads, his ships sailing east along the river. We'll burn them."

Cam sighed, placed down his bowl, and stared at the campfire. "Not so simple, old boy. There's a new Radian army mustering in Kingswall. They're not just Magerians either; a whole lot of Nayans have joined them, and even Ardishmen who've turned coat and now raise the eclipse banners. They're calling themselves a united army of the Radian Empire. And they're about to march north, to seek us in the forests, and to try and stamp us out. They're fifty thousand strong, we hear." Cam grimaced. "They have mages. Chariots. Cannons, Torin! We have ten thousand weary, hungry soldiers and five thousand refugees to protect. The enemy might already be marching; they might be here by the full moon."

Nitomi nodded. "Qato and I saw them from our hot air balloon. They have elephants too, Torin! Real elephants. I always thought I'd love elephants, but these ones are wearing armor, and there are little towers on them—howdahs, they're called—and there are archers inside, and they're going to come here, and I really don't want to kill those elephants, and . . ." The dojai covered her eyes. Hulking Qato patted her shoulder, silently comforting her.

Torin felt queasy. He couldn't take another bite of his meal. "Serin might have rallied Nayans and even some Ardishmen, but not all in the sunlight flock to his banners. On the road, I heard Gehena and his soldiers speak." Torin grimaced to remember those long turns of pain in darkness, tortured and famished. He suppressed a shudder. "They spoke of battles along the Icenflow northwest from here. The kingdom of Verilon has refused to join this so-called Radian Empire. From snippets I've heard, it sounded like Serin has been sending troops across the Icenflow to raid Verilon's forests. Only one Magerian returned from each raid, speaking of Verilish warriors butchering his comrades and feeding them to the bears."

Cam blew out his breath, eyebrows raised. "Lovely folk, the Verilish." He chewed his lip. "Right now, I don't even know if I'm serious or sarcastic."

Torin clutched the hilt of his sword, seeking comfort from the heavy leather grip. "My father fought Verilon in a war many years ago—before I was even born. He spoke of horrible barbarians, great bearded warriors who rode on bears and wielded hammers that weighed more than a man. In his stories, the Verilish were like monsters. If they now fight Serin, we have powerful allies." He stared at Cam over the campfire. "We need not fight the Radians in this forest, humble wooden walls around us. Verilon lies only a three turn ride north. Let us join our forces to theirs. When Mageria's buffaloes open a northeastern front, they will meet an alliance of bears and ravens."

With creaking armor and creaking joints, Cam rose to his feet and paced around the campfire. "Will Verilon welcome us? The raven and bear have never been the best of friends."

"The enemy of my enemy is my friend, as the old cliche goes." Torin smiled wryly. "Serin has committed the bulk of his troops to the eastern front, to conquering the night. Many of his other troops are mustering in the west, besieging the marshlands of Daenor; many Daenorians too fight against him. Serin thinks his army at Kingswall is enough to conquer the north." He sneered, surprised by the sudden rage that flowed through him. "We will make him bleed in the north."

Cam stepped closer to Torin, grabbed his arm, and whispered into his ear, "Tor, I've seen Orewood, the great Verilish city on the border. Massive towers. Huge walls coated in ice. Thousands of iron-clad warriors thrice my size. If we march there, there's a good chance Verilon will slay us and feed us to the bears."

Torin smiled grimly. "And if we stay here, the Radians will crush our camp. I'll take my chances with the bears. Massive towers? Huge walls? Burly warriors? Good. I'd like that on our side."

They turned toward the others—Queen Linee, Prince Omry, and the two dojai. Beyond them, many soldiers moved back and forth, preparing for battle.

Torin looked back at his friend. "What do you say, Cam? You and me. We'll ride ahead, just the two of us, like in the old turns. We'll knock on those great frozen walls and forge us a little alliance, then invite the rest of this lot over."

The king rubbed his shoulders. "The last time we rode out together, we ended up jumping into a river, arrows raining down onto us."

"Exactly." Torin smiled. "It's always fun. But if you insist, we'll bring a few guards this time."

As fresh snow fell upon the forest, Torin, Cam, and a handful of soldiers rode out of their camp, heading north through the wilderness toward the distant city of ice and snow.

CHAPTER ELEVEN:

BLOOD IN THE DUSK

Ten thousand Elorians stood in the dusk, the orange light shining upon their scale armor, the silver moonstars on their shields, and their drawn katanas. Ten thousand pairs of blue, silver, and purple eyes gleamed, staring west, waiting. Ten thousand hearts beat with fear. The Host of Twilit Spirits, the Qaelish empire's western division, waited for battle.

Koyee sat at their lead upon a nightwolf, a shaggy black beast named Senduan. Her scale armor hugged her, and her long white hair hid within her helmet. She held a round shield in one hand, its surface engraved with a moon within a star, sigil of her empire. In her other hand, she held a new katana, a sword she had named Tuanshey—slayer of light.

"Once more, we stand ready for battle, Eelani," she whispered.

Her invisible friend rested upon her shoulder, a hint of warmth and a barely perceptible weight. Little hands seemed to caress Koyee's cheek.

"I know you're scared, Eelani," Koyee said. Her voice was so low she barely heard herself. "I am too."

She thought back to her first battle—a great dance of fire and steel upon the walls of Pahmey. That had been twenty-one years ago, and she had been only a youth, only a girl of sixteen—younger than her daughter was now. Back then she had been quicker, perhaps braver, a mere urchin with nothing to lose but a bone flute and a few copper coins. Now she was a wife, a mother, a leader, a protector of an empire. And the fear was greater than ever, the weight upon her shoulders nearly too much to bear.

Yet I will bear it nonetheless, she swore to herself and tightened her fist around the silk-wrapped hilt of her sword. And I will fight with more courage than ever.

She gently nudged Senduan. The shaggy nightwolf—he was large as a horse—stepped forward, parting from the ranks of troops. The gloaming spread around Koyee, the orange light falling upon pale grass, twisted trees, and brambles—the only flora that could survive in the shadows. Duskmoths flew around her, and one landed on the hilt of her sword. She turned to face her troops. The ten thousand stood in orderly lines, a machine of metal as fine as any clock. They were young men and women, many barely older than her daughter, all clad in the same scales, all holding the same swords. Boys. Girls. Their eyes frightened but determined, shining in the twilight.

"Soldiers of Eloria!" Koyee called to them. Her voice carried across the dusky forest. "I am Koyee, Daughter of Salai. You've heard tales of the battles I fought. Many of you were just babes when I slew Timandrians in the great War of Day and Night. Now the sun rises to burn us again. From the towers of Salai Castle, we have seen them muster, and now we have seen them enter the dusk. Twenty years ago, they took Eloria by surprise. This time we will cast them back into the light." She banged her sword against her shield. "We are the night!"

Ten thousand blades clanged against shields. Their voices rose as one. "We are the night!"

"Show no fear!" Koyee shouted. "Show no weakness to the enemy. Do not despair in the face of battle, not even in the face of death. We will shed the blood of Timandra! We will defend the darkness. For Eloria!"

"For Eloria!" they cried, swords rising like a forest of steel.

Though her words perhaps inspired courage, Koyee's innards trembled. Yes, she had seen the enemy from the rooftop of Salai Castle. She had seen a hundred thousand troops gather—swordsmen, pikemen, archers. She had seen five thousand horses bearing armored riders. She had seen scythed chariots, siege engines on great wheels, battering rams on chains, catapults and ballistae, and even cannons shaped as life-sized buffaloes. Worst of all, she had seen hundreds of mages in black robes. At the thought of them, the scars that snaked around her arm—given to her by a mage in Sinyong years ago—blazed with new pain.

This is a battle we cannot win, she knew. She had sent messengers to all corners of the night. She had begged for aid, for more troops, for anyone who could wield and sword. Yet here were all the swords Eloria could wield. For every ten living souls in Timandra, only one lived in Eloria; there were no more soldiers to spare.

She tightened her lips. They outnumber us ten to one. So each among us will have to kill ten of them. And I will kill many more than that.

The enemy's chants rose in the west, and Koyee turned back toward the light. Her heart pounded and her breath fluttered in her mouth. Her nightwolf growled beneath her, fangs bared.

"They're here."

She couldn't see them yet, but their sound rose slowly, louder with every heartbeat. Thousands of thumping boots. Stamping hooves. Chinking armor. War drums that beat a rhythm of slaughter. Boom. Boom. Boom. A blaring horn that sounded like a dying beast. Chants in many languages all united under the eclipse banner. More drums. Boom. Boom.

She heard their voices. At first they were too distant to hear clearly, but with every beat of the drum, with every thud of boots, those voices grew nearer, coalescing into a mantra.

"Radian rises! Radian rises!"

Koyee snarled upon her nightwolf and held her sword high. "We are the night!"

The soldiers of darkness howled behind her. Koyee breathed heavily through clenched teeth, her pulse thrumming in her ears. And then she saw them.

They emerged from the sunlight, marching between the trees, the hosts of the Radian Empire. Horses rode at their vanguard, clad in armor. Some horses bore riders armed with lances and swords. Other horses pulled scythed chariots, archers within them. They filled the dusk, more plentiful than the stars.

Lances rose, crested with bright steel, and the riders of sunlight charged.

Koyee shouted wordlessly, kneed her nightwolf, and raced toward them. Around her, hundreds of other nightwolves raced forward, their riders howling and pointing their swords.

With shattering steel and spraying blood, the hosts crashed together.

Koyee's nightwolf roared and snapped his teeth. A lance drove toward Koyee, and she swung her katana, slicing its shaft. A horse reared before her. She thrust her blade. She severed a knight's leg, cutting deep where his plates of armor met. Another horse galloped toward her, and Koyee's wolf leaped. They soared over the rider, then plunged down like a comet, fangs and blade driving into flesh.

Around her, the myriads fought in the dusk. Nightwolves tore off pieces of Timandrian armor and dug into the meat beneath. Horses trampled over Elorian swordsmen, and lances crashed through scale armor. Trees burned. Every heartbeat, more fell dead. The corpses covered the land, and severed limbs lay strewn like so many fallen branches.

"Hold them back!" Koyee shouted. "Elorians, defend the night!"

More nightwolves fell. Chariots raced between the trees, as agile as the wolves, crashing into the lines of Elorian infantry. Blades rose upon their wheels, mowing down men and women. Archers fired from within them. One of the projectiles hit Koyee's shield, and another sank into her nightwolf. The beast cried out in pain, blood spurting.

"Senduan!" Koyee cried. She leaned down, grabbed the arrow, and tugged it free from the nightwolf's flank. "Keep fighting, Senduan! We must hold them back. We—"

Fire sparked ahead.

The smell of gunpowder flared.

The Timandrian troops parted, and Koyee beheld a horror that froze her blood.

The cannon rolled forth on wooden wheels, twenty feet long, a beast of black iron shaped as a buffalo. Embers burned in its nostrils, and its mouth was open in a crackling roar. Timandrian soldiers stood around it, waving their longswords, chanting for victory.

Koyee sucked in air and tugged her wolf aside.

"Elorians, scatter!" she shouted hoarsely to the troops behind her. "Scatter to the trees!"

They began to move. They were too late. Racing away, Koyee returned her eyes to the cannon in time to see it fire.

Flames blazed out in an inferno like a collapsing sun. Koyee had an instant vision from years ago—Ferius crashing into the mechanical sun at Cabera, igniting a blast of heat and light. Smoke engulfed the dusk. The cannonball drove forward, so fast Koyee could barely see it, a projectile larger than her head. It slammed into the lines of Elorian troops, pulverizing those it hit. Blood, scales of armor, and bits of hair and flesh flew across the forest, pattering against the soil. Trees ignited. Fire blazed across corpses and fallen branches.

For a moment the forest seemed still and silent. Koyee could only hear the ringing in her ears. She could only see the death, the bodies broken into smudges.

Then, with renewed howls, the Timandrian swordsmen charged forth. The surviving Elorians, their armor red with the blood of their friends, swung their katanas and ran to meet them. The dusk exploded with the song of ringing steel.

Ahead, Timandrians poured new gunpowder into the muzzle, then loaded a new cannonball. Koyee sneered.

"To the cannon!" she shouted. "Elorians, to the cannon!"

She kneed her wolf, and the beast burst into a run. Senduan bounded from boulder to boulder, corpse to corpse, claws lashing, fangs digging into men. Whoever the nightwolf could not kill Koyee cut with her sword. The cannon rose ahead from smoke. One man lit a new fuse, and sparks filled the air.

Koyee sneered and raced onward.

Her wolf leaped through smoke. Her sword swung. The blade severed the lit fuse.

Men shouted around her. Swords swung and arrows flew. Koyee leaped off the saddle. She sailed through the air and landed atop the searing-hot cannon; her boots sizzled against the heated iron. She swung her sword in arcs, chopping men down. An arrow slammed into her vambrace. Another snapped against her armor, and a third scraped along her helmet.

Her eyes fell upon barrels of gunpowder below.

A wry smile twisted her lips.

She leaped into the air, swung her sword, and slew two more men before her feet hit the ground. She raced, rolled, and jumped up, stabbing another man—the one who had lit the fuse. He fell, and his torch thumped into the dirt.

"Slay the nightcrawler!" rose a shriek. "Kill her!"

"Hold them back, Senduan!" Koyee shouted to her wolf. The beast was tearing into men, teeth bloody. Two other nightwolves joined him, forming a circle around Koyee, holding the enemy back.

She lifted the guttering torch. Grinning savagely, Koyee sliced a barrel open. Its gunpowder spilled.

"Senduan, to me!"

The nightwolf ran toward her.

She leaped into the saddle.

She tossed her torch into the gunpowder.

The nightwolf raced along the cannon and vaulted off, and they soared forward like a cannonball.

For an instant, silence filled the world.

Then that world seemed to fall into the sun.

White, shrieking, all-consuming fire blazed. The dusk lit up, brighter than a sunlit desert. Flames howled. Smoke roared. Koyee and her wolf kept leaping through the inferno, and blasts of air hit her, slamming into her back with the strength of hammers. Her head rang. Her cloak burned.

They hit the ground, singed.

Koyee looked behind her in time to see three more explosions, one after another, rock the forest—three more barrels exploding.

She tumbled off her wolf, fell onto her stomach, and covered her ears. Chunks of iron, chips of wood, and drops of blood pattered down onto her. Her ears rang and smoke engulfed her. Soil fell like hail.

When she finally rose to her feet and looked around, she sucked in air between her teeth. A crater loomed in the dusk. The cannon was gone. A hundred Timandrian bodies, maybe more, lay in a ring around the crater. Of those who had stood closer to the cannon nothing remained.

Behind her, the Elorians roared with new vigor and raced forward. They slammed into the remaining Timandrians, cutting them down. Koyee climbed back onto her wolf and fought with them.

We slew hundreds, maybe a thousand, she thought. Yet ninety-nine thousand remain. Her eyes stung in the smoke. We can bleed them, but this is a battle we cannot win. This is a battle we cannot survive.

The Elorians fought but the enemy kept coming. Lines of swordsmen. Iron-clad towers on wheels, archers in their crests. Catapults that rained boulders into the Elorian ranks. Dark mages on dark horses, blasting out living serpents of magic that wrapped around Elorians and crushed their bones. The forces of sunlight covered the dusk, streaming forth like a rising sun, and Koyee shouted until she was hoarse and would not stop swinging her sword.

CHAPTER TWELVE:

THE RED FLAME ARMADA

The Ilari Armada, Terror of the Night Sea, sailed across the black waters toward the coast of Qaelin.

"Father, you cannot do this!" Jitomi said. "Please. Listen to me! Listen to reason. You are sailing against the wrong enemy. The Qaelish are our allies. Your enemy lies in the sunlight."

Standing at the prow, Lord Okita Hashido turned to stare at his son. His eyes narrowed and his lip peeled back in a sneer. "Silence your sniveling, boy, lest I stripe your back and toss you to the sharks. Your words are treachery. Were you not my son, I'd have you flayed and burned. If you anger me further, that can still be your fate."

The fleet stretched across the dark sea. Hundreds of geobukseon ships sailed in formations; each was a hundred feet long, their battened sails wide, and their iron figureheads, shaped as dragons, could spew out smoke to conceal their position in battle. Among them towered the panokseons, great ships with three tiers of decks: the lower deck for rowers, the middle deck for cannons, and the upper deck for soldiers. Those soldiers wore heavy, lacquered armor, the metal black and red, and helmets shaped as snarling faces hid their heads.

Jitomi and his father, meanwhile, stood on an atakebune—a floating fortress—one of only three in their fleet. Named Daroma Tai—Terror of the Water—the massive ship was large as a castle, its deck four hundred feet long and lined with dozens of cannons. Oars emerged from holes in its iron-clad hull like centipede feet, propelling the vessel forward. An entire pagoda, three tiers tall, rose upon the deck. A thousand troops filled the Daroma Tai: swordsmen in heavy steel plates, armed with katanas and throwing stars; archers in black silken robes; and gunners in boiled leather. A massive dragon figurehead thrust off the prow, and from its mouth emerged a cannon like a tongue.

A true dragon—Tianlong, the last dragon in the night—flew above the ship, coiling and uncoiling like a great banner. His body was long and narrow and covered in black scales. Only two small arms grew from that body, barely larger than human arms and tipped with claws. In sharp contrast, Tianlong's jaws were massive enough to swallow men whole, and his teeth were long as katanas. The dragon's eyes blazed, and his fiery red beard, mustache, and long eyebrows fluttered in the wind.

"Magnificent beast," said Lord Hashido, staring up at the dragon. "Strong. Fearless in battle. A mighty warrior." He looked back at Jitomi. "The qualities I wanted in a son. Instead you stand here as weak as a woman, begging to return home with our tail between our legs."

"I would have you fight with strength and pride," Jitomi said, "but not against our Elorian brethren. I would have you fight against the Radian Empire. Against those who invade the night."

"Those who invade Qaelin!" Hashido laughed—a horrible, barking sound. "Those who attack our old enemy. The Magerians are strong, and the Radian Order that rules them is a movement of pride, honor, and nobility. Like the Ilari, the Radians respect the might of the sword, the cannon, the arrow. Together we will defeat the Qaelish Empire and carve her between us."

"And what then?" Jitomi shook his head incredulously. "Do you truly think that Lord Serin, the man who preached death to Elorians, will simply lean back and let an Elorian empire rule in the south? No. He would turn his wrath against Ilar too. He's simply using divide-and-conquer tactics, Father. I'm no general, but even I know this old trick. He's pitting Elorians against Elorians, and when we shatter one another, he'll be there to sweep the pieces away."

Hashido snorted. "It is true, Jitomi. You are no general. You are nothing but a weak boy who failed at every task he was given. I tried to teach you swordplay; you failed to wield the blade. I tried to enlist you into the Dojai Order like your sister; Nitomi is a prattle-mouthed, empty-headed fool, but even she became a dojai, a feat you refused to even attempt. Finally you went off to study magic like some illiterate village woman who believes in charms and spells, and even at that you failed. But I, Jitomi, am a general. And now I am an emperor. And I will soon be a conqueror. Look, worm! We can see the Qaelish coast. Our enemy awaits."

Jitomi stared ahead and his heart sank. He recognized this place. The Qaelish town of Xinsai sprawled along the coast, a strip of light. It was not a major city like Sinyong, the great Qaelish port further west upon the coast, a stronghold that connected the sea to the Inaro river. It was surely not a bastion of power like Pahmey or Yintao, the two great lights of Qaelin. Here was a simpler place, a town with only five pagodas, their roofs blue and topped with brass dragon statues. A couple hundred tall, narrows houses nestled between the pagodas. A few junk ships—Qaelish vessels with triangular, battened sails—floated in the water, humble fishermen upon them.

Why are we sailing to Xinsai? Jitomi wondered at first, belly curdling. It was only a small town. It was no threat. It was—

As the Red Fleet sailed closer, he understood.

A port bit into the town, surrounded by walls and turrets. Moonstar banners rose here, and archers guarded the battlements. Hundreds of Qaelish workers bustled upon planks and scaffolds, swung hammers, bent iron, and pounded leather. The skeletons of several junk ships were taking form in the water, not humble fishermen's vessels but mighty warships. As Jitomi watched, several men turned a wince, guiding down a cannon onto a deck. It was a shipyard, massive in size, serving the Qaelish navy.

"Here do the Qaelish worms build their so-called fleet," said Lord Hashido. "We will show them the might of a true armada."

Bile rose in Jitomi's throat. He grabbed his father's arm. "Father, these people are not soldiers. They are workers struggling to feed their families. You cannot—"

Hashido backhanded him. His gauntlet connected with Jitomi's cheek with a spray of blood.

"They will die in our fire, boy." The lord pulled down his visor; it was shaped like a snarling demon, forged of lacquered steel, its mustache made of panther fur. "If you do not silence your words, you will die with them." He turned toward the soldiers who stood behind him on the deck. "Warriors of Ilar! We sail to conquest!"

The soldiers on the deck, hundreds of demons in steel, raised their swords and roared for the Red Flame. Upon the pagoda that rose from the deck, a fortress of metal and clay, archers tugged back their bowstrings. All across the water, the other ships of Ilar—hundreds of them—sailed to war. The dragon figureheads of the geobukseons belched out smoke; cannons hid within their iron jaws. Upon the three-tiered panokseon ships, more cannons were lit, and warriors formed ranks around landing craft. Above the fleet, Tianlong the dragon soared, and his cry pealed across the sky.

"Father!" Jitomi said, clutching his cut cheek. "Do not destroy! If you must conquer, then conquer. Seize these ships for our fleet, and let the townsfolk live. They can serve us. They need not die."

But Lord Hashido seemed not to hear. He pointed his sword toward the coastal town, and he shouted, voice storming across the water, "Armada—fire!"

The cannons blazed.

"No!" Jitomi tried to grab his father, but the soldiers held him back. "Father, stop this!"

Smoke enveloped him as their own ship's cannons fired. He watched, eyes burning, as the cannonballs slammed into the town of Xinsai. Several projectiles slammed into junk ships, shattering their hulls. Others crashed into walls and turrets, cracking bricks, sending men falling. Another volley blasted out from the Ilari ships, and cannonballs now slammed into city homes, shattering clay walls. A pagoda crumbled, raining screaming men.

"Watch, boy," hissed a voice beside him. "Watch as nightcrawlers turn against nightcrawlers."

Jitomi spun around to see Professor Atratus, wrapped in his black robes, standing on the deck. As always, the Magerian wore his Radian pin. His eyes glittered, reflecting the firelight, as he stared at the destruction. His lips peeled back in a hungry grin. He turned to stare at Jitomi, glee in those beady eyes.

"Do you see?" said Atratus. "Do you see how pathetic your kind is? You turn against each other, unable to unite even as my lord invades your lands in the north." He cackled, spraying saliva. "Your folly will be your doom. You will watch this doom unfurl, boy. I am still your teacher. I now teach you the true wretchedness of your own kind."

Rage and fear pounded through Jitomi. He growled at Atratus, tempted to draw his katana and slay the man. Before he could act, whistles filled the sky. A rain of arrows lit the night, glinting red in the firelight.

The soldiers on the deck, Jitomi among them, raised their shields.

The arrows, fired from the town's battlements, rained down with a clatter. Most snapped against shields and armor. A few sank into the deck. One or two managed to punch through steel and draw blood. When the barrage subsided and Jitomi lowered his shield, the Magerian professor was gone.

Jitomi looked across the battle and winced. The Ilari fleet was dropping its anchors. Cannons blasted out again, slamming into the coastal town. Only three Qaelish warships guarded the shipyard, and they were now burning. Chanting for the Red Flame, Ilari warriors climbed into landing crafts and began oaring toward the blazing town.

"Drag the worms out of their holes!" Lord Hashido was shouting; he still stood at the prow, sword raised. "Slay the men and children and capture the women! Destroy every last home and ship!"

In the town, women and children were fleeing from their homes and running to the northern hills. Some Qaelish men stood upon the walls, firing cannons and arrows, but the Ilari firepower tore into them, scattering down bodies and bricks. Corpses burned upon the streets, houses crumbled, and the Qaelish ships sank. Firelight danced upon the bloody water. The first landing crafts reached the shore, and Ilari troops emerged from them to race into the town. Clad all in steel, their helmets demonic, they looked more like beasts than men. Their swords swung, cutting into Qaelish shipwrights, fishermen, and fleeing children.

"Tianlong!" Lord Hashido shouted. "Tianlong, to me! I will ride upon you and command the battle from above."

The black dragon coiled above, wreathed in smoke, but did not dip lower. The beast roared but was not yet fighting, and he did not heed his emperor's command.

"Tialong, beast of Ilar!" Lord Hashido shouted. "Bear me upon your back, and we will spill the blood of Qaelin."

But the dragon would not obey. He rose higher, streaming above the battle like a banner, and his roar pierced the night sky.

Cursing, Hashido turned away and marched toward a landing craft. He spat into the water. "If even the dragon is cowardly, I will lead this battle on the front line, swinging my sword with men." The new emperor huffed. "There is more honor to that." He placed one foot into the landing craft, which was already filling with more troops, and turned to look at his son. "Stay here upon this deck, son. Stay here and watch men do their work. You're as worthless to me as the reptile who flies above."

Men turned winches, lowering the landing craft into the water. Hashido stood at the prow, leading the boat toward the town. A hundred other vessels rowed around the emperor, bearing soldiers. Soon Hashido emerged onto the coast, raised his sword, and fought with his men. The lord's katana swung into a fisherman and emerged bloody. Qaelish bodies littered the coast and floated in the water.

Jitomi watched from the deck of the Daroma Tai, eyes damp.

"Glorious," whispered Professor Atratus. He came back to stand at Jitomi's side. He licked his small, sharp teeth. "Glorious."

I must end this, Jitomi thought. His hands clutched the balustrade. I must stop this carnage.

He turned and ran across the deck, which was now empty of soldiers. He reached a mast, grabbed the ropes, and began to climb. Wind whipped him and arrows sailed around him. A cannonball, fired from the town walls, sailed alongside him with a shriek. It crashed down onto the Daroma Tai's deck, punching a hole. The ship tilted, and water gushed on board. Jitomi clung onto the mast, gritted his teeth, and kept climbing even as the ship listed.

"Tianlong!" he shouted, climbing higher. "Tianlong, hear me!"

More arrows sailed from the walls. One slammed into Jitomi's armor and shattered, driving pain into him. He grimaced and climbed higher. Below upon the deck, sailors were scuttling about, and more water gushed. The ship was beginning to sink. Jitomi kept climbing, moving as fast as he could. His armor was too heavy. Despite the arrows still flying his way, he tugged off the steel plates and sent them crashing down onto the deck.

"Tianlong!" he cried. "I am Jitomi! I am a companion to Madori, daughter of Koyee, your old rider. If you remember Koyee, hear me, Tianlong!"

The black dragon seemed to hear him, but he still coiled far above, looking down at the battle, seeming torn. Smoke and flames puffed out from his great jaws. Jitomi scuttled higher up the tilting mast until he reached the basket at its crest. An Ilari sailor stood there, pierced with arrows, dead eyes staring. Grimacing, Jitomi climbed into the basket with the corpse and waved his hands.

"Tianlong, last dragon of Eloria! Hear me. For Koyee, hear me!"

The dragon finally descended. His red beard fluttered as a great banner, and his scales reflected the firelight from the burning town. His eyes narrowed, staring down at Jitomi, and a deep rage burned in them.

"You dare speak of Koyee," the dragon rumbled. "I bore her upon my back, and we fought sunlit demons together. She is a daughter of Qaelin, this very empire we burn, and the most noble soul I ever met." He roared and blasted out smoke. "Now Elorians fight Elorians. Now you betray Koyee's honor."

Jitomi had to shout to be heard over the roaring battle below. Hundreds of ships sailed all around, firing their guns, and thousands of soldiers were streaming along the town's docks. The mast kept tilting; soon it would crash down into the sea.

"Then let us stop this, Tianlong!" Jitomi cried. "Let us stop my father. He leads this host, and Atratus, a mage from the sunlight, whispers into his ear. We must stop them."

He reached up and touched the dragon's scales. Tianlong dipped lower in the sky. Jitomi climbed onto the dragon, straddled his scaly neck, and grabbed his horns. Tianlong rose higher just before the mast finally cracked and crashed down onto the sinking deck. They soared above the battle. The wind shrieked around them, and the cannons still blazed and swords still rang upon the coast.

"Warriors of Ilar!" Jitomi shouted. "Stop this madness! These are not our enemies. Hear me! I ride upon Tianlong, the last dragon of Eloria, and I call to end this violence. Our fellow Elorians are not our enemies!"

Some soldiers looked up at him. A handful hesitated, swords wavering. But most still fought, moving along the streets like metal serpents through a labyrinth. They kicked open doors, dragged out families, and sliced their throats. Upon the water, ships were still firing their cannons, tearing down the city walls. The shipyard burned and crumbled, reduced to mere crackling flotsam.

Jitomi pointed down to a city square. His father stood there, leading a hundred soldiers in tasseled armor. Facing them stood a dozen Qaelish soldiers—probably the last to survive in this town—along with a score of townsfolk armed with knives and clubs. As Jitomi watched, his father sliced a woman's belly open and laughed.

The black dragon flew above the square, and Jitomi cried down, "Father, stop this! Men of Ilar, hear me. This is not the way. The Radians are not our allies; we only serve the sunlight when we battle fellow dwellers of darkness. Sheathe your swords and—"

His father unslung his bow off his back, tugged back an arrow, and fired at Jitomi.

The dragon banked, and the arrow scraped across his scales, showering sparks.

"Tianlong!" cried Lord Hashido, standing in the courtyard below. "Cast off the boy and obey me. Fight for honor! For Ilar! Slay the Qaelish for the glory of the Red Flame."

Jitomi clung to the dragon's horns. The wind whistled around him. He spoke softly into Tianlong's ear. "And if we reach the north, and if we face Koyee, would you let him kill her too?"

The dragon roared.

His cry shook the city below, louder than thunder, so loud Jitomi covered his ears and clung to the dragon with only his legs. Smoke blasted from the beast, and his beard crackled with fire. The dragon swooped and roared as arrows pounded into him.

"You are a fool, Hashido!" the dragon bellowed. His jaws opened wide.

"Tianlong, no!" Jitomi cried.

But the dragon would or could not hear. His great jaws closed around Lord Hashido. His teeth punched through armor. The dragon tossed back his head, lifting the new emperor of Ilar. Hashido's sword swung, and the katana chipped the dragon's scales, and Tianlong bit deeper. Armor cracked. Teeth drove into flesh and blood leaked through steel.

Jitomi winced. Terror thrummed through him, and suddenly he was a boy again, a simple child in his father's fortress, marveling at the powerful lord, knowing he could never be as strong. Did some love for his father remain, even now?

"Spare him," Jitomi said. "Spare him, Tianlong. He's my father."

The dragon looked over his shoulder at Jitomi. Some of the rage left his eyes. Hashido was still alive, moaning in the dragon's jaws, his blood seeping. With a grunt and puff of smoke, the dragon tossed the new emperor down. Hashido clanked against the cobblestones.

Jitomi dismounted the dragon and leaned over his father. The battle died down around them. Ilari soldiers crowded near, gasping and muttering. The Qaelish lay dead or had fled the courtyard.

"Father, can you hear?" Jitomi said. The emperor was moaning, blood seeping from his armor. Jitomi lifted the man's visor, revealing an ashen face. "Father, I'll find you a healer. But you must call off the troops. We must end this war."

The wounded man, eyes sunken, spat. The glob of saliva hit Jitomi's cheek.

"Leave me, traitor." Blood leaked from Lord Hashido's mouth. "You killed me. You killed your own father. Curse you! Curse you forever. Your hands are covered with your father's blood. The spirits of the underworld will forever haunt you."

The emperor's breath died. He slumped to the ground.

For a long moment, Jitomi held his father's lifeless body. His throat and eyes burned. Around him, fire and smoke engulfed the city. Finally Jitomi raised his head to gaze at the warriors who surrounded him, steel demons with dripping blades.

"Emperor Hashido is dead!" Jitomi said. His knees shook, but he forced himself to take a deep breath and rise to his feet. "I am his only son. I hereby take command of this army. Back to our ships! We leave this place. We end this battle."

The ring of demonic faces drew nearer, the visors reflecting the firelight. Armor creaked. Swords rose higher. One of the soldiers stepped closer, a towering man, his lacquered armor painted crimson, his helmet horned. He held a massive katana the size of a pike, and his eyes blazed within his helmet's eyeholes. Instead of tassels like most breastplates sported, this man's armor was decorated with gilded finger bones—trophies from his enemies.

Jitomi recognized him. When he spoke the man's name, it tasted like ash. "General Naroma."

The man raised his demonic visor, revealing a face just as cruel. Tattoos covered it, black and red, and his eyes burned under tufted eyebrows. His white mustache twitched as he sneered.

"You are nothing but a lost pup." The general spat. "You were a shame to your father, whom you slew. You will pay for your crime, boy, And I shall sit upon the throne." He raised his sword and shouted for the army to hear. "I am Naroma, new Emperor of Ilar!"

Laughing, Naroma swung his massive katana toward Jitomi.

Jitomi leaped back, dodged the blade, and stumbled over his father's body. He fell down hard on the cobblestones, arms raised before him.

The surrounding soldiers burst into laughter.

"Behold the Pup of Hashido!" said General Naroma. His face turned red as he laughed. "Cowering like a woman. Should I kill him slowly and hear him beg?"

Covered in his father's blood, Jitomi rose to his feet. The soldiers all stared. The dragon hovered above, watching silently. The general laughed and raised his sword again.

"I am no woman, General Naroma," Jitomi said slowly. "Though I've met women whose strength and wisdom I would be proud to possess—strength and wisdom you lack. Strength is not measured by the power of the arm but that of the heart." He chose the general's blade and claimed it. "And a man who relies on steel to display his might is a fool."

With a sharp breath, Jitomi changed the blade, heating the steel so that it melted, red and hot as if fresh from the cauldron.

The liquid metal spilled across Naroma's hand, and the general roared. His gauntlet cracked, leaking blood and skin.

With his other hand, the general drew another sword—a curved blade engraved with a panther motif. The katana swung toward Jitomi before he had time to muster his magic again.

Heart thudding, Jitomi parried.

The blades clanged and locked.

"Yes, I think you will die slowly, wizard," said the general. "You will die squealing. Begging. Scre—"

Jitomi chose the man's helmet and heated it.

The man roared.

The steel helmet melted, the horns dripping, the visor flowing in rivulets down Naroma's face. Still the man swung his sword, and the blade crashed against Jitomi's armor, cracking the steel but not cutting the skin beneath.

Jitomi swung his own katana.

The blade sliced through the man's dripping helmet, scattering droplets of blood and liquid metal.

The man crashed down.

Jitomi stood in the bloody courtyard of a burning town, and he wanted to collapse, to tremble, to weep for his father. But now he would have to be strong—to show the strength his father had never seen in him.

"Hear me!" He raised his sword. "I am Jitomi Hashido, son of the fallen emperor. I take command of Ilar. You will obey me, or you will die like Naroma died—squealing like a rat." Those words tasted foul, but they were words these soldiers, proud killers of Ilar, would understand. "I am a sorcerer, and I am a warrior, and I am your emperor. Return to your ships, men of Ilar! A new enemy awaits us. We will shed blood for the glory of our empire. We will not waste our arrows and blades on weak Qaelish worms. We will face the sunlit demons, and we will crush them!"

The soldiers stared at him for a moment in silence. Hundreds more streamed into the square and watched.

Then they roared their approval. Their blades rose in a forest. They chanted for him. "Emperor Jitomi! Emperor Jitomi! For the glory of the Red Flame!"

Jitomi stared at them, and his head spun. He had spoken propaganda, and his belly felt ill. He had spoken like Professor Atratus.

He clenched his jaw. I spoke the words I had to. When swords are thrust toward me, I will thrust back my own blade. When poisonous words rally hordes against my people, I will spill poison too.

Leading his soldiers, he marched out of the courtyard, down the streets, and back toward the port. The warriors climbed back into the ships, but Jitomi—his own ship sunken—rode upon Tianlong high above the fleet.

As the Red Flame Armada sailed away from the ravaged town, Jitomi flew over ship by ship, scanning their decks for Atratus, but the mage was gone.

* * * * *

A hundred thousand strong, the Radian army rolled out of the dusk and into the darkness of Eloria.

Siege towers of wood and iron moving on great wheels. Scythed chariots full of archers. Mages, hooded and shadowed. Knights on armored stallions. An endless sea of archers and swordsmen bearing torches and roaring for the death of darkness. Catapults swung, their boulders hurtling. Cannons fired, blasting out smoke. Ballistae shot their iron arrows. The projectiles lit the night sky and slammed into Salai Castle upon the hill.

Koyee stood in the village of Oshy, her armor splashed with blood.

The village was empty around her—a ghost town of clay huts, barren squares, and guttering lanterns. She had ordered the people of Oshy evacuated last turn; they now sailed toward Pahmey in the east, seeking sanctuary from the sunlit onslaught. Her sunlit home, a cottage in Fairwool-by-Night, had burned. Koyee now stood by her nightside house, a humble clay hut, and watched the castle upon the hill crumble.

Its roof tiles rained down. Its walls cracked and collapsed. The bronze dragon upon its crest crashed onto the hillside. The cannons and catapults kept firing. As every projectile hit the castle, the hosts of Timandra cheered.

"Koyee!" rose a voice behind her. "Koyee, we must flee. Now."

She stared at the castle, eyes damp.

"For so many years, I built this place," she whispered. "For my father. Now it falls like a house of cards."

A hand grabbed her arm. "Koyee, we must leave now."

She turned around to see Xenxua, a young soldier with large indigo eyes. He was barely older than Madori. He panted. Scales were missing from his armor, and blood leaked through the holes.

"The last boats are loading." He tugged her. "We have only moments. Quick, Koyee."

She stared at him. Such a young, frightened face. She could barely hear the battle behind her anymore. Her ears still rang from the cannon fire, and everything felt so numb. Perhaps this was but a dream. Just a nightmare.

"Koyee!"

She turned back toward the castle and the dusk beyond. She could barely see anything but the Timandrian army now. The enemies covered every last stretch of land, and they were climbing what remained of the castle walls like insects upon a dying animal. Thousands of the troops, bearing torches, came marching toward the abandoned village. Their faces burned red in the firelight, and their eyes stared at her, hungry for her blood.

How can I flee? How can I abandon my post?

She clutched the locket that hung around her neck. She tightened her lips.

For Madori. I am a mother now. I must live.

"Koyee, please!" Xenxua begged, trying to tug her back.

She nodded. "We flee."

They turned and ran. Arrows sailed over their heads, and one glanced off Koyee's helmet. They raced between the huts as the enemy roared and laughed behind them. At the docks, the last few junk boats were sailing away along the Inaro. In the east, she could just make out the junks' forms; they had extinguished their lanterns. A single boat remained, a few Elorian soldiers within it.

"Come, Xenxua," she said. "Into the boat. Enter first. I—"

An arrow whistled. It slammed into the back of Xenxua's helmet, punched through the steel, and emerged from the middle of his forehead.

Koyee gave herself only an instant of frozen horror, of guilt, of crushing grief. Then she jumped into the boat as more arrows whistled around her.

They grabbed oars. They rowed off the pier. The current caught them, tugging them east, leaving the village and fallen castle behind. When Koyee turned and looked back west, she saw dozens of ships emerge from the dusk—towering, wooden, bearing the eclipse sigils, lumbering beasts that swayed upon the water. The fleet of sunlight.

She turned away and clutched her locket so tightly it cut her palm.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN:

LIGHT OF THE MARSHES

All the marshlands danced with light as Neekeya daughter of Kee'an, Latani of Daenor, rowed through the water to meet her groom.

She stood in a sheh'an, the small reed boat of her people, holding an oar. She rowed slowly, solemnly. Lily pads coated the water, their flowers blooming, a carpet of green and lavender that parted around the prow. All around Neekeya, glass jars of fireflies hung from the mangroves, lanterns to guide her way through the mist. Upon fallen logs, twisting roots, and mossy boulders they stood—her people, the children of South Daenor. They wore garments of seeken, and their jewels shone upon them—gold and silver for the wealthy, humble clay beads for the poor. The firefly light danced upon their dusky skin, and warmth filled their brown eyes.

"Latani," one woman whispered. She tossed a lily into the boat.

"Daughter of the marshes," whispered an old man, bowing his head. He tossed a flower of his own.

"Neekeya," said a little girl, her voice awed, and tossed her own flower.

Neekeya smiled to all those she rowed by. Soon her reed boat was overflowing with the purple blossoms, their scent intoxicating.

She no longer wore her armor of steel scales nor her helmet, and no sword hung from her side. She wore a leeri—the traditional marriage garment of her people, a silvery tunic woven of gossamer, its fabric strewn with wildflowers. Around her shoulders hung a green seeken cloak woven of lichen. She wore the marshlands upon her body, for all Daenorian brides were to be of the land, in harmony with all around them.

Frogs trilled, the water gurgled, and birds sang—the music of the swamps. The people around her raised wooden flutes to their lips, and they added their music, the notes frail and beautiful to her, a song of both sadness and joy. Tears stung Neekeya's eyes, for she had never loved her home more, even on the eve of this home falling to the fire.

Perhaps all the marshlands will burn and dry up, she thought as she rowed. And perhaps the enemy will cover this land and my life will fall in the fire. But here, this turn, I am a bride, and I am a proud latani of my homeland. This turn I am joyous.

Dragonflies and fireflies danced around her and haloed over her head, forming a crown of light. A statue rose ahead from the water—the god Cetela, a man with the head of a crocodile, vines dangling between his teeth and lilies blooming around his legs. She rowed around the statue, and there—upon a platform of stone between two columns—she saw him. Prince Tam Solira. The man she was marrying.

The people had mended his old clothes of Arden, filling the tatters and holes with gossamer and seeken, forming a patchwork that did not look old and worn but new, healed—a garment of both the plains of his homeland and the swamps of his new home. A garland of ivy crowned his head, and a beard was thickening upon his cheeks, and Neekeya no longer saw the boy she had known. She saw a man, a prince, a soul with whom to forever walk the dark paths ahead.

The stone platform rose from the water, carved into the shape of birds and reptiles, the old engravings mossy and wet. The columns that framed it rose taller than men, and their capitals supported baskets of sweet-scented flowers. All around hung the mist, dragonflies flew, and egrets waded through the water. Neekeya docked her sheh'an at the platform and rose to stand beside Tam. She smiled tremulously, her fingers tingled, and her eyes dampened.

Perhaps next turn the fire will fall, but this turn I am in love, and I am happy.

Her father stood upon the stone too—once a lord of a pyramid and now King of the Marshes, of the free Southern Daenor. He wore a cloak inlaid with gold and silver disks, and a breastplate covered his chest, nine jewels upon it—symbols of the Nine Mothers, founders of Daenor. Kee'an looked older than Neekeya had ever seen him, and deep lines marred his face, and on the eve of war, worries too great to bear hung upon his shoulders. Yet joy too filled his eyes, and he spoke in a deep, clear voice.

"In the words of our Old Scrolls, whose wisdom Cetela taught to the Nine Mothers: In times of death, let there be life. In times of peril, let there be hope. In times of sadness, let there be joy." He reached out and joined hands with Tam and Neekeya. "There is no light without darkness, no courage without fear, but one force needs no counterpart. Love. Love can exist without ever having heard of hatred. Love lights the hearts of both the innocent and broken. And this turn, surrounded by the life and light of our marshlands, we celebrate the love of Neekeya and Tam, children of sunlight."

Neekeya reached into her pouch, then handed Tam a gift: a gilded crocodile tooth amulet. She hung it around his neck and couldn't help but grin as it rested against his chest, a grin she suspected looked silly and far too wide but one she couldn't curb.

He handed her a gift too: a ring of braided silver and gold.

"I worked it myself with magic," he said. "You can't see it, but inside the silver strand is a hair from my head, and inside the golden strand is a hair from yours."

She gasped. "Did you go plucking hairs off my head while I slept?"

He looked a little guilty, then nodded. "It's a custom of Arden. I hope you like it."

She let him slip the ring onto her finger. "I will never remove it," she vowed.

Lord Kee'an spoke some more, reading from the Old Scrolls, and Tam and Neekeya spoke too, exchanging vows they had written. Finally Kee'an opened a golden box, and many fireflies flew from it, beads of light swirling and rising through the mist. And thus Neekeya was wed. She pulled Tam toward her, and she kissed him, a deep kiss of love and fear, and though joy filled her, she wondered how many more kisses they would share and how long before the Radian fire burned her.

* * * * *

Tam stood in the chamber, stared into the mirror, and did not know who he saw.

He had turned eighteen this year, had come of age by the customs of his people. Were he back in Arden, the kingdom would have celebrated. King Camlin and Queen Linee would have tossed a great banquet in the palace gardens, and all the lords and ladies of Arden would have attended, come to see the twin princes—Tam and Omry—become men. There would be flying doves, pies of all kind, blooming flowers, and wandering jesters and pipers. Corgis would scuttle underfoot, and children would laugh, and wine would flow.

And you'd be there, Madori, he thought. His eyes stung. You and I would sneak away from the festivities, hide ourselves in cloaks, and go down to the docks.

He smiled to remember those times Madori and he would wander among the fishermen and sailors, compete to see who could spit farther into the water, pay copper coins for oysters, and talk about the exotic lands the ships must have come from. They would talk of boarding one of those ships, sailing to the distant islands of Sania or Orida, even far into the night, and finding lands of adventure.

"Our real adventure came out quite differently, didn't it, Madori?" he whispered.

He looked around him at the room. The chamber was small and stood high in the pyramid of Eetek. A bed lay in the corner, topped with tasseled cushions, and murals covered the walls, depicting egrets, crocodiles, dragonflies, and a hundred kinds of trees. Through the window, Tam could see the true swamps of Daenor, a land of mist and water. But instead of exploring and seeking adventures, he was waiting for war, for the fire to descend upon this wet land and sear it dry.

He looked back into the mirror. And he was different too. Where was the Tam he had been, had dreamed to be? He saw no prince of Arden. He saw no adventurer. He saw no mage. Instead, he saw a lost man, far from home, far from his family and friends. He missed them. He did not know if they still lived, if his home still existed, and the pain constricted his throat.

The door to the chamber opened, and in the mirror, he saw Neekeya enter the room.

He spun around and lost his breath.

"Hello," she whispered, then lowered her eyes and smiled shyly. "I'm ready."

Some of his fear washed away. No, he was not alone. He had Neekeya. He had a wife. He stepped toward her, feeling the pain melt.

"You look beautiful," he said.

She smiled demurely. She stood clad in a chemise woven of gossamer; the garment revealed more than it hid. Her smooth black hair hung down to her chin, scented of flowers, and her ring encircled her finger. Tam placed a finger under her chin, and she raised her head. Her eyes were huge, dark pools, and her full lips parted. He kissed those full lips, and she kissed him back, a deep kiss, their bodies pressed together, their arms around each other.

She took him into her bed; here was the bed of her childhood, now the bed of her womanhood. They would not stop kissing, even as they undressed, and they lay together, moving together, sometimes laughing, sometimes solemn, something staring into each other's eyes, sometimes closing their eyes and surrendering to the heat. They were as different as day from night—his skin was pale, hers dusky as the shadows, a prince from a palace and a warrior from a marshland pyramid. And he knew that, no matter what the next turn might bring, he loved her fully, and with her he was complete.

They made love for what seemed like hours, then lay in each other's arms, gazing up at the mural of birds upon the ceiling. She nestled close, her arm and leg slung across him, and playfully bit his chin, then grinned up at him. He kissed her nose.

"My husband," she whispered.

"My wife," he whispered back. "My latani."

He closed his eyes, and though she was warm against him, and the soft sunlight fell through the window and birds sang outside, he was afraid, and he was back on that road in Mageria, the Radians swinging their swords and his friends dying around him.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN:

THE VIEW IN THE LOCKET

"Slowly tilt to the left." Old Master Lan Tao demonstrated, swaying his frail body. "Slowly . . . slowly . . . let your right foot rise until just your toes touch the earth. Focus your awareness on the movement, on how your muscles work, on your breath, on—"

"I can't focus when you talk so much!" Madori wobbled, nearly fell, and glared at the old teacher.

He sighed. "In battle, when arrows fly and swords swing, will you tell your enemy that you cannot focus while they try to kill you? You must be able to focus even as they attack; you should be able to handle words from an old man's mouth. Now—tilt! Slowly . . . to the left . . . be aware of every breath . . ."

She grumbled but she obeyed. As he had taught her, she cleared her mind of thought, focusing all her awareness on the movement of her body as she tilted to the left—the muscles stretching, the weight shifting, her strands of hair falling free from behind her ears, the feel of the ground beneath her bare feet, and the air entering and leaving her lungs. When they swayed to the right, she kept breathing deeply, letting every thought that entered her mind flow away.

For long moons now, she had been training with Master Lan Tao, and still he did not allowed her to swing her sword. Sometimes, he had her sit still all turn, focusing her awareness on each part of her body in turn—her toes for what seemed like hours, then finally her feet, then her legs, then her hips, gradually moving up to her head as the turn ended. Other turns, he had her focus her awareness on sounds she heard: the wind in the canyons of the Desolation, the creaks of rocks, the snorts of her nightwolf, the scuttling of animals and bats, and a thousand other sounds she had never imagined could exist in this wilderness. Other turns Lan Tao insisted that she simply breathed, monitoring her mind for thoughts: memories, planning, fears, or sometimes just random daydreams . . . allowing all thoughts to flow away, to disperse like clouds, letting her awareness return to her breath again and again, a rebirth every time she inhaled.

When they were finally done, Madori rubbed her shoulders. She asked the same question she asked every turn. "Master Lan Tao, when will you teach me how to fight?"

And he gave her the same answer he always did. "I already am, my student. With every breath."

"But I want to learn with the sword!" she countered as always.

He would only shake his head. "First you must learn to fight with your awareness, with your soul, with your body. Once you have mastered Yin Shi, then, child, you may lift your sword and let the blade be a part of you."

Madori sighed. She had been here for three moons now, and she had spent all that time training in Yin Shi. She couldn't wait much longer for battle. Whenever she gazed into her locket, she saw new Elorian forces mustering at the dusk. One time, Koyee had stood upon the roof of Salai Castle, held the locket up, and let Madori see the tips of distant enemy towers—siege engines prepared for war. Any turn now, Madori knew, the invasion of Eloria would begin.

"And I'll be stuck here," she muttered. "Without even a sword."

With their training done for the turn, Master Lan Tao prepared their usual dinner—a bland paste of mushed mushrooms sprinkled with dried eel flakes. As always, the old man sat perched on a hilltop, staring into the distance as he chewed slowly, mouthful after mouthful. Madori had stared at that landscape so many times—she had memorized every nook and cranny in the Desolation, and she could have drawn from memory the jagged boulders, snaking canyons, the cracks in the craters, and the scree upon the hillsides. This turn, instead of eating with her master, she simply grabbed her bowl of food, stomped toward the cave where she slept, and entered the shadows. Barely any moonlight filled this place, which suited Madori. She sat cross legged, took a spoonful of food, and grimaced at the taste. Forcing herself to swallow, she pulled her locket from her shirt.

"I miss you, Mother," she whispered. A lump filled her throat, and it was not from the stew. "I'm so worried. I'm so scared for you and Father and everyone else."

She peeked outside, waiting for the moon to reach its zenith, the time she and Koyee had agreed to open their lockets in tandem. Her bowl of stew was empty and her eyes were drooping when the time came. With a deep breath, she opened her locket, expecting to see her mother smile at her.

Madori gasped.

She dropped the locket.

Her eyes burned.

By the stars . . .

Trembling, she lifted the locket again and stared into it. She grimaced. Instead of Koyee's smiling face, she saw fire burning. Magerian troops marching. Enemy warships in the water. The land rose and fell, and the vision spun madly, sometimes vanishing, sometimes appearing at odd angles. It took a moment for Madori to understand; her mother was running, the locket bouncing and spinning upon her chest, sometimes clattering shut, sometimes knocked open.

"The invasion is here," Madori whispered. She gripped the locket. Her voice rose to a shout. "Mother! Mother!"

But the locket could convey no sound. Madori watched, clutching it so tightly it nearly snapped. Koyee's locket swayed madly, and for a moment Madori saw only steaks of color and light. When the image settled, she realized that Koyee had leaped into a boat and had begun to sail downriver. Arrows flew overhead. When the locket spun west, Madori caught a glimpse of Salai Castle. It crumbled before her eyes, its roofs collapsing, its walls cracking. Beyond the castle spread an army of thousands, its Radian banners held high.

"Mother!" Madori cried again.

The locket spun—Koyee turning back eastward. Several other Qaelish soldiers sat in the boat with Koyee, faces grim and bleeding, their armor cracked. One soldier was shouting something. Madori could read his lips: Oar faster! Retreat!

"Mother, can you hear me?" Madori shouted into the locket. "Mother, are you all right? Mother!"

A voice rose from the cave's entrance. "Calm yourself, Madori. Breathe. Like I taught you."

She spun toward the cave entrance, her eyes damp, her chest heaving. "Master Lan Tao! Timandra invades! Armies flow into the night and—"

"Let your thoughts leave you," he said. "Calm yourself. Breathe. In . . . slowly . . . feel the breath—"

"This is no time for a lesson!" Madori shouted. She shoved herself past him. "Where is my sword? War! I have no time for your Yin Shi breathing now. War is h—"

It was his turn to interrupt. "This is precisely the time for breathing. When the sky is falling, that is when we must remain most calm. Breathe. Slowly." He inhaled deeply as if to demonstrate. "Hold the breath . . . and release." When she opened her mouth to object, he silenced her with a glare. "Do it."

Her insides trembled, and her mind was a storm, but she forced herself to obey. She took a deep, slow breath, yet still her mind raged. Her mother was in danger! The enemy attacked! Perhaps her mother was dead already. She needed to look into the locket again, she—

"Focus all your awareness on your breath," said Lan Tao, voice soothing. "Let all your thoughts leave you."

She wanted to object. How could he force her to train now?

This is not training, she realized. This is mastery of Yin Shi in a true storm.

She let all thoughts flow away. She exhaled. She inhaled again. Her mind cleared, becoming like a still pond. After a few more breaths, she looked back into her locket.

It had fallen dark.

Madori looked back up at her master. "My mother is fleeing down the Inaro River. She will be heading to the great city of Pahmey where more soldiers await. I must join her, Master. I must fight at her side."

Suddenly Master Lan Tao seemed very old. He had always seemed old to her but vigorous too; now he truly showed his age, his wrinkles deep, his eyes sad.

"Your training is incomplete," he said, and she heard the pain in his voice.

"Perhaps we're never ready for a storm," Madori said. "But I've learned so much. I cannot linger here, safe while my mother flees and fights, while our people need me. Return my sword, Master. Please. I will wield that blade proudly—as my grandfather did, as my mother did. I will make you proud, Master, and I will not forget all that you taught me."

He lowered his head. For a moment his shoulders stooped. But then he straightened, raised his chin, and turned to walk down the hillside.

Madori bounded outside of the cave and ran after him. "Master Lan Tao! Will you let me leave? Will you return my sword?"

He kept walking, not turning back toward her. Madori ran behind him, panting. Grayhem raced up toward her and loped at her side.

The old master walked toward a crater full of still, silver water that reflected the moonlight. Kneeling, he reached into the water and pulled out Sheytusung, the blade of legend. The moonlight reflected against it. The Yin Shi master turned back toward Madori and held out the katana.

"It has been blessed with moonlight and with water," he said. "And now it truly passes to other hands, to a student of Yin Shi. It no longer shall be named Sheytusung, for that was its name in other hands, a name that means the light of the river, a name of brightness and swiftness. Now I name it Min Tey, the glow of the water, a name of calm and stillness."

Madori took the blade reverently, and it felt warm in her hand, and the light and water still clung to it.

I will make you proud, Grandfather, Mother, Master, she thought. She hung the sword across her back and climbed onto Grayhem. I will remember all that I learned.

She rode out of the Desolation, her sword upon her back and her locket hanging around her neck. She stared into the southern, dark emptiness, and she traveled by the starlight, heading to Pahmey, heading to war.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN:

THE RAVEN AND THE BEAR

The limestone bear rose from the forest, craggy and frosted, a sentinel taller than any tree. Snow gathered around its feet, and eras of wind and hail had beaten its form. Perhaps once every strand of its fur had been lovingly carved, every fang and claw detailed, but now the statue looked like molten rock, barely more than abstract. Torin had to crane his neck all the way back to see its roaring face high above; the statue must have loomed three hundred feet tall.

"A statue of Gashdov," Torin said. His horse nickered beneath him, breath frosting. "The fabled Guardian Bear of Verilon, a god of the north. They say the true Gashdov isn't much smaller than this statue, a beast to dwarf all others."

Cam bit his lip, staring up from his own horse. "This marks the border between Arden and Verilon. The city of Orewood is near."

Behind Torin and Cam rode their retinue—five knights and thirty men-at-arms, all clad in steel plates, the ravens of Arden upon their shields. Their banners fluttered in the cold wind, and snow coated their woolen cloaks. Torin himself wore a woolen tunic under his armor, and a thick black cloak hung around his shoulders, yet he couldn't stop shivering, and his teeth chattered. Verilon seemed even colder than the darkness of Eloria, or perhaps he was simply older, thinner, still wounded and weary. Whatever the case, a cough kept rising in his throat, and he couldn't wait to finally sit by a roaring fire, a mug of mulled wine in his hands.

Torin sighed. Last war, when I was half as old, I didn't care about the cold, and I didn't long for a hearth or wine. He was turning forty this winter, and with every year, he cared less for swords and more for mugs, less for saddles and more for armchairs.

They kept riding north, leaving the bear statue behind. The forest had changed over the past few leagues. Few of the maples, birches, and oaks of Arden grew here. Here was a forest of towering pines like steeples. Wolves ran between the evergreens and hawks glided above, and several times the riders saw true bears; the beasts fed from icy streams, catching salmon in their jaws. The snow kept falling, and with every gust of wind, clumps of snow fell from the trees with thumps.

Torin kept looking around for Verilish soldiers, guardians of the border, but saw none. Here was a vast land, as large as Arden and Mageria combined, covered with ice and boulders and thick woods. Perhaps Verilon depended more on its harsh hinterlands for defense than any wall or guard along its borders.

They were weary, but they did not wish to set camp here in the wilderness of a foreign land. They rode on, breath frosting, lips blue, and the snow would not stop falling. They ate as they rode, and Torin found himself nodding off in the saddle, despite the pain in his limbs and the blisters growing on his thighs.

Dreams of half-wakefulness filled his mind. He was young again in these visions, traveling into the night for the first time, Bailey at his side. When wolves stared between the pines, eyes glowing, he saw Koyee's eyes—large and lavender, peering from behind a boulder near the village of Oshy, a turn almost two decades ago . . . the first time he had seen her. And he saw Madori's eyes, just as large and purple. Those eyes stared at him, blinking, confused, after she had first emerged from the womb. They stared at him with love, a girl still innocent about the horrors in the world. They stared at him with anger, a rebellious youth, as he took her to Teel University in the vipers' nest.

Will I see their eyes again? he wondered. A lump filled his throat. He missed his family so badly his chest ached and his belly felt full of snow.

And as always, he thought of those he had lost: of his dear friend Hem, that lumbering giant of a boy; of his parents, fallen to the plague; of Bailey, the dearest friend he'd ever had, the twin light of his heart. No matter how far he traveled from home, those he left behind still filled him with memories and pain.

They had ridden for several more hours when they saw the walls rise ahead.

"The city of Orewood," Torin said, and a chill ran through him. "Looks more like a mausoleum for giants."

The great wall stretched across the snowy forest, rising a hundred feet tall. Built of rugged, dark gray bricks, the wall reminded Torin of many tombstones cobbled together. Icicles hung from the battlements, and snow topped the merlons. As the Ardish convoy rode closer, Torin saw the banners of Verilon rising from guard towers; they displayed a brown bear upon a green field. Soldiers stood upon the walls. Their beards were brown and bushy, and they wore crude, iron breastplates over fur, and more pelts hung around their shoulders and peeked from under their helmets. Their bows were long and their spears longer, and their eyes were dark.

Torin and Cam rode closer, leading their convoy toward a gatehouse. Two round towers rose here, each large enough to be a fortress in its own right. Across a ravine rose a stone archway, its doors hidden behind a raised drawbridge. A dozen Verilish soldiers stood upon the gatehouse battlements, staring down with nocked arrows in their bows.

The Ardish company halted across the chasm. The snow rose a foot deep, hiding their horse's hooves. Their banners unfurled once in the wind, revealing the ravens of Arden, then wilted. Torin glanced at his companions, then rode several feet forward, bringing himself to the edge of the ravine. He hefted his raven shield, coned a gloved hand around his mouth, and cried up to the guards.

"Men of Verilon! I am Sir Torin Greenmoat of Arden. With me rides King Camlin, lord of our realm. Three knights and thirty men-at-arms are with us. We've ridden for many turns and seek your hospitality."

The guards upon the gatehouse battlements seemed to stare at one another; it was hard to see from so far below, especially with the snow in the wind.

"We've come as allies of Verilon!" Torin cried. "As war rages across Mythimna, and as the Radian Empire clashes against Verilon along the Icenflow, we offer our friendship. Will you let us enter and speak with your king?"

For long moments nothing happened. No voice from above answered. But no arrows fell either; Torin took that as a good sign.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, metal chains creaked, and the drawbridge began to descend. When it clanked down across the gorge, it revealed a rising portcullis and swinging, iron-banded doors.

Torin turned his head and looked at his companions. They stared back. Cam nodded and the companions rode onto the drawbridge, leaving the forest and entering the city of Orewood.

Torin entered first. He found himself in a cobbled courtyard surrounded by a hundred archers and swordsmen. More archers stood in towers ahead, pointing their arrows down at him. Beyond the courtyard he glimpsed many log houses, the stone domes of temples, and several distant fortresses.

A Verilish man wobbled forth, his cast iron breastplate barely able to contain his massive gut. His beard was almost as large, hanging down to his belt, and his cheeks were ruddy. He must have stood seven feet tall, and a war hammer—its head was large as a boot—hung across his back. Beneath his armor, he wore fur pelts, and he carried a pewter tankard overflowing with frothy ale.

"Men of Arden!" he boomed. "I am Hogash, Captain of the Southern Gates. We will welcome you into our halls, where you will feast upon bloody meat and drink frothy ale, but first you will disarm yourselves. No swords, no arrows, no blades. Leave all your weapons at the gates, and leave your horses; they will be tended to. And if you try to slip any weapons past us, we'll flay you alive and feed your living, writhing remains to the bears." He slapped his belly and burst out with laughter, as if he had just told the world's funniest joke.

Cam glanced at Torin, then back at his men and nodded. The Ardishmen dismounted and began to unhook their weapons and hand them over to the Verilish guards: longswords, daggers, bows, quivers of arrows, and lances. Cam watched the weapons and horses being escorted away, looking like a starving man who had just seen a dog snatch away his meal.

"When I was a shepherd, I never thought I'd miss having a sword," the king muttered to Torin. "Now I feel naked without one."

The corpulent captain turned and waddled toward a street, and the Ardish company followed. As they walked, Torin looked around, soaking in the sights of Orewood, capital of Verilon.

Log houses lined the streets, their sloping roofs coated with snow, and icicles hung from their eaves. Chimneys pumped out smoke, and through open window shutters, Torin glimpsed bear rugs and crackling hearths. The city folk wore fur and leather, and their cheeks were red. Men sported proud beards and women hid their hair under shawls. They were a heavyset people, wide of bodies and wide of faces, but their eyes seemed kind to Torin, their ways simple and old. The sounds of the city rose in a symphony: chickens clucking in backyards and pecking for seeds in the snow, cats mewling upon roofs, hammers ringing in smithies, men singing drunkenly in taverns over mugs of ale, and stocky housewives beating the dust out of rugs. Like its music, the city's aroma was intoxicating; Torin smelled rich stews cooking in homes, tangy sausages hanging in butcher shop windows, oiled iron and soft fur pelts, and finally the stench of gutters flowing with the contents of emptied chamber pots.

As they kept walking, heading deeper into the city, stone buildings began to rise among the log homes. Several buildings seemed to be temples, their roofs topped with bronzed domes, and statues of bears stood outside their gates. Others buildings were manors for the city's wealthy; several sported silver domes, and one's dome was even gilded. Finally, Torin saw several fortresses, and many soldiers stood outside them, massive men with barrel chests, bushy beards, and war hammers. Each warrior of Verilon seemed twice the size of an Ardish or Magerian soldier.

After walking for an hour or two, Torin saw the fabled Geroshahall—palace of Verilon.

"By Idar's swollen feet," he muttered.

Geroshahall was massive, easily five times the size of Arden's royal palace back at Kingswall. It was carved of the same rough, gray bricks as the rest of the city, and icicles hung from its turrets and battlements. Soldiers stood upon its encircling wall, and between them rose the bear banners. Beyond the wall rose a dozen wide, circular towers topped with gold, bronze, silver, and iron domes. While Arden's palace was elegant, pale, and delicate, here was a powerful, looming structure, more a fortress than a palace. While guards in Arden wore polished steel and golden cloaks, here the guards looked as scruffy as woodsmen, their cast iron breastplates as crude as peasants' frying pans, their furs coated with snow and mud, their beards untamed.

Arden's palace is a fine maiden, perfumed and fair, Torin reflected. Verilon's palace is the gruff, burly enforcer who tosses drunkards out of the tavern.

Hogash, Captain of the Southern Gates, spoke to the guards of Geroshahall. The surly men gave the Ardish companions stern looks, muttered under their breath, and hefted their hammers. Finally, cursing and spitting, they shoved open Geroshahall's iron-banded doors.

Hogash drank deeply from his stein, wiped suds off his mustache, and lumbered into the hall. Torin, Cam, and their retinue followed, entering the heart of Verilon.

They found themselves in a massive hall—the largest indoor structure Torin had ever seen. Six rows of columns, each as wide as a guard tower, supported a ceiling so distant it all but vanished into shadows. The floor was rough and pitted, and a dozen great fireplaces roared in the walls, filling the chamber with heat, light, and smoke.

Men and women feasted at pine trestle tables. Upon iron platters lay steaming venison, smoked sausages, and roasted geese. Ale flowed from tankards. Clad in fur and metal, the diners ate with only large knives for cutlery, carving up meat and stuffing it greedily into their mouths. Ale beaded upon beards, and grease dripped down iron breastplates. Belches, laughter, and crude songs wafted through the air like the meaty scents. Dogs scurried underfoot, feasting upon bones and scraps the diners tossed their way.

"By Idar," Cam whispered to Torin, his eyes wide with awe. "This is what we need back in Arden. Not fancy lords nibbling on crumpets with forks thinner than my pinky finger."

Torin grimaced. "Right now, Serin's troops are feasting in Arden's palace. I'd take all the dessert forks in the world over a hall full of Radians."

As they walked closer to the trestle tables, the diners noticed them and raised their tankards in welcome, spilling droplets of the amber ale. At the head of the table rose a chair larger than the others; Torin assumed that it served as Verilon's throne. The massive, wooden seat was carved into the shape of an upright bear complete with iron claws that sprouted from the armrests. A man sat here, looking much like a bear himself. His chest was wide as a wagon, and his belly seemed large enough to digest a entire roast pig. Ale and grease filled his beard, and his cheeks were flushed red. He stared at the Ardishmen from under bushy eyebrows. Above his furs, he wore a dark breastplate engraved with the emblem of a rearing bear. Upon his head perched a crown—not a crown of gold as southern kings wore but a heavy, iron construction shaped as bear claws thrusting upwards.

Hogash shouted out the introduction, "Here sits Ashmog, son of Fargosh, King of Verilon!"

The king belched, wiped suds off his mouth, and rose to his feet with the sound of clanking armor and creaking wood.

"Look at that one!" the king boomed, pointing a turkey leg at Cam. "I've eaten meals larger than him. And that one!" He thrust the turkey leg toward Torin. "His beard is shorter than the hairs on my backside."

The king roared with laughter, spraying out bits of half-chewed meat. The hall roared with him, and men banged tankards against the tabletop in approval.

Hogash gestured at the Ardish companions. "My king! Here before you stands Camlin, King of Arden. And with him thirty ravens of his flock."

King Ashmog snorted. "Former king perhaps. I hear the Radians' backsides are warming his throne now." The king lumbered around the table and across the hall, his feet pounding against the stone floor. Two war hammers hung across his back, their heads as large as loaves of bread. He came to stand before the Ardish company, towering above them; Torin's head barely reached the man's chin, while Cam stood shorter than his shoulders.

"Your Highness." Cam bowed his head. "I've come here to—"

Ashmog thrust out a massive hand—it looked more like a paw—and grabbed Cam's chin, forcing his head up. "Look me in the eyes! No man who bows can call himself a king." Ashmog snorted and spat sideways. "Is that why you lost your throne, runt? Did you bow as the Radians invaded rather than fight?" He raised his arms and roared for all the hall to hear. "But King Ashmog fights! Ashmog will lead the Motherland to victory!" Across the hall, his men roared and banged the tabletops. Ashmog spun in circles, arms raised, bellowing. "The Radian scum think they can cross the Icenflow, that they can invade our forests, that their magic makes them strong. But Verilon is stronger! We crushed their ships on the Icenflow, and we will drive them out of our forests." He spun back toward Cam, leaned down, and narrowed his eyes. "Here you see true might, little king, true warriors who will crush the enemy like a bear crushes a deer."

Cam's cheeks reddened. He stared up at the larger man. "We in Arden have been fighting this war every turn. I've led many raids against the Radian supply lines. I fought Serin's forces upon the open fields. I thrust my sword into Lord Gehena. I—"

"You," said Ashmog, "are now here, seeking sanctuary." He jabbed Cam's chest with his turkey leg. "If the Ardish were so mighty, your kingdom would still stand." He stuffed the turkey leg into his mouth and sucked up all the meat at once, leaving a clean bone. He spoke as he chewed. "Why are you here, ravens? Have you come to seek safety from the cold of winter and the Radian fire?"

"We've come to forge an alliance," said Cam. "Ten thousand Ardish troops camp along the border. South of them, at Kingswall,

a Radian army of fifty thousand prepares to march north . . . and they will come here. They will lay siege to Orewood, and their machines of war will smash your walls and towers as they did at Kingswall. Let us aid you, King Ashmog. Let my army join yours, and together we will defend these walls."

Ashmog snorted and swallowed his meat. He grabbed a tankard of ale and drank deeply. "So I was right. You've come here for safety. You fear to face the Radians in the field, and you seek to shelter your forces behind my walls." He snorted. "You think that Serin, that lump of bear dung, poses a threat to me? Verilon is stronger than he can imagine. If Serin marches here, we don't need a few Ardish birds to help us. Our gates can withstand any catapult or battering ram."

Torin spoke for the first time. He stepped closer to the king and met the large man's gaze. "But can your gates withstand magic? Have you ever faced mages in battle? I have." Torin shuddered at the memories. "I saw mages spew out dark smoke, crumbling the walls of Sinyong, a great port city in the night. I saw mages smash down the walls of my own city in Arden. I saw their magic crush steel armor as if it were tin, tug bones out of flesh, and melt stone." He clenched his fists at his sides. "You not only face a great horde of soldiers. You face mages, King Ashmog, and to defeat them, you need all the help you can get. In this hour, all free folk of Moth must fight together against the rising Radian Empire."

The king's brown eyes narrowed, becoming sly slits beneath his bushy eyebrows. He leaned down, scrutinizing Torin. Slowly his cheeks reddened and his teeth clenched. He spun around, staring at Captain Hogash.

"Hogash! Who is this man? I've heard tales of men with mismatches eyes, one green like Timandra, the other dark as the night."

The Captain of the Gates raised his chin. "He identified himself as Sir Torin Greenmoat. He—"

"Torin Greenmoat!" roared Ashmog. The king tossed back his head and raised his hands, spilling ale from his tankard. His howl seemed to shake the hall. "Torin Greenmoat, son of Teramin! Here is the son of Fargosh's Bane!" The king slammed his fist against a table, shattering it. Iron plates and pewter mugs crashed onto the floor. He spun back toward Torin, face red, saliva spraying. "Your father was a murderer, a coward, a sneaky beast who stabbed my own father in the back."

Torin felt the blood drain from his cheeks. He cleared his throat. "My father fought the previous king of Verilon. It's true. But he never killed him. He took the war hammer onto his shield, and—"

Ashmog roared and tossed his tankard across the hall. "Our last king lived to an old age and died with only daughters. He was my uncle. He raised me as a son—after your father slew mine in the forest. Or do your people not tell that tale?"

Torin gulped, remembering his old lessons of heraldry. Of course! Ashmog was not the son of Verilon's previous king; his father, Fargosh, had been only a prince, had fallen in the great war many years ago.

"Perhaps our fathers met in battle," Torin said, "but Teramin Greenmoat would never stab a man in the back. He—"

Ashmog swept his hand across another table. Plates flew and slammed into Torin.

"How dare you enter my hall!" Ashmog bellowed. "You, the son of the cursed Demon Raven." He pointed a finger at Torin; it trembled with rage. "You, the spawn of Verilon's greatest enemy. I would sooner name Serin my heir than allow this worm into my hall. Hogash! Men of Verilon! Seize him! Grab Torin Greenmoat, and we will feed him to the great bear!"

Cam began to shout, as did the Ardish knights behind him. Torin spun from side to side, trying to hold back the soldiers rushing toward him.

"King Ashmog, listen to me!" Torin shouted. "We cannot fight each other anymore. We—"

Several Verilish guards jumped onto him, fists raining down. Chains clasped around Torin's wrists, a sack was thrust over his head, and for the second time since this war began, all the world went dark around him.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN:

BLOOD ON THE MOUNTAIN

Neekeya crouched behind the boulders, staring down the mountainside at the winding path. She waited. She kept her hand on her bow. Her heart thrashed and her jaw clenched, but she would not turn away.

The mountains of Teekat spread around her. Above soared their peaks, capped with snow, but all around Neekeya the limestone was gray, bare, and craggy. Boulders rose like great, scattered crocodile teeth, and mist floated between them. Far below in the west, when she turned her head, she could see the distant haze of Daenor's marshlands. But this turn she focused on the east, for Teekat Mountains—a great range that soared thousands of feet high—separated the marshes from the plains of Mageria. And this turn, from the east, the wrath of that cruel empire would overflow.

Other soldiers of Daenor spread across the mountain, hidden behind boulders and in nooks. They wore mottled cloaks of gray and white, blending into the mountains. Beneath those cloaks they wore scale armor, and under their hoods hid toothed, reptilian helmets. Gloved hands clutched bows and spears, and swords hung from belts. The mountain pass stretched between them—a rough trail that crawled up the slope, many miles long. The ancient men of the mountain had carved it ten thousand years ago; along with smashed pottery in caves and a few runes etched into the boulders, this path was all that remained of that ancient civilization.

And this turn blood will wash this path, Neekeya thought. This turn it will become a red river.

She looked to her left. A few feet lower on the slope, Tam crouched behind another boulder. He too wore a mottled gray cloak, looking much like a boulder himself, and he too held a bow. Only the raven drawn onto his shield separated him from the three thousand Daenorians who waited here.

"They will be tired after their climb," Neekeya whispered to him. "They will have climbed Teekat Mountains for miles before reaching this place. We are strong, well-rested, quick, and we know these mountains. The enemy will fall."

She wondered if she was trying to comfort him or herself. She thought it was more of the latter. Now she wished her father had come to this fight. The Lord of Eetek had wanted to accompany her and the troops, yet Neekeya had insisted he stay at their pyramid.

"Danger crawls from every direction," she had told him in his hall, standing under an archway in the pyramid, gazing down at the marshlands. "The North Daenorians will not forgive the capture of their prince; they will march against us. In the south, the kingdom of Eseer has raised the Radian banners; they sail against us and land upon our coast." She had hugged the tall Lord Kee'an. "Stay here, Father. Stay here and lead. I will return. I promise."

She had kissed him then—perhaps for the last time—and come here with Tam. Come to kill, perhaps to die. To war. And now she missed her father, and she wondered if she'd ever embrace the old warrior again.

Not even two years ago, she thought, I was but an innocent who believed in magical rings and enchanted fairy tales. She tightened her lips for fear of them trembling. Now I will spill the blood of my enemies.

She thought back to Teel University. She remembered how Lari Serin had tormented her, and Neekeya wondered if Lari was fighting in this war, and if their paths would cross again—perhaps even here upon this mountain.

Crouching behind his boulder, Tam looked up toward her. He opened his mouth to speak, then shut it and tensed.

Neekeya sucked in her breath. Across the mountains, the other Daenorian soldiers nocked arrows.

She could not see the enemy yet, but she heard their thunder. Thudding feet. Clanking armor. A drumbeat. Above all other noises, trumpeting rose—not the trumpets of brass instruments, she thought, but an organic sound, enraged.

Neekeya sneered. "The Radians."

She stared east down the coiling path. She could trace it for about a mile; further down, the trail vanished behind a stony crest. The sounds rose from behind that peak of stone, echoing across the mountains. A chant began, deep and rumbling, a song about Emperor Serin burning the heathens. And still that trumpeting rose, shrill, sending chills down Neekeya's spine.

Be strong, Neekeya, she thought to herself, holding her nocked arrow steady. Be strong and you will survive this turn.

Across the Daenorian outposts, the hidden soldiers were silent. Not a scale of armor chinked. They were only three thousand—it was all the men the marshlands of Eetek could spare—and toward them marched the horde of an empire.

A gust of wind blew, scented of oil and metal, and billowed Neekeya's cloak. Stones tumbled below, and then she saw them.

Neekeya lost her breath.

Three massive beasts walked at the Radian vanguard. They were several times the size of horses, gray and wrinkled. Their ears were wide, and their noses were as long as pythons.

"Elephants," Neekeya whispered.

Their tusks were gilded, and when they tossed back their trunks and cried out, she recognized the trumpeting she had heard. Howdahs rose upon the elephants' backs—towers of wood and leather—and archers stood within, clad in tiger pelts. The soldiers sported braided red beards strewn with beads, and tattoos covered their bare chests.

Nayan warriors, Neekeya realized—dwellers of the rainforest south of Mageria. Now they bore the Radian banners, joined to Serin's cause.

Across the mountain, the Daenorians remained hidden, crouched behind boulders, arrows ready. Neekeya raised her hand, urging the soldiers to wait. She looked back toward the path.

The elephants came climbing higher. At first Neekeya had seen only three, but now many more emerged to climb up the path; she counted a full twenty. Behind them marched lines of Nayan footmen, spears across their backs. Tiger skins hung from them as cloaks, the heads still attached and serving as hoods. Live tigers walked among them too, chained and growling. Rather than fly the flags of Naya, these troops raised the Radian eclipse banners.

Neeeya held her hand raised, palm open. "Wait," she mouthed. "Wait."

The enemy kept marching up the path. Soon the elephants at the vanguard were only five hundred yards away. As more Nayan troops emerged from behind the lower peak, they revealed other soldiers. Magerians marched here too, wearing the black armor of their kingdom, but their breastplates no longer sported the buffalo—sigil of their old dynasty—but the eclipse of Lord Serin. While the Nayans walked in a mass, their red beards and hair wild, the Magerian troops marched in perfect precision, automatons of metal.

The Nayans are wildfire, Neekea thought, and the Magerians are cold steel. But both raise the Radian banners, and both will die as one. Their blood will flow the same.

She kept her hand raised.

Wait. Wait . . .

The enemy kept snaking up the path. Neekeya saw thousands of them. Soon the vanguard was only three hundred yards away, then two, then close enough that Neekeya could stare into the elephants' eyes.

She growled.

She formed her hand into a fist.

"Now!" she shouted.

She leaped to her feet and shoved the boulder she hid behind. Around her, dozens of other Daenorians did the same.

The boulders creaked.

The elephants trumpeted and men shouted below.

The boulders tilted over and rolled down the mountain pass.

Neekeya crouched and stared down, sneering as the boulders slammed into the enemy host.

Elephants tumbled, their legs shattered. Some boulders rolled between the great beasts to slam into the lines of infantry. Men fell, bones snapping. Some troops leaped aside, slamming into their brethren, sending men cascading down the mountainside.

"Arrows!" Neekeya shouted.

Heart pounding against her ribs, she loosed her arrow. The projectile sailed toward a howdah and slammed into a Nayan archer within. The man clutched his chest, crashed out of the howdah, and fell off the elephant. The beast, wounded and enraged, stepped on the man in its confusion, crushing him. More Daenorian arrows sailed downward and slammed into the enemy. The arrowheads were smeared with the venom of the marshlands' golden frogs; just a drop was enough to still a man's heart.

Dozens, maybe hundreds of bodies littered the mountain path.

The enemies shouted below. Nayan commanders barked orders from atop elephants, pointing spears at the Daenorians' locations. Magerians mustered alongside the path, drew swords, and began to march upwards, shields held before them.

"Fire!" Neekeya shouted, hoarse. "Shoot them down!"

She fired another arrow. Her fellow soldiers fired with her. Some of the projectiles slammed into the elephants, enraging the beasts. Other arrows slammed into enemy soldiers; some snapped against armor but many sank into flesh.

With battle cries, the Nayan troops fired their own arrows.

Neekeya crouched behind another boulder, this one deeply embedded into the mountainside. Arrows crashed against the stone and clattered around her. At her side, Tam fired an arrow, then crouched and raised his shield above his head.

"Slay them!" a man cried below, speaking in the language of Mageria. "Archers, fire!"

Whistles filled the air. Arrows sailed upwards, glinted in the sun, then came falling like comets. Neekeya grunted and raised her shield overhead. Three arrows punched through the wood, emerging only an inch away from her head. Another arrow scratched along her thigh, tearing her skin, and she grunted. Around her, hundreds of arrows peppered the landscape—clattering against stone, piercing shields, and some shedding blood. One Daenorian took an arrow to the neck; he gave a strangled cry and tumbled down the mountainside.

Neekeya stood up, her shield bristly with arrows, and raised her sword over her head. "Daenor—attack!"

Her army—thousands of swamp warriors, roaring through their crocodile helms—swept down the mountainside, swinging their swords.

The battle exploded with a clash of steel and showers of blood.

A rainforest warrior lunged toward Neekeya, and she raised her shield, blocking the swipe of his scimitar. She shoved against her shield, pushing the man down. He tripped on the rocky slope, crashed onto his back, and Neekeya swung down her sword. The blade cracked open his iron breastplate. She swung again, the breastplate shattered, and blood sprayed the man's red beard and braided hair.

Two more warriors leaped toward Neekeya. She swung her blade in a wide arc, parrying both men's scimitars. She thrust her shield in one direction, knocking one man down the mountain, and her sword in the other, piercing the second man's neck. Both soldiers tumbled down and knocked against their climbing brethren. Neekeya roared with fury, blood on her armor, fear and rage consuming her.

"Turn back, Radians!" she shouted, voice echoing across the battle. "Turn back or this mountain will be your graveyard."

Yet thousands were still climbing. An elephant's corpse lay before her, and she scuttled onto the dead animal to survey the battlefield below. She felt the blood drain from her cheeks.

"By Cetela," she whispered.

Most of the enemy host was still snaking up the mountainside. There were tens of thousands: Nayans in tiger pelts, Magerians in black armor, and further back marched Eseerians—desert warriors clad in white tunics, bearing sickle-shaped swords. The army was so massive it snaked down to the misty valleys.

This was not only a host to carve a path through the mountains. Neekeya grimaced. Here was a host to overwhelm all of Daenor and send the pyramids crumbling down.

Tigers raced up the mountainside, free of their leashes. Neekeya sneered. One of the animals pounced toward her, and she held out her shield. Its weight slammed her down. She tumbled off the dead elephant, the tiger clawing at her shield.

"Neekeya!"

A cloak fluttered. Metal flashed. Tam leaped forward, and his shield drove against the tiger, shoving the beast off. Neekeya rose to her feet and swung her sword in arcs, holding the animal back. Tam spared her only a glance before a Nayan warrior raced his way, thrusting a spear. The prince of Arden cried out, swung his sword, and parried.

"Crocodiles!" Neekeya shouted to the Daenorians who stood farther up the mountain. "Send out the beasts!"

Upon the mountains, Daenorians in gray robes pulled blankets off concealed cages. They unlocked the cage doors, and dozens of famished and furious crocodiles raced down the mountainside, jaws snapping. The reptiles, trained to avoid the soldiers of Daenor, ran toward the battle and drove through the enemy lines.

The battle raged on.

Neekeya fought with fury, sometimes slaying men with her sword, other times casting forward blasts of magic, using the powers she had learned at Teel. Always Tam fought at her side; his sword danced with hers, and his magic slammed into enemy armor, cracking the steel and breaking the bones within. All around them, the hosts fought: tigers, elephants, crocodiles, rainforest warriors, swamp dwellers, and knights in black steel. An hour into the battle, robed mages joined the fray; they rode upon black horses, and their blasts of magic tore across the mountain, sending boulders tumbling down to crush men.

"Do not let a single man pass!" Neekeya shouted as she fought. "Protect Daenor!"

Several scales were missing from her armor. Chips marred her sword. Blood seeped down her thigh, arm, and forehead. Yet still she fought, refusing to retreat.

At Teel I was only a weak girl, so afraid, a foreigner for the Radians to torment. She roared and swung her sword, cutting men down. But now I am a warrior.

"Neekeya!" Tam shouted. He grabbed her. Blood dripped down his face and covered his arm. "Neekeya, we can't hold them back."

"We must!" She slew another man. "Daenor, fight! Hold them back!"

Several Magerian troops came racing up toward her. She summoned particles from the air, wove them into three balls, and tossed the projectiles down the mountainside. The magic crashed against the soldiers' legs, sending them tumbling down. Desert warriors raced over the fallen, their white robes flowing, and swung scimitars toward her. Tam and Neekeya fought side by side, cutting the men down. Yet tens of thousands were still climbing, and the corpses of Daenorians littered the mountain.

"We've lost most of our men already!" Tam said. He spat out blood. "We can't win."

Neekeya trembled with fear and weakness. "Then I will die with my men! I will not run." Her eyes burned. "I cannot run."

A man rode up the mountainside toward them. Enemy troops moved aside, letting him pass. It was a mage, his robes black and flowing, his face hooded. He raised a pale, withered hand.

Neekeya growled and summoned her own magic, weaving a protective field of air. But the mage was too fast. A bolt of lightning shot from his fingers and slammed into her armor, and Neekeya screamed and fell.

The lightning raced across her, raising smoke. She screamed. Tears flowed from her eyes. She pawed at her armor, struggling to tear it off. Her hair crackled and she couldn't breathe. Wincing, she saw the mage dismount and walk toward her, grinning within his hood, driving more of the lightning into her. Scales on her armor sparked and cracked, and she wept.

"Tam!" she screamed, but he was writhing at her side, lightning crashing against him too. He too was screaming.

No. Not like this. I'm not done killing yet.

Though her body convulsed, wreathed in lightning, Neekeya manage to stand up. She stumbled forward and slammed herself against the mage.

The lightning passed from her to him, and he howled and fell backwards. He crashed down onto the mountainside, his cloak caught flame, and his magic died.

Trembling, tears streaming, Neekeya thrust her blade into him.

Tam struggled to his feet, coughing, his hair singed and his face sooty.

"Neekeya," he managed to say, voice hoarse and weak. "The mountain is lost. Look around you." He gestured at the dead Daenorians; perhaps only five hundred remained alive, facing tens of thousands of enemies. "We must fall back. We'll fight them in the marshlands, firing arrows down from the trees. That is the true domain of Daenor. That is where we'll make our last stand."

As men fought around her, Neekeya gazed across the battle. Her eyes burned with tears. The best of Daenor had come here—the noblest of her sons and daughters—and here they had fallen. Here forever their souls would reside and their glory would whisper in the wind. She knew Tam was right.

"The mountains are lost," she whispered. She raised her voice and shouted to her kinsmen. "The mountains are lost! Fall back, children of Daenor! Fall back to the marshlands!"

She slew a man who raced toward her. She screamed as an arrow grazed her cheek, and her blood dripped. She began to race up the mountain, shouting as she ran.

"Daenor, fall back! To the marshlands!"

She leaped over the bodies of her kinsmen. Their eyes stared at her, glassy, condemning. How dare you leave us here, latani of Eetek? Do not leave us upon the stone! Return us to the marshes.

Yet she had to leave them. She raced over the dead, rallying the living around her. Arrows flew. One slammed into a Daenorian at her side, slaying him—a mere youth, younger than herself. She kept running.

The last defenders of Daenor, only several hundred, fled down the western mountainside, bleeding, shouting, heading down into the swamplands. Behind them like a rising sun charged the Radian forces, beating drums and chanting for victory.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN:

SHATTERING

Madori rode through the darkness, the wind ruffling her hair and Grayhem's fur. She leaned forward upon the nightwolf, staring south into the shadows.

"Hurry, Grayhem," she pleaded. "We have to hurry."

The wolf panted but kept racing across the wilderness. The land was flat and rocky and black, the great emptiness north of the Inaro River and west of the Iron Road. The lights of the night sky shone above: the constellations, a crescent moon, the faded trail of light men called the White Dragon's Tail, and those moving stars Koyee claimed were distant worlds, sisters to Moth. But Madori kept waiting to see other lights—the lights of Pahmey, the great western city of Qaelin, a hub of life in the darkness of endless night.

She held up her locket and flicked it open as she rode. As before, it showed nothing. If Koyee still had her locket, it was closed.

"Stars damn it, Mother!" Madori cried into the wind. "Where are you?"

She had not seen a vision in the locket for hours, or maybe it had been full turns now. The last vision had shown Koyee sailing on a boat of refugees, heading toward the glass towers of Pahmey. Madori had never been to that city, but she had seen it painted upon many scrolls: a city of high walls bedecked with lamps, of glass towers that shone with inner lights, of domes like the moon, and of floating lanterns. If Serin's forces had truly driven into the night, would the Elorians meet them there in battle?

"Keep running, Grayhem," she said, stroking his fur as he raced across the land.

Her sword hung across her back—the blade renamed, no longer Sheytusung but Min Tey, the glow of the water, for her mind was now like a clear pond reflecting the moonlight. With the wisdom of Yin Shi, she knew she could keep her rage and fear under control, could keep her mind clear even while in danger. She hadn't completed her training in Yin Shi, as she hadn't completed her training of magic at Teel University, but she would take all knew of both skills, and she would use them in battle.

I will meet you again, Serin, she swore. And this time I will not just cut off your finger but your head. You have not yet met Min Tey in battle.

She rode on through the endless night.

She rode for many turns.

When they were too tired to continue, Grayhem and she slept under the stars. When they were hungry, they searched the moist earth for mushrooms and truffles, and when they raced over rocky plains, they dug for underground beetles, worms, and rodents, horrid little things that made Madori queasy but kept her alive. She drank melted snow. She rode on.

Through the cold and darkness, a song kept playing in her mind, and soon she was singing it as she rode, her voice soft. She sang "The Journey Home," one of the oldest songs of Eloria, the song her mother had taught her. Koyee had sailed alone upon the Inaro as a youth, and "Sailing Alone" had become an anthem to her, the song she had played on the streets and in the glittering burrows of the yezyani. But Madori, torn between day and night, always seeking a home, had another song to her heart, and in the darkness, seeking Pahmey, seeking a battle to fight, seeking a home, her voice rang with her song and filled the night.

Ten turns after leaving Master Lan Tao in the northern Desolation, Madori finally saw the lights of Pahmey ahead.

Upon a hilltop, she halted her nightwolf and gasped, staring at the distant city.

Pahmey rose upon the northern bank of the silver Inaro River. Black walls surrounded the city, topped with many lanterns. Beyond the walls, Madori saw thousands of homes built of opaque glass bricks, their roofs riled red, green, and gold, their edges curling upwards like scrolls. Many pagodas rose among the houses, dragon statues atop their roofs—temples to Xen Qae and to the constellations. At the city's crest, glass towers rose toward the sky, and they shone with inner lights of silver, lavender, and blue. The greatest tower among them—Minlao Palace—supported a silver dome shaped like the moon. Even higher up, hot air balloons hovered in the sky between floating lanterns.

It was a city of light, of beauty, of knowledge, an oasis in the dark wilderness.

It was a city under attack.

Myriads of Magerian troops surrounded the city. The enemy's warships floated in the river, eclipses painted upon their sails, showing the golden sun hiding the moon. Thousands of riders sat upon horses, and countless footmen stood behind them, their black armor reflecting the light of their torches. Barely visible, mere specks in the night, were the mages. Madori had never seen so many of them in one place, not even at Teel—a thousand mages or more rode upon black horses, the vanguard of the host. The Radian army surrounded Pahmey like a colony of ants surrounding a fallen morsel.

"Mother," Madori whispered, chest shaking. "Mother, where are you?"

She pulled the locket from under her shirt. When she flipped it open, a gasp fled her lips.

"Mother!" she cried.

Koyee's locket was open, and some hope filled Madori. Did that mean Koyee was still alive? The view in the locket showed the Radian host up close: lines of troops in dark steel, their torches crackling; mages upon horses, hidden in black robes; warships in the river, cannons on their decks; and beyond the soldiers and masts, the towering walls of Pahmey, and upon them Elorian archers in steel scales.

"Why . . . why are you among the Radians?" Madori whispered. How could Koyee's locket be showing her a view from outside the city?

The view in the locket spun madly. When the locket finally steadied, it revealed a familiar face.

Madori felt faint.

It was Serin.

The Emperor, Lord of the Radian Order, stared through the locket directly into Madori's eyes . . . and smiled.

With a cry, Madori slapped her locket shut.

She trembled. Her heart beat madly. Her head spun.

"Mother . . ."

Was Koyee dead? Had Serin killed her and claimed her locket?

"Mother!" she cried toward the distant city. Her tears burned. She panted. She—

Breathe. Slowly. Focus.

It was Master Lan Tao speaking in her mind. Nostrils flaring, Madori obeyed him. She slowly inhaled, filling her lungs from bottom to top, letting the soothing air flow across every part of her, down to her toes, along her arms, and inside her head. With every new breath, she let the panic flow away. With every breath, she focused her awareness on where she was: the feel of Grayhem's fur against her thighs, the softness of her silk dress against her body, the chill of the wind that streamed her two long strands of black hair. Slowly she became fully aware of herself, in control again, grounded.

"I have to find you, Mother," she said into the wind. "I have to fight at your side."

Distant shouts in Qaelish rose from the city walls. The banners of Qaelin rose from the city's battlements—a silver moon within a star upon a black field. Soldiers in scale armor cried out the words of their empire: "We are the night!" And under this night sky, Madori—born half of sunlight—felt a full child of darkness. Under this sky, facing this battle, she was a child of Qaelin, of Eloria, and she would fight for the darkness.

"We are the night!" they cried below, and their arrows flew from the walls toward the enemy hosts. Bronze cannons shaped as dragons fired from the battlements, and their cannonballs crashed into the forces of sunlight.

The battle began.

Madori drew her sword, kneed her nightwolf, and leaned forward over his back.

"Run, Grayhem! To war!"

He ran.

Madori raised her sword, charging down the hills toward the enemy troops. She would die here, she knew; she was a lone woman charging toward thousands. But she would not cower as her mother needed her, as her city—and this turn Pahmey was her city, the beacon of her heart—lay surrounded by light.

She had ridden only halfway toward the enemy when the walls of Pahmey began to shake.

Madori hissed, eyes wide.

The thousand mages surrounded the city like a noose, riding upon their black mares, and each bore a crackling red torch. Their free hands pointed toward Pahmey, and dark magic oozed from them, tendrils of black and silver coiling like serpents.

One glass tower, hundreds of feet tall and filled with blue light, cracked. The sound of shattering glass pounded against Madori's ears even as she rode. With a great shriek, the tower collapsed. Elorians—small as ants from here—tumbled from its windows. Shards of glass showered over surrounding roofs. Finally the tower vanished in a cloud of dust.

Madori could barely breathe.

"Serin!" she shouted. She doubted her voice could he heard; thousands of voices were now screaming from the city. "Serin, stop this!"

A second tower crashed down, its glass walls shattering. Screams rose from the city. Cracks raced along the walls. The mages kept casting their magic, and Madori rode as fast as Grayhem would carry her, but she could not help, could not avoid seeing the devastation.

One chunk of wall fell, its turrets and ramparts slamming into the ground. Behind it, houses collapsed and vanished into sinkholes. More towers crumbled. Dust rose in clouds, thick with glass fragments that flew like snow, a million lights reflecting the fires. More of the wall fell. Canyons were tearing open. Sinkholes greedily swallowed buildings like gluttons guzzling down food. Elorians began to flee the city, racing out the gates into the wilderness, only to encounter the enemies' swords.

Madori was only a mile away, charging toward the enemy troops, when a great crack tore across the land, louder than anything she had heard. She was forced to cover her ears, and even Grayhem yowled. A thousand buildings in Pahmey tilted inward, their walls crumbling. Dust blasted out. A massive sinkhole opened within Pahmey's center . . . and the ruins of the city vanished.

Mewling, Grayhem stopped running, stared down, and whimpered.

When the dust settled, all that remained of Pahmey was a ring of cracked walls, a few odd houses clinging to the rim, and a great hole in the center.

"They're all gone," Madori whispered. "Thousands of buildings. Countless people. A history of thousands of years. Gone."

Her tears flowed. She had never seen such devastation. She had heard stories of the last war, of how King Ceranor of Arden had attacked this city, how thousands of Elorians had died defending it. But this . . . this wasn't conquest. This was genocide. This was the effacement of a civilization.

Madori stared in horror. "Pahmey is gone."

For long moments, the land was eerily silent.

Then the Radian troops began to cheer.

Men waved banners and blew trumpets. Joyous songs erupted. Effigies of Elorians, constructed of wood and straw, were set aflame. White doves were released into the sky. Everywhere the troops cried out in joy, celebrating the destruction.

Only a few Elorians had survived along the sinkhole's rim—a couple thousand, that was all, a fraction of the city's lost civilization. The Radian soldiers mobbed them, chained them together, whipped them, kicked them, and howled with laughter as they bled.

Madori watched from the distance, still hidden in shadows, her wolf panting beneath her.

"What do I do?" She shuddered. "Stars of the night, what do I do?"

She looked into the locket again but saw nothing; its twin locket was closed. Was Koyee dead, one of the hundreds of thousands of fallen? Even Yin Shi could not calm Madori now, and her tears flowed.

"And so I will die with my mother." She raised her sword, and she roared into the darkness. "We are the night!"

A lone woman upon a lone wolf, she charged down toward the tens of thousands of Radian soldiers.

They turned toward her, amusement in their eyes, and Madori crashed against them, screaming and swinging her sword.

She fought in a mad fury. She fought with magic, blasting out bolts of power. She fought with Yin Shi, aware of every swing of a sword, and she cut men down, driving her katana through steel as easily as silk. Beneath her, Grayhem bit and clawed, driving through the enemy. Madori fought with tears in her eyes, a roar in her throat, a wild woman of darkness. Blood flew around her. Men toppled at her wolf's feet.

She was still screaming as blasts of magic knocked her off her wolf, as clubs slammed against her, as hands grabbed her, as chains wrapped around her ankles and wrists. Pain exploded across her. Fists drove into her face. Her wolf growled somewhere in the distance, and all she saw was a sea of Radian soldiers.

"Mother!" she cried hoarsely, blood in her mouth.

Hands yanked her to her feet. A canvas sack was thrust over her head. Blows drove into her stomach, and she doubled over, and a kick sent her sprawling. Her head hit something hard, and Madori wept for the loss of darkness.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN:

THE BEAR OF VERILON

Torin stood in the arena, chained to the pole, as the crowd roared around him.

Many years ago, Torin had stood in the arena of Asharo, Capital of Ilar, in the darkness of Eloria. There he had seen Koyee fight Tianlong, the black dragon of the night. Despite its horrors, that had been a grand amphitheater carved of polished stone, a marvel of architecture. This place, in the sunlit kingdom of Verilon, was only a crude pit dug into the dirt. The hole was a good ten feet deep, perhaps a hundred feet wide, and around it rose a ring of wooden bleachers. Hundreds of Verilish men and women sat upon the crude wooden seats, roaring down at the pit. They drank from pewter steins, dribbling ale onto their beards and thick fur cloaks, but their true thirst this turn was for blood.

My blood, Torin thought.

In the arena's center, a wooden pole rose from the frozen earth. A chain ran from the pole to Torin's ankle, perhaps ten feet long. He stood barefoot on the cold soil, clad in nothing but a woolen tunic, armed with nothing but the humble dagger they had given him. Like this, chained and shivering with cold, thousands of men watching and roaring for his blood, Torin waited to die.

I survived the great War of Day and Night—the dark magic at Sinyong, the inferno at Yintao, the bloodshed in Naya. I survived the torture of Lord Gehena. I lived through fire, through darkness, through war and disease. He clutched his dagger. And now I die like this, a fool for their amusement.

He scanned the crowd above, finally locating Ashmog. The King of Verilon was chewing on a pig's trotter between gulps of ale. Grease filled his bushy brown beard. Two young women sat on his lap, one on each knee, stroking the king's hair as he feasted.

"Ashmog!" Torin shouted up toward the king. "Ashmog, hear me! This is not the way. I've come here to aid you, not to fight for your pleasure."

The king gulped down a chunk of meat, looked from one of his women to the other, then burst out laughing. His two companions laughed with him, and soon the entire amphitheater was roaring.

"Oh, I don't expect you to fight much, murderer's son!" the king shouted down. He drank deeply, coating his mustache with foam. "You'll probably curl up and die begging for mercy." The king rose to his feet upon the bleacher, knocking his companions down. He pointed at Torin from above, his eyebrows pushed down, and his voice boomed. "My father fought nobly. He died with a bloody sword in his hand, slaying enemies, even as your father stabbed him in the back. But you . . . you will die squealing."

Torin grumbled. He refused to believe his father would ever stab a man in the back. His father had been a noble knight. Torin was about to shout back at the king, to defend Teramin Greenmoat's honor, when iron doors creaked open in the arena's wall.

Torin spun toward the exposed tunnel. A roar sounded from within. A great paw reached out from the tunnel, the claws as long as swords. All around the arena, the spectators upon the bleachers roared with new vigor.

By Idar . . .

The beast was too large to stand in the tunnel; it had to crawl out like a creature emerging from the womb. Its fangs were like spears, its eyes like smelters. When it rose to its feet, it towered like a great oak, twenty feet tall. Here stood the great bear Gashdov, a deity of the northern pine forests, symbol of Verilon—an ancient creature who fed upon the flesh of men.

Torin raised his dagger—a puny piece of metal.

The towering bear slammed its front paws against the ground. The arena shook. The crowd cheered. Roaring, Gashdov raced toward Torin, strings of saliva quivering between its teeth.

"Shan dei!" Torin cursed, switching to Qaelish in his fright. He ran behind the wooden pole. His chain clattered. An instant later, the bear's paw slammed down where Torin had stood, the claws digging into the frozen soil.

Torin's heart pounded and sweat washed him even in the cold. He clutched his dagger but knew he could not win this fight. He could barely even call this a fight; it was an execution.

I'll never see my wife and daughter again, he thought. He did not fear death, but how could he let Koyee become a widow, to let Madori live without a father?

The bear lolloped around the pole and faced Torin again. It rose to its hind feet, roared, and swiped its claws again.

Torin leaped back. The chain pulled tight, and he fell onto his back. The claws swiped over his head. Torin thrust up his dagger, and the blade cut into the bear's paw. The beast roared; the dagger was like a thorn's prick, enraging the bear but doing no harm.

The claws lashed again, each like a katana. One claw nicked Torin's shoulder. His blood splattered the icy floor. The crowd roared with a sound like a thunderstorm, and the arena shook.

"Eat his flesh!" Ashmog cried above. "Eat, Gashdov!"

The bear roared above Torin, mouth stretched wide. All Torin saw was the great gullet, the massive teeth, the swinging uvula.

Thrust your dagger! whispered a voice inside him. Fight it! Stab it!

Ignoring that voice, he tossed his dagger aside.

He forced himself to go limp.

I did not win the last war with violence, he thought. I won by fixing the Cabera Clock. By healing something broken.

"If you must feed," Torin whispered to the bear, "feed and enjoy your meal. But if you will suffer your hunger, I will provide you with more than a meal. I will offer you friendship." He stared at the roaring beast, and he recognized something in Gashdov's eyes—something lonely, something lost. "What is the greatest pain they caused you, friend? Hunger or loneliness?"

The great bear bellowed and Torin winced, waiting to be eaten. Surely Gashdov could not understand. It was a mindless animal, a vicious killer. But as the roar went on, those teeth did not rip into him, and Torin heard the loneliness in that cry, the pain. He stared up at the howling bear.

This is not merely an enraged animal, he thought. Gashdov is an ancient deity of the forest, one who is no less a prisoner than I am.

"I understand," Torin whispered. He reached up a hesitant hand and stroked the animal's brown fur. "I understand what they did to you. You're meant to roam the forests, to protect this ancient land, your domain, to watch over your people." Torin's eyes stung. "But they imprisoned you here, forced you to kill men for food. To entertain them."

The bear's roar now sounded like a plaintive cry of pain. His paws thumped down onto the soil, and Torin stroked the animal. The bear's head nuzzled him, as large as Torin's entire body.

"It's all right," Torin whispered. "I understand. I'm your friend."

The bear emitted soft, deep gurgles, sounds of old kindness almost crushed under hunger and imprisonment.

Across the arena, the roars of the crowd—like the roars of the bear—faded.

One hand upon the bear's head, Torin pointed up at King Ashmog.

"You imprisoned this animal!" he said. Blood dripped down Torin's arm but he barely noticed the pain. "You turned against your own protector, your own god. Even in Arden, we tell stories of the ancient Gashdov, a guardian of the forest, a noble deity of the northern hinterlands. And you turned him into this." Torin shook his head sadly. "Into a starving animal for a bear-baiting spectacle."

He stood in the arena, chest heaving, waiting for King Ashmog to call for archers, perhaps to call for a bow and shoot Torin himself. If he had to die, at least he'd die speaking truth. Truth is what he had always fought for, had always been willing to die for. Snow glided down, coating the arena, turning the bear white. Silence. No movement but for the falling snow.

Finally Ashmog spoke, and his voice was soft, awed, and in the silence it carried down from the bleachers, as clear as if shouted.

"He tamed Gashdov." Tears streamed down the beefy man's cheeks. "He tamed the beast!" The king rose to his feet, unslung his war hammer from across his back, and raised the weapon above his head. "He spoke to the bear, and the bear heard his words. Kava Or has risen!"

Torin blinked. Who had risen?

The bearded king trundled down the bleachers, shoving men aside, and entered the arena. He rushed toward Torin and the tamed bear. Torin half-expected the man to swing his hammer, and he winced. But King Ashmog knelt before Torin, holding out his hammer as an offering. Tears streamed down the king's ruddy cheeks, and his bottom lip trembled.

"Forgive me, Kava Or, He Who Talks to Bears." Ashmog's chest shook. "Forgive me, Old One, Spirit of the Forest. I did not know." He was weeping now. "You tamed Gashdov, Guardian of Verilon. You spoke to him. You are Kava Or, prophesied to rise in Verilon's greatest hour of peril, to return our god to sanity, to help us fight evil."

Along with relief for his spared life, anger rose in Torin. He stared at the kneeling, weeping king. "Saved him from sanity? Maybe if you hadn't imprisoned him, hadn't forced him to slay men for food, he would not have gone mad."

Ashmog prostrated himself. "Forgive us, Kava Or! The great god Gashdov went mad many generations ago, and we could not tame him, could not speak with him. But you spoke. And he listened." The king rose to his feet, eyes solemn. "I understand now. The prophesies spoke truth. An evil has arisen, and it storms forth from the south—the evil of the Radian Empire. Gashdov is restored to sanity. Kava Or has joined us." He turned toward the crowd. "Kava Or has risen!"

The crowd cheered and their voices soon rose in song, a prayer of the forest. In the arena, Gashdov moved closer to Torin, nuzzling him with his wet snout.

Stroking the animal, Torin looked at King Ashmog who stood beside him.

"Will you let the forces of Arden into your walls, Ashmog? Will you fight with us against the Radians?"

Ashmog tightened his lips and clutched Torin's shoulder. His eyes burned, and his lips peeled back in a sneer. "Kava Or, we will not just fight. We will crush the Radians as a hammer crushes stone."

CHAPTER NINETEEN:

A MEMORY OF MUSIC

Emperor Tirus Serin sat on his horse, staring down at the smoldering sinkhole, and clenched his fists.

"Gone," he whispered, voice choked. "You're gone, Pahmey. As I had vowed to you."

Around him, the hosts of his empire cheered. Men beat drums, blew trumpets, and sang the songs of Radianism. A hundred thousand troops roared for victory. In the river, men cheered atop ships, and cannons blasted out in triumph. Even Lari, sitting at Serin's side upon her horse, raised her fist and howled with joy.

But Serin watched silently, his jaw tight, the memories pounding through him. Most of the others were too young to remember. But he, Tirus Serin, had been to Pahmey before. The memory gripped him like a fist of magic.

He had been a young man, not yet thirty, when the last war had flared across the night. Sir Tirus Serin—handsome, the firstborn of a proud lord, heir to Sunmotte, a favorite son of sunlight. He was a man of Mageria, but that war he fought alongside Arden, the kingdom of his betrothed. His bride—a fair but weak-willed woman named Ora—waited back in Kingswall, and Serin had come here to kill, to shed as much blood as he could before settling down with a wife.

"Slay them all!" Serin shouted, marching through the city gates. "Slay the nightcrawlers!"

They stepped over the corpses of Elorians and through the shattered gates, entering the city of Pahmey.

And there Serin saw her.

His sword bloody, his blood pumping, he lost his breath.

An Elorian woman stood ahead on the boulevard. She was not a soldier; she wore no armor, only a black silk dress. Blood and cuts covered her, and she held a katana. Her oversized purple eyes met his gaze, then moved to stare at the dozens of soldiers around him.

"I am Koyee of Eloria!" she called out to the advancing Timandrians. "I am a warrior of the night. I am a huntress of the moonlit plains. This is my city. This is my land. You cannot enter. Return to the day! This city is forbidden to you. You cannot enter. We are the night!"

Serin had always thought the Elorians weak, sniveling creatures, nefarious and pathetic.

Here he saw strength. Here he saw beauty.

At that moment, Serin loved his enemy.

His comrades jeered around him, mocking Koyee. His king—the proud Ceranor—led men forth to slay the girl. But Serin could not fight, barely move.

She's beautiful, he thought. She intoxicated him, more alluring than wine, than killing an enemy. She was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen.

Then the battle flowed over the city. Swords rang. Arrows flew. Blood splattered the glass buildings of Pahmey. And she vanished.

And he killed.

Serin marched through the streets, slaying all in his path. He cut down Elorian soldiers. He cut down women, children, leaving a path of dead, slaying all those weak worms, seeking her—the only one who had stood up, had challenged him, had faced him with defiance. The single strong, noble, beautiful Elorian he had seen. Koyee.

"Where are you, Koyee?" he whispered, slicing through the fleeing enemy.

The city fell that turn. The banners of sunlight rose. The blood of Eloria washed the streets.

"Return to me," his betrothed pleaded in her letters. "Return to me, my sweet Tirus, so we may wed in the bright gardens of Kingswall or the proud halls of Markfir."

Ora sealed all her letters with a kiss, and Serin—a soldier in Occupied Pahmey—tossed the scrolls into the fire.

For months he lived in the Night Castle, a pagoda claimed from the defenders of Pahmey. For months he patrolled the streets of that city, keeping the Elorians in line, hunting down any who dared resist the conquerors of sunlight.

For months he sought her.

"Koyee," he whispered whenever he lay down to sleep in the Night Castle. "The Girl in the Black Dress."

He was not alone in seeking her, of course. The Sailith monks, led by the squat and cruel Ferius, searched every warren for Koyee—the girl who had wounded Ferius himself in the battle. None found her.

She must be dead, Serin thought as he lay in bed, as he patrolled the streets, as he dreamed of her. Or perhaps she fled the city. She is gone. His throat tightened. And I must return to my betrothed in the sunlight, to a lesser woman.

The desperation clawed at him. Serin was not a drinker, not a smoker, but that turn he needed to forget, to drown his worries in ale and the hintan spice the Elorians puffed in their dens. Clad in his armor, he walked along the cobbled streets. Houses of opaque glass bricks rose at his sides, their tiled roofs curling up at the edges. Many lanterns shone, their tin shaped as laughing faces, and eyes glowed inside bat houses of iron and silver. The towers of the city's crest rose above, glass beacons of light. Public fireplaces, their grills shaped as dragons, roared at every street corner. Few Elorians walked the streets these turns—a few men and women, clad in silken robes and embroidered sashes, hurried between houses on slippered feet, quickly vanishing into shadows. Most shops were closed. Most taverns had boarded up their doors, refusing to serve the enemy. All but one place.

"The Green Geode," Serin said, staring at the place. His soldiers had spoken of it in hushed tones. From the outside, it seemed a simple building, not even constructed of glass but simple dark stone. The Green Geode was a rock in a field of flowers. This neighborhood sprawled near the city's crest, a place for the wealthy, and the other buildings here were grand, their columns soaring, their lanterns bright, places of welcoming light and song. Through their wide glass windows, Serin could see Elorian dancers and actors entertaining the Timandrian troops. But Serin cared little for dances or plays; he sought only forgetfulness. He would find forgetfulness in what the Elorians called "pleasure dens"—places for lost souls.

He entered the Green Geode, this little nook in the shadows. Once inside, he understood the den's name. While the outside was crude rock, green light washed the inner chamber. Crystals hung from the ceiling. Lanterns blazed upon the walls. Several Timandrian soldiers sat at tables, drinking ale and wine, and some even smoked hintan from hookahs—the Elorian spice that softened the mind, that erased memories. The purple spice bubbled in glass vials, and green smoke wafted through the air.

Upon stages stood the yezyani—Elorian women trained in the arts of dance, song, music, and seduction. They wore scanty silks that revealed more than they hid, and jewels shone upon them, little glass vials that trapped the light of angler fish. Two of the yezyani swayed upon one stage, dancing seductively. Another performed with marionettes. The third, clad in an indigo qipao dress and a clay mask, played a flute.

Serin's eyes narrowed. He stared at the flutist.

His heart burst into a gallop.

Her mask hid her face, but Serin knew that proud stance, that flowing white hair, those lavender eyes that gleamed within her mask's eye holes.

"Koyee," he whispered.

She met his gaze, then looked away, playing on. Serin sat at a table, but he no longer craved to forget. He ordered no wine, no spice, merely sat and watched and listened.

Beautiful, he thought, mesmerized. A beautiful song. A beautiful woman.

"You are the only one who resisted me," he whispered, thinking back to his first turn in Pahmey, to marching through the gates and seeing her defiance, her sword, her flashing eyes.

He knew that he loved her—hopelessly, eternally.

When her song ended and she stepped off the stage, he approached her. She tried to leave the common room, to climb upstairs to her chamber, but he blocked her way. His bulky, armored form was twice the size of her slim, silk-clad body.

She stared up at him. Through the mask holes, her eyes narrowed.

"Move," she said, speaking in Ardish, her accent heavy.

For a moment, Serin did not know what to say. He simply stood, blocking her passage.

How do I speak to her? How do I tell her how I feel?

"Move!" she said again.

He reached out to touch her hair. "My dear, I would very much like a private song. Would you play for me in your chamber?" He hoped she understood his words. He pulled a silver coin from his pocket. "I will pay you. I—"

She recoiled from his touch, her eyes flashed, and she shoved him aside. She spoke through her mask, voice brusque, accent thick. "No. Go away."

Rage flared in Serin.

How dare she refuse him? He was Sir Tirus Serin, a great lord, heir to Sunmotte! His father commanded armies. His coffers overflowed with gold.

"Do you know who I am?" He grabbed her wrist, refusing to let her climb the stairs. "Do you even understand my words?" He tugged her closer to him. "I am Lord Tirus Serin! If I tell you to play for me, you will obey. You—"

She slapped him.

Her hand connected with his cheek so powerfully it stunned him. Before he could react, she kicked him swiftly in the chest, knocking him back. He tripped over a chair and fell down hard onto his backside. Mugs of ale tumbled off a table and spilled across him.

The hall erupted with laughter.

Timandrian soldiers brayed, cheered, and pounded the tabletops. Upon the stages, the other yezyani giggled. Koyee fled upstairs, cursing, and everywhere the laughter rose. Serin sat on the floor, drenched in ale. He had banged his tailbone; the pain was so great he couldn't stand. The great lord, the great soldier—dripping wet, humiliated.

"Beaten by a woman!" cried out one soldier and roared with laughter. "Smacked down by a little Elorian lass half his size!"

Serin's eyes stung with tears. He stared around the room, and there he saw him, sitting at the back—Torin Greenmoat, his cousin. The young soldier was not laughing like the others; Torin stared at Serin with something far worse than mirth. He stared with pity.

Rage exploded through Serin, and he rose to his feet, only to slip in the ale and crash back down onto the floor. More laughter rose.

"Let me help you," Torin said, approaching. He tried to help Serin up.

"Let go of me!" Serin screamed. He shoved Torin aside. He leaped back to his feet, grabbed a table for support, and all but raced through the room. He stumbled out into the street to the sound of laughter.

Serin stood in the darkness, ale dripping from his hair, and spun back toward the Green Geode. Through the door he heard the yezyani sing again.

I loved you, he thought. I loved you, Koyee, and you . . . you did this to me.

He clenched his fists. He tossed back his head. And he bellowed in rage.

With that, Serin spun around and marched down the street, marched through the city, marched outside the gates and into the open night. He boarded his family's ship. He said nothing as they set sail, only stood at the stern, staring at the lights of Pahmey grow smaller in the distance, then fade beyond the horizon.

He returned to the sunlight, and he married his betrothed, and he fathered Lari, and he watched his father die, and he inherited Sunmotte, and he claimed the throne of Mageria, and he founded an empire, but Serin never forgot her. Never forgot the humiliation he suffered in the night.

"And now you are fallen, Pahmey, city of shadows," he whispered, staring at the smoking sinkhole. "You hurt me, so I destroyed you. And I will destroy you all."

He looked around him. His soldiers—a massive army of a hundred thousand—were not mocking him, were not laughing, were not jeering. They were chanting his name. They were killing for him. Before him, the sinkhole gaped open like a dark soul—the magic Serin himself had developed in the depths of his dungeons, a magic the mages of the last war had lacked, a final solution to the vermin of the night.

"And you will suffer more than all, Koyee," Serin whispered. He clutched her locket in his hand, its edges digging into his palm. "You will regret what you did to me."

"Radian rises!" the soldiers chanted. "Radian rises!"

Serin allowed himself a single, small smile.

CHAPTER TWENTY:

BLOOD MARCH

Pain exploded across Madori's face.

"On your feet, mongrel!"

The voice was distant, muffled, echoing as in a dream. But the pain was real. It blazed across her cheek again, then drove into her back, and Madori cried out. Tears flooded her eyes.

"Get up, half-breed, or stay here and die in the cold."

Pain drove into her side again, and she gasped and opened her eyes.

I'm alive, she thought. Stars, I'm alive.

She coughed and tasted blood in her mouth. When she blinked, bringing the world into focus, she couldn't see the stars above, only dust and smoke. Magerian soldiers were staring down at her, Radian eclipses upon their breastplates. One of the men, his gruff face covered in stubble, raised his hand above her. Blood stained his fingers—her blood, she realized.

"If it were up to me, I'd leave you here in the dust." The man spat onto her; the glob hit her forehead and trickled down her face. "Emperor Serin wants you to live." The man's face split into a cruel grin. "Though he didn't say we couldn't shed some of your blood on the way."

He backhanded her again, and Madori yowled. Blood flew from her mouth, and she growled and leaped to her feet, ready to attack.

Chains clattered around her ankles and wrists, and she slammed back down onto the ground.

The Magerian soldiers roared with laughter. When Madori blinked, she saw that dozens of them stood around her. Ignoring the pain—every last inch of her hurt—she tried to summon her magic, to claim and heat their armor, to blast them with air, or to set their hair on fire. But she was too weary, too hurt.

Breathe, she thought. She inhaled slowly as Master Lan Tao had taught her. Brea—

"Up!" the gruff soldier shouted. He grabbed her by the ear and tugged, and Madori screamed in pain and scrambled to her feet, sure he would rip her ear straight off. "Now go. Walk! Move—the lot of you. Go, nightcrawlers!"

Madori blinked and turned around. She gasped. Before her gaped the great sinkhole that had swallowed Pahmey; only a few walls and homes surrounded the chasm in a ring. Those few Elorians who had fled the city stood outside the devastation.

Fresh tears filled Madori's eyes. She saw a thousand survivors, perhaps two thousand—no more. Blood covered many of them. They wore ragged burlap tunics; no more silk dresses, scale armor, or simple fur garments distinguished between Elorian nobles, soldiers, and commoners. All stood trembling, their bodies bruised and bleeding, their wrists and ankles bound with chains. The prisoners gazed at Madori with their gleaming Elorian eyes, large and blue and purple like lanterns in the night. A few were only children, weeping and unable to even cling to their parents, their limbs chained.

When Madori looked down at her body, she saw that she too had been dressed in burlap rags. Dust, mud, and blood covered what parts of her the ragged tunic did not. Manacles encircled her ankles and wrists, and chains ran between them, long enough to let her walk but not run or fight. She pawed for her locket, but it no longer hung around her neck. Grayhem, her dear nightwolf, was nowhere in sight.

She spun back toward the squat, scruffy Magerian who had struck her. He wore golden eclipses upon his pauldrons, she saw; this one was a commander. She spoke in a slow, steady voice simmering with rage.

"Let. Us. Go." She bared her teeth. "I don't know who you are, but if you don't release us, I will—"

He drove his fist into her belly.

She doubled over, coughing and spitting out blood. Her eyes burned. She could barely breathe.

"Chop off her head, Sir Gora!" shouted a soldier.

"Gouge our her eyes!" cried another.

Through her tears, Madori saw the gruff captain—Sir Gora—shake his head and spit. "This one's a mongrel. Only half nightcrawler, she is. Her hair ain't white and her skin ain't pale enough to be full-crawler. Serin said to keep mongrels alive." He shook blood off his fist. "She'll get to the emperor, one way or another." He pulled a whip off his belt and cracked it in the air. "Nightcrawlers—move!"

Around the chained prisoners, the Magerians soldiers mounted horses and cracked whips. Several of those whips landed across Elorian backs, shedding blood.

"Move!"

One by one, the Elorians began to shuffle forward; their chains only allowed them to take short, heavy steps. A few wept as they walked, their manacles clattering, their chests shaking. Others glanced around nervously. Some walked while staring with defiance, eyes hard, fists clenched. A few were were strong and healthy; they walked straight. Others were too old, too young, wounded, or weak; they limped and swayed as they hobbled forward.

Her mouth still bleeding, Madori walked with them. When she missed a step, Gora—he now rode upon a stallion beside her—cracked his whip. Stones cut into Madori's bare feet, her chains felt heavier than boulders, and her head spun so wildly she barely knew north from south. As the convoy of prisoners moved, the Magerians kept shouting and lashing their whips. They herded the prisoners into a long, snaking line, three or four Elorians wide.

"March!" Gora shouted from his horse. "Move, nightcrawlers! Stop and you die."

One Elorian, a little boy barely ten years old, swayed and collapsed.

"Move!" Gora shouted. "Up!"

The Radian's whip hit the boy's back. Blood splattered.

"Stop that!" Madori shouted. She lunged forward, trying to reach the fallen boy, but Radian soldiers grabbed her, tugged her back into the line, and shouted at her to keep walking.

"Let go!" She managed to tear free, even with her chains, and hurried toward the fallen boy. Gora was leaning across his saddle, beating the child, whip landing again and again. Madori screamed and placed herself between the boy and the whip. The lash struck across her chest, and she yowled.

"Back into the line!" Gora shouted.

"Let me help him," she said, blood dripping across her. She knelt and tried to raise the Elorian boy, to revive him.

Oh stars . . .

She lowered her head, weeping.

The boy was dead.

"Walk!" Gora shouted. He dismounted his horse, grabbed Madori under the arms, yanked her to her feet, and shoved her back into the line with the other prisoners.

She kept moving, her chest constricting with fear. Before her, the two thousand survivors stretched across the dark plains. They moved on, leaving the ruins of Pahmey behind.

Madori could barely walk. She had lost too much blood, was too hurt, and her chains were too heavy. Yet she forced herself to keep moving one foot after another, refusing to fall.

Breathe. Focus. Be a still pond.

The procession continued to move across the landscape. Madori counted several hundred Radian troops on horseback, their whips ready to strike any Elorian who fell.

At first the Elorians marched close together, some weeping, most silent. But the road stretched on. After walking for several hours, some began to fall. An old woman. A wounded soldier, his hand severed. A young girl. They fell to their knees, begging for rest, begging for mercy.

They found neither.

The Radian whips tore into flesh.

"Up! March!"

A few of the fallen rose and shuffled on. Other simply lay on the ground, too weak to continue. The whips kept cutting into them, and Radian lances drove into their backs. As the march continued, the prisoners moving deeper into the darkness, the fallen remained behind upon the barren land—broken bodies for the night to claim.

As Madori walked, she kept scanning the crowd of prisoners. She stood at the back of the line; the two thousand Elorians stretched ahead of her, heads lowered. Their long white hair flowed like banners, and blood and dust covered their bodies.

"Are you here, Mother?" Madori whispered. She kept rising onto her toes, even hopping in her chains, trying to find Koyee in the crowd. But she could barely distinguish between the Elorians ahead; bloodied and chained, they had become a single mass of broken souls.

And they kept falling.

Whenever one prisoner crashed down, the Radian whips landed, and spears thrust. Most of the fallen never rose again. Every few moments, Madori found herself stepping over another corpse. And with every corpse, her heart trembled, and she expected to see her mother lying dead beneath her. She saw so many dead faces: children, elders, wounded soldiers . . . but never Koyee.

"Are you still alive, Mother?" Madori whispered, trudging on. "Have you fallen in the battle of the dusk? Or in the ruin of Pahmey?" She trembled. "Or do you march here ahead, so close to me?"

"Silence!" Gora shouted. He rode his horse beside her, swung his whip, and lashed Madori across the shoulders. "Walk!"

She cried out in pain, and she kept walking, blood trickling down her back.

The moon rose and fell above. The stars moved. The Magerians changed their shifts; some retired to a wagon to sleep, and others emerged to ride the horses and goad the prisoners on. They had soon walked for a full turn—the length of a day and night back when the world had still spun—and the Magerians gave them no rest. The second turn of marching stretched on, and the whips and spears kept lashing, and the Elorians kept falling. Their captors laughed as they rode their horses, drank wine, and feasted upon meat and bread and grapes. Whenever an Elorian fell dead, they roared with laughter and trampled over the body, leaving it crushed behind. Whenever Madori looked over her shoulder, she could see the trail of the dead—hundreds stretching into the north.

They had left Pahmey with two thousand Elorian survivors. By the time the second turn of marching ended, only a thousand still lived.

The moon and stars kept moving across the sky. Based on what Madori knew of their dance, they must have been walking for three turns now. The Magerian shifts changed again, the sleepers emerging from their wagon with renewed cruelty. Madori swayed as she walked. Tears streamed down her face. Her knees ached and her lungs could barely suck in air. She kept trying to summon her magic, to break her chains, but could not; she was too weak, too wounded. Dying.

Breathe, she thought. Like Master Lan Tao taught you. Yet how could she breathe when her lungs blazed with fire?

"Hurry up, mongrel!" Gora called from his horse. He swung his spear, cracking the wooden shaft against her back. "You're slowing down."

The pain was too much.

Madori fell to her knees.

An instant later, her face hit the dirt.

I can't go on. It's over.

Gora dismounted his horse and knelt beside her. He grabbed her hair and tugged her head up.

"Stand!" he barked. "Serin insisted you live. Stand! Walk."

She tried. She pushed herself onto her elbows, but her arms wobbled, and she crashed back down.

Gora's boot drove into her belly. "Up!"

She wept. She could no longer move.

I will die here, she thought, staring at the dust around her. I will die here under the stars of my home.

"Up!"

She stared up, and she saw them there—the constellations of Eloria. The racing wolf. The leaping fish. The proud warrior. She remembered seeing these constellations in her book back in the daylight. Her mother would read the book to her, describing all the great beings in the sky. Madori remembered the taste of the tea her mother would brew, the softness of Koyee's silken dresses, the warmth of the hearth in their home, the comfort of her dolls.

I miss that home, she thought, though it lies in ruins. And I miss you, Mother, though I don't even know if you live or lie dead. But I can't go on. I can't.

With her last drop of strength, Madori raised her head, and a glint caught her eye.

She gasped.

Gora, cruel captain of the march, was wearing her locket around his neck.

He must have been hiding it under his shirt until now. In his fervor of kicking and shouting, the locket had emerged from under his collar and swung open. Inside Madori saw the view from the second locket.

This time, it did not show Emperor Serin.

Instead, it was Lari's face in the locket.

The young woman was dressed in splendor: she wore gilded armor, a samite cloak, and a jeweled tiara. Her golden hair flowed across her shoulders, rich and lustrous. Powder and rouge hid the scars Tam and Neekeya had given her cheeks outside of Teel, and fine cosmetics adorned her eyelids and lips. Through the locket, she stared into Madori's eyes and smiled—that old smile that dripped both honey and poison.

"Look," Lari mouthed silently.

The view in the locket moved.

Madori cried out.

"Mother!" Tears sprang into her eyes. "Mother!"

Koyee lay in the dirt, covered in dust and blood. She was barely recognizable. Koyee too wore a burlap tunic, and her captors had sheared off her hair, leaving her scalp nicked and dripping blood. Bruises covered her face. But Madori knew it was her mother, and she cried out to her.

Trembling, Koyee looked up into the locket. She saw Madori and tears filled her eyes. She reached out a trembling hand, crying out words Madori could not hear.

Gora grunted, snapped the locket shut, and tucked it back under his collar.

Even through the pain and weariness, even as she lay on the ground, perhaps dying, rage flared in Madori.

Lari and Serin are torturing my mother.

She roared.

I will save you, Mother. I'm coming. I promise.

Teeth clenched and limbs shaking, Madori pushed herself to her feet.

She rejoined the Elorian procession. Her chains rattling, she walked with the others, jaw clenched, eyes narrowed.

Step by step, she thought. Walk. Ignore the pain. Pain is irrelevant. She focused only on her breath, letting the pain flow away like her thoughts. Even if your body blazes with agony, keep walking. Never stop.

Her eyes leaked, and she clenched her fists. She stepped over a fallen body. She walked on.

"I'm coming for you, Mother," she whispered. "And I'm coming for you too, Lari and Serin . . . and somehow, with magic, with my chains, or only with my fingernails and teeth, I will kill you."

Another body crashed down before her. Chin raised, Madori stared ahead across the marching prisoners and laughing Radians.

The march continued into the endless, cold darkness of the night.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE:

INTO DARKNESS

The Red Flame Armada sailed up the Inaro River, driving deep into the dark wilderness of Qaelin.

Jitomi, the new emperor of Ilar, flew above his fleet upon Tianlong's back. The dragon coiled beneath him, red beard fluttering and black scales chinking. Below, upon the silver river, the five hundred ships formed a great serpent of lights, their lanterns red and orange. Battened sails rose high, catching the wind. Many oars pounded the river, driving the ships upstream. Cannons, soldiers in steel, and pagodas bearing archers rose upon the decks. It was the greatest fleet in the world, a machine of war, a floating empire. Tens of thousands of troops stood upon these decks or within the hulls, waiting to kill. Thousands of cannons stood ready to fire into the enemy.

"This is," Jitomi whispered, "the hope of the night."

Tianlong grunted, his scales chinking. "Ilar has always been smaller than Qaelin, but its armies greater, its ships mightier. For too many generations, we tormented the northern coast, slaying our own brothers and sisters." The dragon bared his fangs. "But now the might of Ilar will crush Timandrians, even if we must sail into the very lands of sunlight." The dragon looked over his shoulder at Jitomi, and his red eyes narrowed. "You will lead us to glory, my emperor."

Jitomi took a shuddering breath. Emperor . . . No, he had never wished to be Ilar's Emperor. His head still spun to consider it. For many generations, the Hashido family had been powerful, wealthy, a protector of the coast. But to usurp Empress Hikari, to begin a new, imperial dynasty . . .

"I never wanted this, Tianlong," he said softly. "I never imagined my father would seize the throne. I never imagined he would die and I would inherit that throne. I'm not a leader." He looked down at the hundreds of sailing ships. "They will know. They will find out that I'm not a warrior, not an emperor to fear. And fear has always been the glue holding Ilar together."

Coiling across the sky, Tianlong puffed smoke out from his nostrils. "Jitomi, I have protected Ilar for thousands of years, and I have seen many emperors rise and fall. I have seen a dozen dynasties claw their way up from the dirt, reach glory, and fade. One dynasty ends, another begins. This has always been the way of Ilar."

Jitomi nodded. "I know the history. But all those emperors were great warriors—like Hikari. Like my father. Like all the conquerors before them. What chance do I have?" He shook his head. "I defeated Lord Naroma, but how long until another lord rises to challenge me, to usurp my reign with armies and many ships?"

The dragon raised his eyebrows and thrust out his jaw. "Probably not very long." He looked back at Jitomi, and a hint of amusement filled his eyes. "Were you hoping I'd tell you that you're strong too, or that you can find inner strength and lead this nation for many years? No. That would be a lie." He laughed, spewing smoke. "Truth is, Jitomi, you won't last long upon this throne. You are gentle and kind—admirable qualities for a man, poor qualities for an Ilari emperor. If you were to seek my advice, I would tell you to flee into the wilderness, to hide, to never emerge back into the night, for you speak truth: the lords of other houses will rebel against you, and even within your own house you will face challengers, for your elder sisters will lust for the throne. They will see you for what you are: a mere boy. And they will crush you."

Jitomi tightened his hands around the saddle's horn. He stared forward along the Inaro River that snaked northward through the dark lands of Qaelin. "So I cannot keep this throne. But maybe I can lead this fleet for just long enough—long enough to find her." His throat felt too tight. "To find Madori. And long enough to fight Serin. Tianlong, will you help me? Will you be loyal to me, at least until we can win this war? I can't do this without you. The nobles will not fear or respect me, but they still respect you."

The black dragon licked his chops. His fangs gleamed. "I am loyal only to Ilar, little emperor. For thousands of years, I fought only for the Red Flame, not for any mortal man or woman." He snorted. "Some emperors claimed to be immortal, to be deities of the night. They lie buried underground and I still fly." Fire kindled in his eyes. "I am the last dragon in all of Mythimna. Did you know that, Jitomi?"

Hail filled the wind, pattering against Jitomi's armor. He pulled down the visor of his helmet. The ice crashed against the steel. "I do." His voice barely carried over the wind. "Your two last siblings—Shenlai of Qaelin and Pirilin of Leen—fell in the War of Day and Night. The Timandrians slew them. I emerged into the world as Pirilin fell. I was born during that great last battle in Asharo."

Rage and pain twisted the dragon's voice. "The Timandrians slew them. I was there when Pirilin died. I saw the cruelty of sunlight. I fought with Hikari, a noble empress, against the hosts of the light." He tossed back his head and let out a roar. "And I mourn my siblings still. Now Timandra attacks again. Your father wanted to join the Timandrians, to lie down with demons. You, Jitomi, want to fight." The dragon's face split into a horrible, toothy grin. "So yes, I will help you for now. I will keep you alive even as the nobles may plot to slay you. And we will fight the sunlight together."

Jitomi closed his eyes. He thought back to his first battle. It had been on the road outside of Teel University in Mageria, his friends at his side. He had fought Lari herself then, and he had nearly died in the dirt. He had been only a boy, cast out from his father's court, alone, afraid.

He opened his eyes and looked back down at the fleet, the legendary mighty of Ilar. Upon hundreds of decks, men were beating drums. Thousands of oars rowed to the beat. Thousands of soldiers all in steel, their helmets shaped as snarling demon faces, prepared for war. Jitomi clutched the hilt of his own sword.

Now I return with an army.

The armada sailed on through the night, heading north toward the fires of war.

* * * * *

They stood outside the pyramid gates, hundreds of feet above the marshlands, watching the enemy close in like a noose.

"Daenor is fallen," Lord Kee'an whispered, eyes damp. "The swamps are lost."

Standing beside him, Neekeya snarled and clutched her sword. "Not as I still breathe. Not as I still wield steel."

They stood on a stone ledge outside the throne room. Behind them rose the archway that led into the pyramid's crest. Before them a staircase trailed down the pyramid's southern facade, leading to the swamp. A hundred soldiers of Eetek Pyramid stood upon this staircase, guarding the passage to the throne room, but Neekeya knew they were but ants facing a herd of buffaloes. Her eyes stung to gaze at the lands around her.

The swamps shook and wept as the Radian forces poured in.

From the east came those enemies Neekeya had failed to stop in the mountains. Nayan elephants waded through the marshlands, archers upon their backs, and many Nayan warriors, their beards and hair flaming red, walked behind them, leading leashed tigers. Magerians walked there too, their steel plates tinted black, and mages moved among them, their dark horses walking knee-deep through the water. The enemy covered the land like a swarm of insects, and as they moved, they destroyed—cutting down trees, burning the huts and gardens of farmers, crushing fruit groves.

When Neekeya turned to look south, she saw more enemies arrive. Here marched Eseerians, warriors of the southern desert realms. Thousands of years ago, Eseerians and Daenorians were said to have been one people, a tribe of mountain dwellers; still many of their words were the same, and even their gods shared kins of family. Yet the Daenorians had migrated north into the marshlands, the Eseerians south to the desert, and now these warriors, clad in white robes and bearing scimitars, advanced north to crush their cousins, and they too bore the Radian banners, sworn to Serin.

Neekeya stepped to the edge of the platform, climbed onto a statue of the god Cetela, and stared around the pyramid's crest toward the north. There too she saw an enemy, and these forces chilled her most of all. Fellow Daenorians swarmed from there, her northern kin who dwelled in the open plains, their skin lighter, their clothes, castles, and customs mimicking those found east of the mountains in the realms of fallen Riyona. For many years, the North Daenorians had turned against the old ways of their southern kin, building castles instead of pyramids, donning wool instead of crocodile skin, dining upon fine pastries instead of frog legs and chestnut stews.

They forgot who they are, Neekeya thought, staring at the advancing soldiers. They're ashamed of the crocodile banner, and so now they raise the Radian eclipse upon their flags, and they seek to crush us southerners.

She climbed off the statue and rejoined those upon the ledge: her father, thirty soldiers in steel, and her husband.

"Nations from across Timandra have joined the Radian Order," she said. "Even our own kin from the north have betrayed us. But I will never join Serin." She drew her sword with a hiss. "We are perhaps the last free land in sunlight. And now is our last stand."

Tam's eyes lit with fire, and he drew his new sword, a reptilian sword of the marshes. "A last stand for freedom. I will die here if I must."

All across the horizons, the marshlands trembled. Trees collapsed. Villages burned. Birds fled across the sky, abandoning the crumbling land. And everywhere the enemy advanced, and their drums beat, and their horns blared, and their chants rose, praising Serin and the Radian Empire. Everywhere flew the Radian standards, a thousand suns hiding the moon.

The forces reached the smaller pyramids first, the twelve lesser halls of the marshes, sisters to Eetek Pyramid. The Radian hosts charged up the staircases along their flanks, firing arrows, thrusting spears. The pyramid guards fought back, tall men in crocodile armor, their swords wide, their arrows swift. Thousands of corpses slid down the pyramids' facades. Neekeya watched as her brothers in arms slew hundreds, perhaps thousands of enemies.

Yet the Radians kept swarming. One pyramid—the smallest one, the ancient Se'antak, Tail of the Crocodile—fell first. The Radians—these ones were Magerians, lords of the new empire—reached its crest and knocked down its statues. The eclipse banner rose there, replacing the old standards of Daenor. Another pyramid—the lofty Te'anta, the Hall of the Marsh Light—fell next, its last defenders slain. Nayan troops crushed the statues on its crest, dug out gems from stone, and raised their banners. One by one, the ancient halls of the swamps fell.

"Thus does Daenor fall," said Lord Kee'an, voice low. The old warrior held a shield in one hand, its rim bristly with crocodile teeth, and in the other he held a great curved sword. "But not without a fight. In many ages to come, people will speak of Daenor's Last Stand, of the blood that we spilled here. They will speak in whispers in the halls of an enduring Radian Empire, or they will sing of honor in free lands. Whether we are painted as vanquished foes or fallen heroes, we will be remembered for eternity."

A gust of wind blew, scented of fire. Smoke rose from a dozen villages across the land, and the groves of bobwoods burned. The last banners of Daenor fluttered above Neekeya, displaying a green crocodile upon a golden field. Below the staircase, the first of the enemy's elephants reached the pyramid of Eetek. The first warriors—Magerians in dark steel—began to climb the stairs.

Tam, seemingly by instinct, stepped closer to the staircase, shielding Neekeya with his body. She moved forward too, coming to stand again at his side.

"We will fight bravely together, Tam," she said.

When he looked at her, his eyes narrowed with pain. "I don't fear death, but I fear losing you, Neekeya."

She held both bow and arrow, and she could not hold his hand, but she moved closer to him, and their bodies touched. She stared into his eyes. "I married you, my love, only turns ago, and I found joy in life. If I must die, let it be here and now, weapons in my hands, the banner of my people rising above me, side by side with my husband. I will take this end over old age under the banners of a tyrant."

The clash of steel rang below. She looked back down the staircase and saw the last soldiers of South Daenor dueling the climbing enemies. All around the pyramid, more Radian troops arrived—oaring boats, wading through the water, or riding beasts. They began to swarm up the pyramid, climbing the stairs, climbing the sloping walls, rising like ants over a tasty morsel.

Neekeya, Tam, and the other soldiers upon the platform fired their bows. Their arrows, tipped with the poison of golden frogs, sent enemies crashing down the pyramid's flanks. But too many soldiers were climbing; new men replaced all those who fell, an endless supply. Neekeya kept firing, taking down man by man. As they fell, they crashed into the soldiers climbing below them. Corpses tumbled down into the marshes. The pyramid's defenders rolled down logs bristly with metal spikes, sending Radians crashing down. And still the enemy attacked, more emerging from the swamps every breath, swallowing the land, climbing higher and higher.

Soon the last Daenorians upon the staircase had fallen to the swords of the enemy. That enemy climbed all four of the pyramid's facades, ascending foot by foot.

For my home, Neekeya thought. For my husband. For my father. For Madori and Jitomi and all lost friends.

The enemy reached the top of the staircase. Neekeya screamed and swung her sword.

She fought in a fury, screaming, knocking men down. Tam, her father, and her fellow soldiers fought around her, their swords forming a ring of steel, cutting into the climbers. Magerians tumbled down the pyramid, slamming into their fellow soldiers. Blood poured like lava spilling down a volcano. And still the enemies climbed.

One Daenorian soldier, a beefy man with a bald head, fell at Neekeya's side, impaled by a spear. Another warrior, a woman with braided hair and fierce eyes, screamed and tumbled, her chest pierced with a crossbow bolt. Enemy arrows clattered around Neekeya. One slammed into her armor. Another arrow whistled and cut into Tam's shoulder, and his blood spurted. A third Daenorian fell. Several Magerians leaped onto the platform, and Neekeya howled and raced toward them, cut them down, and sent their corpses tumbling. More kept climbing.

"Fall back!" Kee'an shouted. He thrust a spear into a Radian soldier, piercing the man's neck. "Into the pyramid—fall back!"

Neekeya swung her sword, parried an enemy's attack, then drove her blade into the man's armpit and out of his throat. She tugged her sword back with a shower of blood, looked at her father, and nodded. Swords flashing, the last defenders of Eetek—no more than a score—raced off the platform, under an archway, and into the triangular throne room. Grunting, men slammed the pyramid doors shut.

"Tam, help me!" Neekeya shouted. Together they lifted and dropped an oaken beam into the doors' brackets. Already Magerians were slamming at the doors from outside, and when Neekeya raced toward the archways lining the hall, she saw more Magerians climbing the craggy facades; they would reach these side entrances within moments and swarm the hall, and no doors had been built to block these passageways.

Kee'an turned toward his men and gave them a silent stare and nod. The soldiers nodded back, approached the great wooden throne of Eetek, and shoved the seat. Their muscles bulged and the throne scratched along the floor, revealing a trapdoor.

"Daughter," Kee'an said, turning toward her. "Now is the time to flee." Men opened the trap door, revealing a tunnel. "The passageway leads deep into the pyramids and below them the mines. The tunnels run deep and exit in the western hills. That is your path now."

Neekeya paused. The doors rattled and cracked. One Magerian soldier reached an archway on the eastern wall, and Neekeya fired an arrow, slaying him. She spun back toward her father.

"I vowed to fight until death!"

Kee'an's shoulders stooped, and his eyes seemed so sad to her, so old. "Will you have me die seeing my heiress perish?" He stepped toward her and clasped her arm. "Do not let my line die here, daughter. The line of Eetek must survive, if not in our halls or marshlands, then in exile. Flee with Tam! Seek his father, whom men say still fights in the north." Tears streamed from the old warrior's eyes. "Live, Neekeya. Live to bear a child, to carry on our line. Please."

Tam fired an arrow at another Magerian who reached the hall. He turned toward Neekeya and held her hand. "If your father commands it, I will see you to safety."

"I command it," said Kee'an. "Take my daughter to the halls of your parents, Tam—to King Camlin and Queen Linee, if they still live—or to whatever free land you can still find." His tears fell. "Let me die knowing that my line does not perish with my kingdom."

The door cracked and shattered. Magerians stormed into the hall, shouting and brandishing their swords.

Kee'an stared at Neekeya one last time.

"Go," he whispered. "I'll hold them off. Run, my daughter! I love you always."

With that, the old warrior howled. With his last few soldiers, a mere dozen men, he raced toward the shattered doors and the swarming enemies.

Neekeya stood, bloody sword raised, torn.

Tam grabbed her arm. "Come, Neekeya! Into the mines."

She stared at her father, tears in her eyes. He was roaring, swinging his sword, cutting down the enemy. His men fell around him. More Magerians entered through the archways, racing into the hall.

"Neekeya!" Tam shouted.

She wept.

Goodbye, Father. Goodbye.

She let Tam drag her into the tunnel. They plunged into darkness.

Fires blazed above, men laughed, and a single cry rang out: "Run, Neekeya! Run and live!"

She ran, tears in her eyes, into shadow.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO:

IRON MINE NUMBER ONE

"Dig!" the overseer shouted. "Dig or more will die."

Overseer Nafar was a towering man, nearly seven feet tall and thin as a blade. A patch covered one of his eyes, and he was missing his left hand. Instead of a wooden hand or even a hook, a whip was attached onto the stump. Standing in the mine, he swung his arm and cracked the whip. The lash landed against an old Elorian woman, cutting the skin.

"Dig or die, nightcrawlers." The overseer licked his lips. "Faster!"

The old woman, back bleeding, swung her pickaxe with shaky hands. The sharp iron head barely chipped the canyon wall.

Koyee's limbs shook, and rage simmered inside her. Her fists trembled around the shaft of her own pickaxe. She wanted to charge at the guards, to climb the canyon walls, to attack and slay them.

There are hundreds of us! she thought, looking around the canyon. All with sharp pickaxes. We can attack, we can—

"Dig, worm!" Overseer Nafar marched toward Koyee, and his whip cracked against her shoulders. She yelped. "Dig or I'll kill another one as you watch."

Koyee spun around, back bleeding, and stared at the Timandrian. Nafar was a brutish thing, a giant of a man, missing a hand and eye but still strong, still deadly. Other Magerians stood around him, all in armor, all armed with whips and swords.

I can slay at least one or two, Koyee thought. I can swing my pick into Nafar's face, even as I'm weak, even as—

Nafar snorted. "Very well." He approached an old Elorian man with a long white beard. He held a dagger to the elder's throat. "Dig now or he dies. His blood will be upon you. Just like the last one."

Koyee narrowed her eyes. She could see the blood of the overseer's last victims on his arms.

Slowly, she turned back toward the canyon wall. She swung her pick. She chipped into the stone.

"Good," said the overseer. "Good. But this old man is useless anyway."

A gurgling scream tore through the air. Koyee spun around to see the overseer pull his knife free from the elder's throat, then kick the corpse aside.

"You said you—" Koyee began.

Nafar lashed his whip, hitting her cheek.

"Dig or I'll kill a hundred others! And not just old men. We got children here too. Back to work, nightcrawler."

"Please," whispered the young woman who worked beside Koyee. "Please, Koyee, my son is here. He's only ten. Please dig. Please don't cause trouble."

Her innards trembling and her teeth grinding, Koyee returned to digging. Blood dripped down her cheek to the corner of her mouth. She swung her pick against the canyon wall with all the strength she had.

Hundreds of other prisoners worked around her—Elorians captured in Oshy and other villages across Western Qaelin. Fishermen. Mushroom farmers. Captive soldiers. They were all the same now, all prisoners of the Radian Empire. Like her, they worked with chained ankles. Like her, their heads were shaved, the scalps nicked and encrusted with dry blood. Like her, they wore burlap rags. Like her, their shoulders were branded with the Radian eclipse. Koyee's brand still blazed every time she swung her arms, and she winced to remember the hot iron pressing against her only turns ago, forever marking her a slave to the Radian Empire.

Have we really been here for only a few turns? she thought. It felt like years.

She looked around the canyon at the poor souls, her fellow prisoners. Dust from their digging rose in clouds, hiding the stars and moon. Koyee had never seen such a wretched lot. Not only were they bald and branded and bruised, they were famished. At first, their Radian masters had fed them scraps—vegetable peels, thin broth, a few apple cores—and even these scraps had stopped coming two turns ago. Koyee had not eaten since. Her body, like the bodies of her fellow slaves, was fading away.

They do not truly care for iron ore, she thought, swinging her pickaxe into the stone again. They want to torture us, to work and starve us to death, and to laugh as we dwindle down to bones.

Indeed, a hundred Magerian troops stood atop the canyon, staring down at the Elorians who worked below as if watching a show. They drank from wine skins, ate salted meat and bread, and laughed as they watched the prisoners work.

"Faster!" shouted Overseer Nafar. The whip that sprouted from his arm swung, hitting a young boy. "Dig, nightcrawler." The whip swung again, splattering blood across the child's back.

Koyee raced forward, chains rattling. "Stop it! He's only a boy."

The one-eyed, one-handed Magerian laughed. "I told you to dig, nightcrawler. Now I will have to kill another one."

The whip flew again and again, slamming into the screaming child. Koyee screamed too. She couldn't resist the rage anymore. She leaped toward the overseer, but two other Magerians caught her arms and tugged her back. She watched, shouting, as Nafar beat the child, cutting the frail boy over and over.

"Please!" Koyee begged. "Stop!"

Nafar turned toward her, cheeks red, grinning. "Return to digging like a good nightcrawler, and I will stab the boy's heart." The overseer laughed. "Keep screaming like a pig, and I'll keep whipping. It can take him hours to die this way."

Too weak to fight, famished and wounded and feverish, Koyee still tried to lunge forward, to attack. But the Magerians held her back, and she only lowered her head and nodded. She returned to the canyon wall, and she dug again. She heard the child's last gasp, and she smelled the blood.

Be at peace now, she thought, tears in her eyes. The rest of us will soon envy you, child.

The prisoners kept swinging their pickaxes, digging out clumps of iron ore. Deeper in the canyon, great smelters sat upon fires, melting the rocks to extract the iron. Molten metal bubbled in cauldrons, and smiths forged fresh blades, helmets, and arrowheads.

With our blood and tears, Koyee thought, we're building the weapons of our enemies.

After what seemed like turns of digging, the overseer finally blew a horn, and the Elorians shuffled in their chains toward a chamber cut into the canyon wall. They entered the crude cave, a shelter for a few hours of rest.

Koyee huddled among the others. The cave was so small they all pressed together; they barely had room to lie down. Cold wind shrieked through the entrance, and the prisoners shivered. Yet cold as the wind was, Koyee felt hot; when she touched her forehead, it felt on fire, and her limbs would not stop trembling. Around her, she saw sweat bead upon brows. Prisoners coughed blood. She wondered what would kill them first: the whip, the cold, the hunger, or the fever.

She closed her eyes, remembering a time many years ago when she had been but a youth, no older than Madori was now. She had worked in the Hospice of Pahmey, wearing the uniform of the Sisterhood—a heavy leather cloak, thick gloves, and a mask with a beak full of herbs. That outfit had protected her from the diseases that Timandrians carried, illnesses they were immune to but which ravaged so many Elorians. Now she was exposed. Now, instead of a healing, she was dying.

Does my life end here? she wondered, coughing and huddling with the others in the darkness. After all my battles, all my victories, all my pain and joy, do I—Koyee of Qaelin, the Girl in the Black Dress—fade away in darkness?

"I miss you, Torin," she whispered and tasted her tears. "I miss you, Madori. Remember me as I was, a warrior in armor, a brave woman, her white hair streaming in the wind." She was almost grateful her family could not see her now, the creature she had become.

"Please, Madori," she whispered. "If you're alive, run from here. Run as far as you can. Run and hide."

The Elorians around her wept, prayed, and shivered, and Koyee closed her eyes, hugged her knees, and struggled to take breath by breath.

* * * * *

Pahmey's prisoners entered the mine with screams, the cracks of whips, and the smell of blood. Madori stared in silence.

Serrated steel fences surrounded the camp, tipped with blades, and many Magerian guards patrolled them, clad in dark steel and armed with longswords and crossbows. Large dogs barked between them, tugging at their chains, their fangs bared; they seemed desperate to rip into Elorian flesh. An archway broke these walls of steel, and above it hung a sign in both the languages of Mageria and Qaelin: "Labor Brings Light"

Gora, the squat captain who had led the march here, shouted, "Nightcrawlers, enter your new home! Move, worms!"

The survivors of Pahmey, coughing and trembling, hobbled under the archway and into the camp. Chains jangled between their ankles and wrists, and dust and blood caked their skin. Madori blinked, barely able to drag her feet forward. Every last inch of her was bruised, cut, or swelling. She coughed and tasted blood.

"The journey is over," she whispered. "Finally over."

She trembled as she walked. Even in the shrieking cold wind of Eloria's winter, her skin burned and sweat dripped down her brow. How long had she been marching? She did not know; it felt like many turns. She vaguely remembered many Elorians leaving Pahmey, two thousand or more. When she blinked, looking ahead at the others, she saw only several hundred. The rest still lay in the wilderness, a long road of death, fallen to the march. Their bones would perhaps forever mark the path of Eloria's fall.

And hundreds of thousands vanished into the sinkhole that was Pahmey, she thought, shuffling forward with the others. And perhaps millions of nightcrawlers now lie dead across the rest of the night.

She blinked and clenched her fists.

No! We are Elorians. Not nightcrawlers. I must never let them reduce me to a worm. I am Elorian, as pure as any other now. We are a proud people, even as we bleed, even as we shuffle through the dust. We will never be the creatures they want us to become.

Gora rode his horse beside her. "Be a good mongrel." He drank deeply from a wineskin. Crimson liquid dripped down his chin. "Your little pleasure walk is ending. Here you will find no mercy."

The prisoners filed into the camp. Madori, walking at the back, entered last. Here, at the end of her journey, every step was a battle of will, requiring all her strength. Every step blazed like a thousand whips. She forced herself to keep walking. If she fell, she would die. If she fell, she would never see her mother again. And so she forced herself to keep going, past the archway, into the camp.

She blinked, looking around at the swaying world. Several long black tents rose here, their walls painted with Radian eclipses. Magerian troops moved among them, armed with swords and crossbows. Iron braziers crackled, full of red flames; while Elorians could see by moonlight alone, these soldiers of Timandra needed the light of fire.

Farther back rose a fine tent of lush, black fabric rich with golden embroidery. Guards surrounded it, armed with pikes. This was no simple military tent but a place of wealth. Madori stared at it, her belly knotting.

Serin must be in there, she thought. Maybe Lari too.

She wanted to race across the camp, to challenge the pair, to slay them with magic or with tooth and nail. But she could barely even walk, and a hundred soldiers separated her from the emperor.

Not yet, Madori, she told herself. First learn the lay of the land. First find Mother. First regain some strength. Then fight.

She looked away from the tent. To her left gaped a shadowy canyon; with the braziers filling the camp with smoke, she hadn't seen it until now. This was no natural chasm, she realized, but an iron mine. Cauldrons belched out fumes below, full of molten metal. Pickaxes rested in a pile, and Madori shuddered to see bloodstains on the stones. She couldn't see any miners.

"Line up, nightcrawlers!" Gora rode his horse around the Elorian prisoners. "Line up for inspection. Gather here! Line up."

With whips and spears, Gora and his men herded the Elorians into a fenced courtyard. Torches crackled and blood stained the stony ground. A butcher's block rose ahead by a smoking brazier.

"Line up!"

With a few cracks of the whip, the Elorians entered the courtyard and lined up before the stone block. Madori swayed on her feet. She wanted to do something—to flee, to fight, to scream for her mother. Yet she could barely stay standing, and when once she swayed, Gora's whip bit her shoulder, lapping at her blood. It was all she could do not to fall. One Elorian, a young man who stood before her in line, did fall, dead before he hit the ground. Two Magerian soldiers guffawed and dragged the corpse away.

Stay alive, Madori. Just stay alive for now.

"One by one, to the block!" Gora shouted. "Go on, nightcrawlers, to the block! You first." He pointed at a pale Elorian man with sunken eyes. "To the block."

Madori winced. That's a butcher's block. Her eyes stung. They marched us all the way here to behead us.

The man made a half-hearted attempt to flee. Gora kicked, driving his steel-tipped boot into the small of the man's back. The Elorian gasped with pain, and Gora manhandled him forward. The man was too weak to resist, famished after long turns on the road, broken and bleeding. Chortling, Gora shoved the man's head down onto the block and drew a curved, ugly knife.

Madori grimaced. Oh Idar . . . oh stars of Eloria . . .

Licking his chops, Gora brought the blade down close to the Elorian's face.

Madori closed her eyes.

She heard the Elorian grunt, heard the prisoners gasp, heard Gora laugh. She peeked through narrowed eyelids, expecting to see a rolling head . . . but Gora had not beheaded his prisoner. Instead, he was using the blade to shear the man's hair. The brute chuckled as he worked, tugging the strands violently, cutting the scalp as often as the hair.

"We'll keep you scum alive for now," he said when the man was finally bald. His grin widening, Gora grabbed an iron poker from the brazier, hefted it lovingly, and brought a red-hot brand down onto the Elorian's shoulder.

The prisoner screamed. His flesh sizzled. When Gora finally pulled the brand back, an ugly Radian eclipse smoldered upon the Elorian's shoulder.

"Next prisoner!" Gora shouted.

Some Elorians tried to escape, others to fight. Blades quickly thrust into their throats, and Magerians dragged the corpses away. Most of the prisoners shuffled forward, too weak to resist, to suffer having their hair sheared and their shoulders branded.

I won't scream, Madori thought as Gora shaved her head, scraping his dulled blade against her scalp. Blood dripped down her forehead and neck. I won't—

When the brand pressed against her shoulder, she gritted her teeth, and she thought of the Desolation, of Master Lan Tao, of the dear eyes of Grayhem who was lost to her. Even as he held the brand against her for agonizing moments, laughing above her, she did not scream.

Magerians shoved her back toward the others. The prisoners huddled together, beaten, chained, famished, and now bald and branded.

They truly turned us into worms, Madori thought. They preached that we're not human, so they made us less than human.

Suddenly the Magerian soldiers, who had spent turns laughing and spitting and singing rude songs, stood at attention. They slammed their fists against their chests.

"Radian rises!" shouted Gora, standing stiff, chin raised. "Blessed be Emperor Serin!"

A trumpet blasted. Hooves thundered. With a flourish of golden banners, a pair of white horses entered the courtyard. Upon them sat two riders—two resplendent deities. Their armor was bright and worked with silver filigree. Cloaks of samite hung across their backs, fastened with golden pins. Strings of jewels hung around their necks and gleamed upon the pommels and scabbards of their swords. The two riders gazed down at the prisoners with haughty blue eyes, and smiles played upon their lips.

A beaten waif, only half-alive, Madori stared up at them and her innards burned.

Serin and Lari.

The emperor and his daughter stared at the hundreds of Elorian prisoners. Lari held an embroidered handkerchief to her nose.

"These ones stink even worse than the first batch," the princess said. "Disgusting creatures."

Madori glared up at the pair, fists clenched. Her father was Serin's cousin—the two men's mothers had been sisters—and Madori shared their blood, but she felt as different from these two as a dog from toads. They didn't recognize her. How could they? If Madori saw herself in a mirror, she doubted she would recognize herself. She no longer looked like a fiery mongrel with strange hair; she was now only a starving, bleeding imitation of a woman, just another branded prisoner, one among all the rest. Lari had perhaps recognized Madori when first staring into the locket, but as Madori now stood among the others, bald and beaten and caked with blood and dust, she blended in—just another nightcrawler.

Emperor Serin cleared his throat. He spoke in a deep voice, addressing the prisoners. "Welcome to your new home! Welcome to Iron Mine Number One, the first of many that will dot the night. Here you will aid the war effort. Here you will dig for iron, melt the metal, and forge new blades and arrowheads and spearheads. With the weapons you make, we will slay your brothers and sisters. With the weapons you bleed for, we will crush the rest of the night. For your service, you'll be allowed to live a few months longer. But be sure, dear nightcrawlers, you will not live forever. And you will be grateful for it."

Lari grinned at his side. "We will show the world what pathetic, sniveling creatures nightcrawlers are. You are nothing but worms. Stinking, disgusting worms. Look at you." She made a gagging sound. "You sicken me."

Lunge at her, Madori told herself. Her fists trembled. Pull her off her horse. Wring her neck!

Yet how could she? They wore armor and bore blades, and many soldiers stood around them. Madori was so weak she could barely stand, and chains hobbled her.

Now is not the time to fight, she thought. I'm too weak to use magic, and I have no weapons. But in the mine they'll give me food, and they'll give me a pickaxe. She gritted her teeth. And first chance I get, I'll drive that pickaxe into Lari's head.

"I will be returning now to the war!" Serin announced, voice ringing across the camp. "There are many more Elorian cities to destroy, many more nightcrawlers to kill or enslave. As you work, slaves, think of them. Think of their agony. And think of how you suffer. Radian is the true light of the world. You now feel its burn." He turned his horse back toward the camp gates. "As I conquer and kill, Princess Lari Serin will remain to command you. Obey her every order, or I promise you: she has new ways of hurting you that will make you miss the whip."

With that, the emperor spurred his horse and rode off, leaving Lari in the courtyard.

The young princess, her golden hair cascading in perfect locks, turned toward Gora.

"Toss these ones in with the others, soldier," she said. "Those worms have lazed about long enough. Let them all dig together. Let them dig for the iron that will slay their own miserable kind." She snorted. "And next ones that die, burn them outside the camp; my tent still stinks of the last nightcrawlers you burned."

Gora bowed his head. "Yes, Your Highness." He turned toward the Elorian prisoners. "All right, worms! Move! It's into the mine with you. Time to dig or die. Go!"

He cracked his whip, and the Elorians began to shuffle out of the courtyard. Their chains jangled, and their brands blazed against their shoulders, raw and red. Most of the prisoners were too weary to lift their heads. Madori herself struggled for every breath. How could she possibly dig in this state? She doubted she could even raise a quill, let alone a pickaxe.

"If you want us to dig," she blurted out, "let us eat and drink and rest first!" She knew she was being a fool, but she couldn't stop the stream of words. "We're almost dead. We've just walked for turns. If you want us to be good workers, give us a meal! Give us water. Give us a turn to sleep."

Gora growled and, as expected, his whip slammed against Madori's back. She fell to her knees, gasping for breath.

Hooves pounded as Lari rode her horse near. The princess laughed icily. "A feisty one we have here! Beat her to death, Gora. Make it last a while. I would like to—" Lari froze. Her eyes narrowed. The princess inhaled sharply, dismounted, and knelt beside Madori. "By the sunlight . . ."

Madori stared into Lari's eyes, saying nothing.

Lari's face split into a huge, toothy grin. She looked like a child who had just been given the world's largest cake. "I know this one!" Lari laughed. "The mongrel! It's Madori the mongrel!" She turned toward Gora. "I changed my mind. This one will live. In fact, this one will not be a miner." Lari looked back at Madori, and her smile turned cruel, predatory. "She will be my personal servant. I'm in need of a handmaiden in this camp. Yes, this mongrel will suffer a special fate."

Madori cursed herself. To the song of whips and wails, the Elorians' slavery began.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE:

UNDERGROUND

Neekeya ran through the tunnel, Tam at her side.

Father . . .

She panted. Her eyes stung.

Father, where are you?

The tunnel walls raced at her sides, painted with murals of crocodiles, cranes, and reed boats navigating marshlands. The torch she carried flickered, the only source of light. The floor sloped steeply, and the tunnel wound like a corkscrew, moving down the pyramid. They had been running for what seemed like ages; surely they were beneath ground level now, plunging deep into the earth, fleeing the threat above.

"We will live." Tam, who ran at her side, met her eyes. "I promise you."

Live? What use was there for life as a coward? She was fleeing battle. She had left her father to die. She had left her kingdom to burn and all her people to perish in the Radian fire. She wanted to shout these things at him, but she only nodded silently.

Yes, perhaps I must live now, a last promise to my father. The pain squeezed her chest. To bring new life to a fallen dynasty. To live as beggars, exiles, wandering the world, alone, forgotten . . . carrying a secret light.

"Find the swamp wench and the boy!" rose a shout above. "Slay them!"

Neekeya growled. She recognized that voice.

"Prince Felsar," she muttered.

Last she had seen him, the Prince of North Daenor, traitor to the kingdom, had been caged outside the pyramid, imprisoned for joining the Radian Order and threatening Eetek with destruction. Now destruction had fallen, and Neekeya felt sick at the thought of the traitor freed.

"You cannot escape me, Neekeya!" His voice rang above, and his laughter echoed. "I have seen you flee into the tunnels as a rat. Come face me, coward, and die salvaging some of your honor."

Neekeya drew her sword and made to spin around, to charge back up and face him. Tam grabbed her arm, holding her fast.

"No, Neekeya." He tugged her. "I promised your father I'd lead you to safety. Felsar will have many men with him. Now is not our time to fight him."

She trembled with rage, but she nodded and kept running further down the tunnel with Tam. She cursed herself for not slaying the prince when she'd last faced him.

The tunnel leveled off and widened into a great hall, large enough for a dragon to fly through. They had reached the great Eetek Mines, the source of her family's power and wealth. Many crystals gleamed upon the cavern walls, and carts full of mined gems gleamed upon tracks. Amethysts, topaz, emeralds, sapphires, and diamonds all shone here. The miners were gone—whether they had left to fight or seek safety elsewhere Neekeya did not know. Metal tracks plunged into shadows, leading to the deeper mines. A crevice split the floor, and peering down, Neekeya saw a rivulet of lava gurgling in a red river.

"The Mines of Eetek," she whispered. "A place of wealth, beauty, and magic." Even in the horror of war, she paused for a heartbeat, marveling at the beauty of the place.

Shouts rose behind her.

Tam and Neekeya spun around, swords raised.

Prince Felsar emerged from the tunnel into the mine. With him ran a hundred soldiers or more—Magerians in black steel. Felsar himself wore a black breastplate now; it sported the Radian sigil.

He pointed his sword at her—the long, thin sword of a Magerian. "There they are."

Neekeya sneered. "Felsar! You are a fool." She spat. "Do you really think you're one of them? You clad yourself in Magerian armor, but I still see your dusky skin. You wear the sigil of the eastern empire, but the blood of a Daenorian still pumps through your veins. You are a traitor."

The prince shook his head. "No, Latani. You fail to understand. Daenor can no longer stand alone, an outcast in the sunlight. The time has come to join the rest of Timandra, to be equals in a sunlit empire. That is what the Radian Order gives us—equality. All who serve Serin will find honor. And all who seek to fight my master will perish. And so will you and the prince pup." He turned toward the Magerians around him. "Slay them."

The Magerians raised crossbows. Quarrels whistled.

Neekeya and Tam dived and ducked behind a metal cart. The bolts slammed into it, and gemstones cascaded.

Boots thumped as the enemy ran forward. Growling, Neekeya shoved against the minecart she hid behind. It tilted over, spilling hundreds of gems across the floor. Three Magerians, racing forward with swinging swords, tripped and crashed down, clumsy in their armor. Others knelt and began to collect the gems.

Neekeya tugged the emptied cart back onto the track. She jumped inside and gestured to Tam.

"Well, come on! You wanted to save me, right?"

He nodded and leaped into the cart too. More crossbows thrummed. They ducked and the quarrels flew over their heads. Neekeya grabbed a lever and tugged, releasing the cart's brakes. With shrieks and a shower of sparks, the trolley began racing down the metal rails, heading deeper into the mine.

Wind whipped their hair. They gripped the sides of the cart, ducking as more quarrels flew overhead. The tracks plunged down into darkness, and craggy walls raced at their sides, their gemstones blurred into streaks. Only several scattered torches provided illumination.

"Idar's Beard!" Tam cursed. "Is this thing safe?"

Neekeya shook her head. "Not at this speed. But neither are Radians with crossbows."

As the minecart trundled down the track, she glanced behind her and cursed. Several other carts were racing in pursuit, the enemy within them. Prince Felsar sat in the lead trolley, and Magerians filled the carts behind him. All bore crossbows and swords. Another bolt fired and Neekeya ducked, dodging the projectile.

"Neekeya, watch out!" Tam shouted.

She winced to see a sharp turn in the tracks. Desperately, she grabbed the lever and tugged on the brakes. The cartwheels screamed. Sparks rose in a fountain. As the cart skidded along the turn, it tilted over, nearly spilling Tam and Neekeya. Below, she could see the darkness plunging down to the river of lava. She screamed and leaned the opposite way, and the cart's wheels slammed back down onto the track. They kept racing downward.

"Idar's Soggy Britches," Tam muttered.

An instant later, Neekeya saw Felsar's cart just barely make the turn; it too tilted and nearly tumbled down before righting itself. The cart behind Felsar, however, did not break in time. It began to make the turn, then veered off the rails and tumbled down. Men screamed inside before crashing down into the lava.

Neekeya's cart made another sharp turn, plunging into a dark, narrow tunnel that led deeper into the earth. Diamonds shone in the walls around her, and the ribs of ancient reptiles rose like archways above. The enemy carts pursued. Crossbow quarrels flew, and Neekeya ducked. The missiles whistled and slammed into the cart. One quarrel slammed into a wheel, and the cart leaped and nearly overturned. It crashed back down onto the tracks with shrieking sparks.

"Tam, grab the lever!" Neekeya shouted.

She sucked in air and rose above the edge of the cart. A quarrel whistled and she tilted, dodging it.

Focus. She inhaled deeply. Summon the magic.

She chose the tracks behind her. She claimed the metal. She changed the material, lifting the rails like the tusks of a rearing elephant.

The minecart behind her hit the shattered metal and flew into the air. Behind it, other carts bolted and tilted, slamming into one another. Felsar screamed, his cart tilting madly. Trollies crashed down into the lava below. Smoke and dust obscured the tunnels, blinding Neekeya.

Her cart kept racing downward.

No enemies pursued.

She breathed out a shaky breath of relief.

We're safe.

"By Inagon's moldy pits!" Tam shouted, laughing. "That was brilliant. Absolutely brilliant."

The tracks led them onward, soon leveling off. They slowed down in a towering, craggy hall the size of a palace. The track here stretched over a chasm, and the lava roiled and bubbled below. Only the thin, rickety track—humble rails cobbled together into a bridge—separated the cart from the inferno below.

The track finally ended at a stone platform that thrust out from the cavern wall. A staircase stretched ahead, leading upward into shadows. The minecart rolled to a stop at the platform. No other carts followed; they all must have fallen off the broken track.

Legs rubbery, Neekeya and Tam climbed out of the cart onto the stone ledge. The platform was only a few feet wide, trapped between the lava and the staircase.

Growls rose to her side.

Eyes narrowed, Neekeya turned toward the sound. A barred door was worked into the stone wall. Beyond lay a chamber full of furry black creatures the size of boars. Tipped with claws, their forepaws were massive; they formed half of each animal's mass. The creatures' tapered heads were eyeless, their noses were long and pink and whiskered, and sharp teeth filled their mouths.

"What are they?" Tam asked, eying them wearily.

"We call them minemoles," Neekeya answered, "though their true name in our tongue is da'altin. They are excellent diggers—they dug these mines—though they're also nasty, hungry creatures who thirst for human blood." She shuddered. "Several times, miners cut their fingers upon sharp stones. The minemoles smelled the blood like sharks and . . ." She shook her head wildly. "Never mind that." She pointed at the staircase. "Here the mine ends. These stairs will lead us into the western swamps, hopefully beyond the battle. From there we'll travel, hidden between the trees, to the sea."

Tam nodded and took her hands. "We'll find the sea. I promise you. We'll sail to safety. If my parents still live, we'll find them. We'll survive." He pulled her into his arms and kissed her forehead. "I'll look after you always. I'll love you always."

They stood holding each other for long moments, the chasm of lava to one side, the cellar of minemoles to the other, and the staircase behind them. Finally Neekeya broke apart from the embrace. She placed one foot upon the staircase and reached out to him.

"We climb."

Before she could take another step, a voice rose from across the chasm.

"You cannot escape, Neekeya. It's over."

Prince Felsar came walking along the rails over the pit of lava. Behind him walked a dozen Magerian soldiers and three mages in black armor.

Neekeya hissed, crouched, and claimed the track. She tugged the metal, intending to shatter the rails again, to send the enemy plunging down into the lava. The rails began to bend. But the three Magerian mages—they seemed to hover above the track—seized control of the magic, pressing the rails back into place. They raised their hands, and blasts of magic shot across the chasm to slam into Neekeya and Tam.

The two fell, writhing in pain.

The pain ended as fast as it had begun. Neekeya lay gasping, electricity crackling across her. She struggled to her feet, and Tam rose beside her, coughing. Sweat dripped down their foreheads.

Neekeya took another step onto the staircase.

More magic blasted out, knocking her down. She screamed. Blood dipped from her mouth, and the minemoles shrieked in their enclosure, banging against the bars, begging to feed.

When the pain ended, Neekeya spun back toward the track that spanned the chasm. Felsar and the mages had crossed half the bridge now. Hoods hid the mages' faces, but Neekeya could see Felsar clearly. He was smiling.

"You cannot escape us," the prince said. "Even if you make it up the stairs—and perhaps I will let you climb them for sport—we will hunt you in the marshes. Perhaps I will keep you alive. Perhaps I will drag you to Emperor Serin in chains, so he may torture you himself. The Latani of Eetek and the Price of Arden . . . fine prizes." The prince licked his lips. "Fine prizes that would elevate me to glory in the court of my lord."

Tam coughed and hugged himself. Blood dripped from cuts the magic had left across him. The minemoles were shrieking, reaching their paws between the bars of their enclosure, consumed with bloodlust, desperate for their crimson drink.

Neekeya's limbs shook. Her head spun. Coughing and bleeding, she struggled back up to her feet. Tam grasped her arms. He stared at her, sweat dripping into his eyes.

"Climb, Neekeya." He stroked a strand of her hair; it was wet with blood and sweat. "Run."

She looked back at the tracks. The enemy was advancing, the lava gurgling below. If she stepped onto the stairs again, the mages would blast their magic, she knew. What could she do? She was trapped. She had failed. She—

"Run!" Tam shouted.

He spun toward the enclosure in the wall. Magic blasted out from his hand, shattering the metal bars. With a single swift movement, Tam swiped his hand across his blade, then lifted his bleeding palm.

The minemoles raced toward him, clawing over one another in a mad dash.

"Up the stairs, Neekeya!" the Prince of Arden shouted . . . and leaped onto the track.

"Tam!" she shouted.

He ran across the metal track over the chasm, heading toward the enemy. Neekeya cried out and tried to run after him, but the minemoles raced around her, each as large as a boar. They slammed into her, knocking her down, in their mad dash after Tam's dripping blood. The creatures scurried along the track like rats along a rope.

Upon the track, high above the lava, Tam swung his sword, parrying a bolt of magic. Shouting wordlessly, he slammed into Felsar.

"Tam!" Neekeya shouted, tears in her eyes.

An instant later, a dozen minemoles leaped onto Tam, Felsar, and the soldiers on the track. Magic blasted out. Men screamed. Blood showered. Fire exploded.

With creaks and snaps, the iron rails shattered.

Both men and minemoles fell.

Neekeya reached across the chasm, screaming, watching the rails plummet.

The lava showered up toward the ceiling and walls, greedy tongues licking chops of stone, satisfied after a hearty meal.

"Tam . . ."

Neekeya remained upon the stone ledge, reaching down toward the lava. Her body shook. Tears gushed from her eyes.

"My husband . . ."

The lava settled and gurgled peacefully, a red river. The bridge had vanished, leaving only a few shattered spikes of metal. All that remained of men and minemoles was the echo of a scream, perhaps only a memory. All that remained of Neekeya's life was a hollow, empty shell.

She wept. Her life was saved. Her husband was gone.

"Tam . . . please," she whispered. "Please, let this be a trick. Let this be some illusion of your magic. Tam . . ."

More Magerian soldiers emerged across the chasm from the opposite tunnel. They saw Neekeya, raised crossbows, and fired. Several quarrels clattered around her, and one drove into her thigh. She screamed.

I'm sorry, Tam. I'm sorry.

She turned and ran up the staircase, quarrels pattering around her feet. She climbed for hundreds of steps, moving higher and higher, her blood dripping, her tears falling. Finally she emerged back into the marshlands, turned around, and saw the Pyramid of Eetek a mile away. Radian banners rose from its crest, and Magerians blew horns in victory.

Covered in blood, dust, and mud, Neekeya stood in the marshes, the water up to her knees. She lowered her head and clutched the hilt of her sword.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR:

THE BLOOD OF ELORIA

Lari leaned back in her lush armchair, placed her feet upon her embroidered footstool, and sipped from her glass of wine.

"Well, well." She examined Madori. "The war hasn't been good to you, has it?"

The camp outside—Iron Mine Number One—was a nightmarish land of screams, blood, and death. Here in this tent was an oasis of comfort and splendor. The tent walls were woven of rich, crimson wool embroidered with golden thread. Golden bowls of fruit, jeweled jugs of wine, and ivory cutlery rested upon giltwood tables. Statues of rearing buffaloes—symbols of Old Mageria—held crackling embers in their mouths, and their ruby eyes gleamed.

And in the center of this splendor is me, Madori thought.

She looked into a tall mirror, its frame golden. She did not recognize the creature she had become. Cuts bled upon her naked scalp. Grime covered her body. That body was thinner than she'd ever known it, her ribs visible between the tatters of her rags, her joints knobby. The brand still blazed upon her shoulder, raw and red, and the stripes of Gora's whip marked her skin.

She looked back at Lari. As wretched as Madori was, Lari was resplendent. The princess wore a burgundy gown strewn with golden suns, and rubies hung around her neck. Her blond hair cascaded, scented with sweet oils, and even here in the camp, the princess kept her face finely painted—her eyelids powdered blue, her lips tinted red, her cheeks kissed with pink. On her fingers shone rings, each one worth more than Madori's old house and everything it had contained.

"What do you want from me?" Madori asked.

Lari sloshed the wine in her mouth, swallowed, and raised her eyebrow. "Why, I should think it clear, mongrel. I want you to suffer. I want you to stay alive to endure all the pain I can give you. I want you to remain the last living nightcrawler after all others have perished, and to remain by my side, to watch the destruction of the night with me." Lari leaned forward, her teeth stained red with wine. "And then, mongrel, I will return you to the sunlight, where I will parade you around as a freak, a creature for a menagerie. Men and women from across the empire will travel to see you, to pelt you with stones, to laugh at the deformed creature of darkness that I tamed. That is what I will turn you into."

The princess's cheeks flushed, and her grin stretched obscenely wide—so wide it almost seemed to split her face. Her eyes blazed with fire. With her garish makeup and hissing grin, she suddenly seemed less like a woman and more like some demonic jester.

She's insane, Madori realized. She's not just cruel, not just hateful. She's utterly mad.

"So why keep me here?" Madori said. "Why not toss me into the mine with the others?"

Lari plucked a grape from a bowl and chewed. "Too easy for you to kill yourself down there. I've seen one do it—slam the pickaxe right into his own head." She laughed—a trill shriek of a sound. "You will not leave my sight. You will not be a miner. You will be my servant; that is a better fate for you. Until the war is over and all the nightcrawlers are dead, you will prepare my meals, wash my clothes, empty my chamber pot, clean my dishes, and mostly watch with me. Yes, mostly you will stand with me above the canyon, watching as the nightcrawlers wither away, watching as they die." Lari rose from her chair, approached Madori, and held her arms. Her eyes blazed with the white light of a madwoman. "It will be glorious."

Madori stared into those two blue orbs of insanity. She shook her head. "I refuse. I will not serve you, Lari. You've gone mad with your power." Hesitantly, she touched Lari's shoulder. "You don't have to become this person. You don't have to let your father turn you into this. I can help you. I—"

Lari screamed and backhanded her. Madori clutched her blazing cheek.

"Be silent, mongrel, or I'll cut out your tongue." Lari grabbed a pitcher and tossed it at Madori. It slammed against her chest and spilled its wine. "I thought you might refuse. I knew you would. But I have ways of forcing you to obey."

"If you hurt me," Madori said softly, "I will endure it."

"May be." Lari laughed. "But I think, if I hurt another, you will find it harder to resist." She shouted toward the tent's entrance. "Gora! Bring her in!"

The tent flap opened. Gora and two other guards dragged in a bald, beaten Elorian.

Madori's eyes dampened.

Her heart seemed to fall still.

Mother.

"Mother!" she cried, leaped forward, and pulled Koyee into an embrace.

Tears streamed down Koyee's bruised face. "Madori! Oh, Madori!" Koyee trembled, caressing Madori's cheek again and again. "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry, daughter."

Madori could not speak, only weep. Gone was the proud, noble mother she had known, a warrior of starlight. Koyee was now battered, bleeding, her head bald, her hands raw and blistered, her limbs stick-thin. Tears flowed down Madori's cheeks.

"It'll be all right, Mother," she finally whispered through shaking lips, holding Koyee close. "Help will come to us. We—"

"Pull them apart!" Lari shrieked. "Gora! Make the mother suffer. Let the mongrel watch."

With a few grunts and curses, the Magerians grabbed mother and daughter and tugged them apart. Madori wailed and reached out to Koyee, but the guards only laughed, their grips like iron.

With a grin, Gora struck Koyee, knocking her down.

"Damn you!" Madori howled. She struggled against the guards gripping her but couldn't free herself.

Gora chortled and raised his whip above Koyee. Coughing out blood, Koyee struggled to rise, but her arms wobbled, too weak to support her.

"Stop!" Madori cried. She turned toward Lari. "Stop. I'll do as you say. Just let her go."

Gora froze, his whip held in the air, and glanced at Lari. The emperor's daughter nodded. Disappointment clouded Gora's face, and he hawked and seemed ready to spit, then apparently remembered where he stood and swallowed. With a grunt, he grabbed Koyee and manhandled her out of the tent.

"Be strong, Mother!" Madori called after her. "I love you. I love you . . ."

The other guards shuffled out, leaving Madori alone again with Lari in the tent.

Lari cleared her throat, sat back down in her armchair, and placed her feet back upon the footstool. "Now, my dear mongrel, I thirst for wine. Pour me a new cup. Afterward you may fetch me my dinner from the kitchens, then wash my boots and gown; both are dirty from my ride last turn. Well . . . get to work. Or shall I call your nightcrawler mother back in?"

For the next few hours, Madori worked in silence—serving Lari, cleaning her plates, cleaning her clothes, grooming her horse, and obeying her every command. Her head would not stop spinning, and her limbs would not stop shaking, and she wondered how long she would remain alive, how long any of them would. Her chains rattled with every step.

Soon, she thought as she worked outside in the cold, polishing Lari's armor. Soon, once I've regained my strength, I'll be able to cast magic again. Soon I'll be able to get my hands on a blade or pickaxe. And then, Lari . . . then the madness in your eyes will turn to fear.

* * * * *

He rode across the night, leading a host of sunlight.

He was a conqueror. A lighter of darkness. An exterminator of vermin. He was Emperor Serin. He was a light to the world and a hammer to crush the worms that infested it. He was the god of Radianism, a deity among men.

"The darkness vanishes," he whispered, licking his lips. "The light rises."

Ahead of him, the great hive of nightcrawlers crumbled. Yintao, they had named it. The capital of their filthy, infested land. The magic tore into the hive, smashing walls, crumbling towers, and his hosts cheered. A hundred thousand Timandrians, children of pure sunlight, streamed into the ruins, slaying the weak, capturing the strong. Thousands of Elorians marched in chains, whipped, beaten, shivering in their nakedness and wretchedness.

"Make them suffer before they die," Serin commanded his generals. "Make the world see their baseness. Strip off their clothes. Shear off their hair. Brand their skin and let them serve us. Let them dig. Let them forge the weapons of their own destruction."

He laughed as he rode through the darkness, leading his hosts, carving the mines for the worms. He laughed as they labored, building him more swords, more spears, more arrows, more cannons, more tools for his glory. Pathetic beings—so eager to serve him, so eager to help him destroy their own kind.

This is why I rise, he thought. And this is why they fall. This is why I am their master and they are my slaves.

He rode through another town, another city, watching the towers crumble, watching the slaves emerge, watching all the darkness turn bright with his fire.

"Glorious," he whispered, sitting astride his horse, staring down the hill. Tears stung his eyes. "Beautiful."

Below him, his soldiers rolled out wagon after wagon from a crumbling city, each piled high with Elorian bodies. Serin watched, hand held to his heart, as the soldiers stacked up mountains of corpses and lit them in great pyres. The fire rose high to the sky, casting out sparks, scented of burning meat, of his glory. Serin watched these great lights in the night, and tears of joy and awe streamed down his cheeks.

"The night has ended," he whispered. "Radian has risen."

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE:

THE WALLS OF OREWOOD

They stood upon the walls of Orewood, capital of Verilon, waiting for blood and fire.

The soldiers covered the battlements and filled the courtyards below. Ten thousand Ardishmen, banished from their homeland, waiting for vengeance. Twenty thousand Verilish warriors, meaty men with cast iron breastplates, thick fur cloaks, and beards just as thick and warm. Ravens and bears. Swords and hammers. Two forces united, ready to face the swarm.

"Bloody cold turn for a battle," Cam muttered. The short, slender king shivered, armor clanking. Snow covered his helmet, piled up upon his pauldrons, and clung to his stubbly cheeks. "We should have fled to the warm south."

Torin patted his friend's shoulder, scattering snow. "Soon we'll be warm enough. Battle heats a man's blood more than mulled wine or the love of a woman."

Cam sighed. "I'd take warm wine and a woman's love instead."

The snow suddenly seemed colder. The talk of women made Torin think of his wife, of Koyee missing. He lowered his head. "As would I."

Cam looked at him and his eyes softened. "I'm sorry, Tor. I pray every turn that we hear from her. Koyee is strong and brave, among the strongest people who live in Moth. If anyone can survive this, it's her."

Torin nodded. He stared off the rampart at the pine forest. The evergreens spread into the horizon, white with snow. A frozen stream snaked between them. The snow kept falling, and still the enemy did not appear, though Torin knew they were out there, moving closer, seeking them, seeking him.

"And the children are out there too somewhere," Torin said softly. "Madori and Tam. No word for months now." Torin clutched the merlon that rose before him. Suddenly it was a struggle to even breathe.

"I worry about them every turn, every breath." Cam's voice sounded choked. "It's a horrible thing, isn't it? Being a parent when your children are in danger. I often feel guilty, Tor." He stared at Torin with haunted eyes. "Guilty for bringing children into the world. We should have known. You and I, more than anyone. We fought in the last great war. We knew about the ugliness in the world, the cruelty in the hearts of men. And yet we brought children into this world, and now . . . now . . ." He lowered his head, overcome.

"There's not much hope," Torin said softly. "But I think that there's a little hope still. Let us cling to that sliver of hope now. It's still better than despair." He looked around him at the lines of soldiers upon the ramparts, then at the thousands of soldiers waiting in the courtyards within the city. "And that little hope lies here at the walls of Orewood."

Cam patted the icy merlon that rose before him. "Good, solid limestone." He sighed. "As if I know limestone from any other rock. Could be chalk for all I know." He looked back at Torin. "You know, I think back to the last round. To all those battles we fought. And I remember standing beside our friends, but all those old walls and battlefields merge together. I can no longer remember where it was Hem swallowed that apricot seed and nearly choked—was it Yintao? Pahmey? I can remember Bailey standing in some grand hall, trying to sing 'Old Riyonan Fields' and accidentally singing the rude lyrics Wela Brewer had invented for it." He laughed. "But I no longer remember if it was in the court of Qaelin's emperor, the halls of Ilar, or maybe just some knight's manor in the sunlight." He wiped his eyes. "I remember lots of bloodshed, horror, pain . . . but also good times. You know, I do think that old war—when we were just kids—was both the worst and greatest time in my life."

Torin nodded, head lowered. "Mine too. It's all memories of pain, but also memories of dear friends, the last memories of them we have." He caressed the hilt of his sword. "This war is turning out quite differently. And I begin to wonder if we'll ever have peace. I lie awake in bed, and I question why we fight for this world. It seems that whenever you slay one tyrant, another rises to take his place. Whenever you win one war, a generation later a new fire rises to burn the world. Do we fight for everlasting peace, or do we only fight for those brief moments in the sun, a respite from violence before blood washes us again? Perhaps the hearts of men cannot tolerate peace for more than a few years. Perhaps violence is the way of man, and all hope for ending war is just a hope for temporary victory, not an enduring end to arms. Sometimes I think that if this is so, perhaps it's better to lay down our swords, to let the enemy slay us, for even should we slay this enemy another will knock on our door. And yet I keep fighting. Not because I believe I can hold off the tide forever. I fight for those brief moments in the sun. For seeing my daughter smile. For smelling flowers bloom in spring in my gardens, even as I know winter will come again. For a dream of peace, however brief. If we vanquish this enemy, our children will fight another, or their children will, and they too will keep fighting. There will always be ugliness in the world, but perhaps there will always be beauty too. It's for those flashes of beauty that we're willing to face the endless stream of terror."

Cam nodded sagely. "I was just going to say all that myself."

Torin laughed. "I know. I . . ."

His voice died.

Men across the wall stiffened.

A distant drumming rose in the forest, and the trees upon the horizon swayed.

Cam spoke in a soft voice, barely more than a whisper. "They're here."

Across the walls of Orewood, the Ardishmen raised their bows and raised their chins. They stared into the southern forests, solemn, proud, ready to fight any terror that might emerge. Their banners unfurled in a gust of snowy wind, revealing the black raven upon the golden field. At the sight of these banners, pride welled in Torin.

Let the enemy see that Arden still stands with honor and pride.

Further along the walls, the soldiers of Verilon reacted somewhat differently. Here were no noble, steely soldiers in plate armor, no proud eyes, no solemn stares. The Verilish host erupted into wild jeers. Burly men—most were twice the size of the typical Ardishman—bellowed and lifted their hammers and shields high. Many held flagons of ale, and they drank between roars. Their fur cloaks billowed in the wind, and in lieu of drums, they pounded their hammers against their own iron breastplates, raising a ruckus that sent birds fleeing. Several men went even further; they turned their backs toward the forest, lowered their breeches, and gave the south a good view of their wriggling, hairy posteriors.

"They know how to enjoy war, I'll give them that," Cam muttered, watching the warriors of the bear.

The drums kept beating in the south, and the trees kept creaking, snow falling off their branches. The last birds fled the forest, and then Torin saw them, and he gripped his bow and cursed.

The Radians covered the forests, countless soldiers. This force seemed even larger than the army that had attacked Kingswall. Here was a great horde from many nations: Magerians in black steel, traitorous Ardishmen in pale armor, Nayans in tiger pelts, and even Eseerians from the distant south. Among them marched warriors Torin had never seen before—tall, broad men, as large as the Verilish, but golden haired and fair of skin. They were warriors of Orida, Torin realized, the island nation from the northern sea; they too now raised the Radian banners.

Catapults rolled forth among the enemy troops, followed by ballistae—great crossbows on wheels, large as cannons. True cannons emerged next from the forest, shaped as iron buffaloes. Wheeled battering rams swung on chains, and trebuchets swayed like pendulums as they rolled forth. But worse than all these tools of siege were the dark riders among them—robed and hooded mages.

One of these mages rode ahead of the army, twice the size of all others. Torin winced, pain shooting through him at the sight. Those red, burning eyes seemed to find him across the distance, to pierce him like spears. Four arms rose, holding four severed heads, trophies from the southern battlefields.

"Lord Gehena," Torin muttered. "He's back."

"Like a bad rash," Cam agreed.

Over the past few turns, Orewood's defenders had cleared out about a mile of forest, leaving a field of tree stumps beyond the canyon and walls. The enemy hosts paused before this cleared stretch of land, their backs to the forest; they stood just beyond the range of the defenders' arrows.

Only Gehena rode forth. His horse, several times the usual size, snorted and huffed, blasting smoke out of its nostrils. The dark lord's cloak gusted in the wind, revealing tattered, burnt hems. A stench of smoke and vinegar wafted from the mage toward the walls of Orewood.

Several soldiers beside Torin raised their arrows. Torin raised his hand, holding back the fire.

"Wait," he said.

Gehena kept riding forward until he had crossed half the distance between the forest and walls. His horse sidestepped, sneering. With a hiss that sounded halfway between water on fire and a laugh, Gehena tossed the four severed heads he held.

The grisly projectiles sailed through the air and across the walls. Torin grimaced as one landed right between him and Cam.

"By Idar," Cam said, blanching.

Torin stared down at the head and ground his teeth. It was the frozen head of Kay Wooler, his neighbor from Fairwool-by-Night, a mere girl of twenty. Her face was still twisted with fear.

A shriek rose from the field, morphing into words, high-pitched, demonic, a sound like a hailstorm.

"Here are the heads of your neighbors," cried Lord Gehena. "Here are the heads of those you abandoned, those you failed, those you let die. They are four among thousands." He looked over his shoulder. "Men of Radian! Show them your trophies!"

Across the field, thousands of Radian soldiers roared. They raised thousands of spears; each held a severed Ardish head.

Gehena laughed and turned back toward Orewood. "You tried to fight my lord, the mighty Serin. He repays treachery with death. Though as great as his might is his mercy. On his behalf, I give you one more chance to live. Surrender now. Open your gates and swear allegiance to my lord. Raise the Radian flag, fight with us against the night, and you shall live. Refuse me . . . and you will die." His laughter rose like steam. "You will all die in agony, and your heads will pelt the next city we crush."

"I say we fire those arrows now," Torin said.

Cam nodded. "Capital idea." The king raised his voice to a roar. "Archers of Arden! Fire!"

Hundreds of soldiers upon the wall raised their bows. Hundreds of arrows flew skyward, reached their zenith, and flew downward toward Gehena.

The mage pointed his four hands forward. The arrows disintegrated and fell as ash.

An instant later, the Radian soldiers blew horns and charged toward the walls of Orewood.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX:

THE WAR ETERNAL

Koyee swung the pickaxe. Again. Again.

Pain flared across her. Again. Again.

The whips cracked. Again. Again.

The turns faded together into a long, unending nightmare. She rose. She worked in the mine, chained, with a thousand others. She suffered the shouts, the lash, the steel-tipped boots. She returned to the cave with the others, huddled together, praying, whispering.

Their captors did not feed them. While forced to clean the camp above the canyon, they scrounged around in the trash, picking out bones, peels, and whatever else remained from the Radians' meals. They drank melted snow when it fell; usually they thirsted. Their fat and muscles melted off, leaving them famished, rubbery, skin hanging off bones like white silk off hangers.

And they died.

Always they died.

A body collapsed. Again. Again.

The wheelbarrow rolled out a pile of corpses. Again. Again.

Sometimes it was hunger or thirst. Sometimes the lash of an over-eager overseer. Often it was disease; the Timandrian illnesses still ran through the mine, bringing chills, boils, fever, death.

And yet, through this pain, their labors bore fruit. Piles of arrowheads, spearheads, and swords rose in wagons, shipped off to war.

Thus we die, Koyee thought, swinging the pick. Working to slay our own people.

They worked. They suffered. They died. And sometimes . . . sometimes they fought.

One turn it was a young man, though he looked old now, who shouted in agony, tears in his eyes, and swung his pickaxe at a guard. The Magerian only laughed, dodged the blow, and knocked the Elorian down. That turn, the Magerians enjoyed hanging the prisoner above the canyon, only to lower the rope instants before death, allow the man to recover, then tighten the noose again. It was hours before the man died as the other prisoners toiled below, hearing the gasps, knowing this would be their fate too should they rebel.

Yet another prisoner, a diminutive woman with large indigo eyes, shouted the next turn after watching her son collapse. She too attacked a guard, and her pickaxe hit the man's armor, denting the steel. The Magerians beat her to death, laughing as she bled.

How can we fight them? Koyee thought, chipping out the iron ore, one chunk after another. We are weak, nearly starving, dying. They wear armor, and they carry shields and swords. She lowered her head. It's a fight we can't win.

Yet as the turns went by, she realized: We must fight nonetheless.

The next time they entered the cave to sleep, she began whispering of her plans.

"Gather, friends." She gestured for them to approach. "Gather, hear me."

The prisoners lay across the cave like discarded rags, so weak they could barely raise their heads. The cave was small; the prisoners covered the floor, leaving no room to spare. They barely seemed human to Koyee, only ravaged things, half-alive. They reminded her of the plague victims she had seen in the Hospice of Pahmey, still drawing breath but only a mockery of true life. She could clearly see the bones and joints of her fellow prisoners; their skin hid nothing. Their eyes peered, huge and glazed, from bald, skull-like heads. She no longer knew man from woman, child from adult; all had become sickly, starving, dying things.

Now we truly look like the worms they always called us, Koyee thought.

"Come, friends, gather near."

They crawled toward her, the stronger dragging the weak. A few only raised their heads, blinking, uttering silent words. Koyee struggled onto her stick-thin legs. She stared around her, meeting gaze after gaze.

"We've been here for over a moon," she said. "If we do nothing, we will die here. So many of us have died already, and I no longer believe help will come to us. If we fight, our fate will be the same." She tried to make a fist, but she was too weak to close her fingers. "If only death awaits us, we can still choose how to die. And I say we die fighting. Together."

One of the prisoners, an Elorian youth named Baoshi, struggled to his feet too. He leaned over for a moment, coughed, and finally righted himself. He met Madori's gaze. Sweat dripped off his forehead, and the glaze of illness coated his eyes, but he managed to nod.

"I will fight with you, Koyee," he said. "I know of your tales. You are the great heroine of the first war. The Girl in the Black Dress. The Rider of Dragons. The Slayer of Ferius." He turned to look at the others. "She is a heroine. We must follow her. She will lead us to victory."

Another prisoner, a man named Chenduon, shook his head. "She will lead us to death." He coughed, holding his frail chest. "I do not want to die a hero. I want to live as long as I can. Maybe aid will arrive. Maybe Emperor Jin will send a great army to free us."

The younger Baoshi laughed bitterly. "You are delirious. There is no aid for us; the emperor might be dead, all his halls fallen." He shuddered. "I was in Pahmey. I saw the mages of sunlight sink the whole city into the pit. Now I envy those who fell. And I do not believe there is hope for aid. All of Eloria must have fallen, not only Qaelin but Ilar and Leen too. Perhaps we are the last Elorians alive."

A woman struggled to her feet—Shinquon, once a fisherman's wife. "If all Eloria is fallen, maybe the sunlit masters will show us mercy." A tear streamed into her sunken cheek. "They will no longer need weapons if their war is won. Maybe they will soon free us." She turned to glare at Koyee. "I too want to stay alive as long as possible. Every turn that we still live brings hope, if only a whisper of hope. If we fight, we know for certain that we die."

Young Baoshi spun toward the woman, then had to lean down for a moment, coughing. Finally he managed to speak again. "I'm willing to die fighting. But perhaps we will win." He looked at Koyee. "Right, Koyee? We have a chance to win, do we not? I believe."

Koyee sighed. She looked around her. Everyone was now watching from across the cave. She spoke softly. "Our hope to defeat our masters is as small as our hope for rescue. I believe that there is almost no hope at all. I will not lie to you; I would lead you to fight not because I think we can win, but because I prefer to die fighting, to die proud, to show them—with our last breath—that we are no worms, that we are proud Elorians, proud children of darkness. But if hope drives you, and if hope is what helps you swing a pick at a soldier, then cling to that hope. Foster it. Because even though hope is small, barely more than a speck, I do not believe that hope is ever dead. We were born in the night, and more than anyone, we know this: Even in the greatest darkness there is some light. Even beyond the greatest fear there is courage. Even in the greatest pain there is joy."

Their eyes gleamed with tears. Koyee had to close her own eyes; seeing them looking at her, finding hope in her, was suddenly too much. She was a woman now with a grown daughter, and she was a leader, a heroine and legend, so why did she so often still feel like a child? Even now, she often felt no older, no braver, than that youth who had sailed alone upon the Inaro River, an orphan girl more than twenty years ago. Back then, she had sought the aid of others—from leaders, from soldiers, from emperors. She had relied on so many others to teach her—on Little Maniko and his courage, Empress Hikari and her strength, and Shenlai the dragon for his wisdom. Always there had been somebody older, somebody wiser and stronger, somebody to guide her. Yet all those souls had died, and now she was the wise one, the one others approached for leadership. And the weight nearly crushed her.

Inside I still feel like a child . . . somebody who needs leadership in others. How can I now lead them, give them the strength and wisdom others gave me?

She looked at them. They nodded, one by one.

"When the moon is gone from the sky, and the Timandrians' eyes are weakest, we attack together," Koyee said. "We will raise our pickaxes. And we will swing them not at stone but at our oppressors. We will slay them or we will die as heroes, and any who survive this war will sing of our courage for eternity."

* * * * *

Jitomi stood on the prow of the Tai Lar—the Waterfire—the new flagship of his armada. Behind him sailed hundreds of ships, the might of his empire. Ahead, flowing down the dark waters of the Inaro, sailed the sunlit fleet.

"Now the true mettle of the night will be tested," Jitomi said. "Now the might of the Red Flame will be judged not by burning fellow Elorians . . . but by facing an empire of sunlight."

Lord Dorashi, Captain of the Tai Lar, stood beside him. A gruff man of fifty years, Dorashi wore crimson armor, the bulky plates tasseled and engraved with black dragon motifs. His face was leathery, his eyes hard and narrowed. A thick white mustache drooped over his thin mouth. His shoulders were broad, his helmet horned. His family ruled the distant, southern coast of Ilar, and they had long been aligned with the Hashido nobles, Jitomi's family from the northern peninsula.

"We will smash through them," Captain Dorashi said. "The Red Flame Armada has never been stronger, and Tianlong flies with us."

The leathery captain raised his eyes skyward. Jitomi followed his gaze. Clouds hid the moon and stars, and in the darkness, Tianlong was but a shadow, a coiling serpent of the night. The dragon's red beard fluttered like a banner, a hint of red like blood staining the clouds.

This battle I will fight upon the water, Jitomi thought. With my people. One among them.

He had removed his mage's robes, and now he wore the armor of an Ilari warrior—armor he had once refused to don. Now he bore a katana and shield. Now he led an empire, a nation. Now he fought for all the night.

The Radian fleet sailed closer, moving toward them across the mile-wide river. Hundreds of carracks sailed there, their white sails sporting the golden eclipse of the Radian Order. Cannons lined their hulls, the knowledge of their construction stolen from Eloria in the last war. Lanterns hung from their masts, casting light upon thousands of archers and swordsmen. This force had smashed the towns and cities along the river, moving south, crushing all in its path, devastating Qaelin, the mainland of Eloria.

They stop here, Jitomi thought.

He turned to look behind him. Hundreds of Ilari warriors stood upon the deck of the Tai Lar: swordsmen all in steel, gunners manning their cannons, and even riders astride growling black panthers. A pagoda rose from the deck, three tiers tall, and archers stood within it, bows ready. Behind the Tai Lar sailed many more ships, all ready for battle.

"Ilar!" Jitomi shouted. He drew his katana and raised the blade. "Sons of Ilar, hear me! I am Jitomi Hashido, Emperor of the Red Flame. An enemy of sunlight approaches. The Radian Empire which has deceived us, which has slain our brothers, sails to crush us. We will smash the enemy! For the Red Flame and for Eloria, we will triumph!"

They roared, thousands of voices. Thousands of swords rose. Thousands of horned, demonic helmets blazed in the light of torches. Above, the dragon Tianlong let out his cry.

Captain Dorashi raised a red banner. "Smoke!" he roared. "Light the dragons!"

Across the Ilari fleet, men lit the dragon figureheads of their ships. Black and yellow smoke rose from the iron jaws, scented of sulfur, obscuring their locations. Ilari warriors loved fighting in shadows and smoke, hidden, smashing through their blinded enemies.

Jitomi turned to face the north again. He could see only smoke now, not the enemy fleet. But he could hear the Radians. Their war drums boomed. Their horns blared. Their voices shouted out as one: "Radian rises! Radian rises!"

Jitomi squared his jaw. For the darkness. And for Madori. For the woman I love.

He stepped closer to the prow. He shouted at the top of his lungs. "Fire!"

Fire crackled. Black smoke blasted out. Ahead of Jitomi, the dragon figurehead of the Tai Lar blasted out fire. The ship shook. A cannonball shot through the smoke, cutting a path of clear sky. A ship emerged from the clouds ahead, and an instant later, the cannonball slammed into its hull.

A thousand other cannons blasted from both fleets.

Fire and sound washed over the world.

One cannonball slammed into the Tai Lar's hull only feet away from Jitomi. The iron-clad ship shook madly. Jitomi nearly fell. For an instant he thought the hull had collapsed, but its iron flanks had withstood the blow. A dozen other cannons fired upon the deck. Men screamed. Fire blazed across the Radians' wooden ships.

"Archers!" Jitomi cried. "Fire!"

Flaming arrows flew through the night to slice through the enemy's canvas sails. The sails burst into flame, and firelight lit the darkness. Enemy arrows flew in response, and Jitomi raised his shield. Flaming projectiles slammed against him, shattering against his shield and armor and peppering the deck around him.

Cannons blasted again. The fleets kept sailing toward each other . . . then crashed together with blood and flame.

A Radian ship rammed into the Tai Lar, its figurehead denting the iron starboard. The Tai Lar's own figurehead scraped across the enemy's weaker hull, scattering shards of wood. Planks drove down from ship to ship, and soldiers charged into battle.

Jitomi grimaced as two Radian swordsmen ran toward him, swinging longswords—blades heavier and longer than his katana. He chose and claimed one man's sword, then heated the hilt; the soldier screamed and dropped the weapon. The second soldier thrust his blade, and Jitomi blocked the blow with his shield, then swung his katana upwards. He drove the blade into the man's armpit where his armor was weak, and blood showered. Another swing of the katana and the man fell.

All around Jitomi upon the Tai Lar's deck, soldiers of day and night battled. Men raced across the planks or swung upon ropes from deck to deck. All across the Inaro, ships burned, archers fired, cannons blasted, and men thrashed in the water. Tianlong roared above, dipping down to slam through enemy hulls, sending the ships into the water.

"Drive through them!" Captain Dorashi was howling, holding a bloody katana in each hand. "Smash the enemy!"

Arrows sailed overhead from the ship's pagoda. Men screamed and blood washed the deck.

Jitomi swung his blade again and again, parrying, killing. One arrow punched through his armor and entered his arm. He growled but kept fighting with blade and magic. All around him, the fire lit the night and the blood painted the river red.

* * * * *

The assault on Orewood began with cannon fire, swinging catapults, and shrieking ballistae.

"There will be no siege!" Lord Gehena's voice rose like a storm, inhumanly loud, high-pitched like shattering glass. "All who oppose Serin will die, and Orewood will be his trophy."

A boulder slammed into the rampart beside Torin, cracking the stone. A ballista's iron projectile, longer than a man, sailed overhead to smash a home beyond the walls. A cannonball drove into a guard tower, and the turret collapsed in a pile of bricks.

"Fire your arrows!" Torin shouted. "Men of Arden, take them down! Aim at the gunners! Aim at the catapults!"

He nocked an arrow and fired. Across the walls of Orewood, thousands of archers fired with him. Thousands of arrows flew from the walls, the guard towers, the roofs behind. A rain of steel, wood, and flame descended upon the enemy. Radian troops fell, pierced with arrows, only for their comrades to trample the corpses as they charged.

"Scale the walls!" Gehena screeched upon his horse. "Shatter the gates! Claim this city for the Light of Radian!"

The Radian hordes swept forth like the sea. Great ladders swung, snapping onto the walls with iron brackets. A battering ram swung on chains, slamming into the doors, chipping the wood. Trebuchets twanged in the field, tossing flaming barrels and spiked boulders over the walls and into the city. Log homes collapsed. Fires crackled. People shouted and fled deeper into the city, clogging the streets.

"Oil!" Torin shouted. "Burn them!"

Across the walls, oil bubbled within cauldrons. Torin helped tilt one pot over a murder hole carved into the rampart. The oil slid down the stone tunnel, fell through the open air, and sizzled over the troops below. The Magerians screamed, the oil trickling under their armor and searing their flesh.

And still the enemy kept coming.

Mages shot black, astral whips that rose hundreds of feet tall. The lashes grabbed onto the ramparts and tugged back, tearing down merlons and turrets. Bricks rained down into the field. Men rained with them. Cannonballs sailed overhead and crashed into homes beyond the wall. Fires spread across the city. Red smoke rose in clouds, hiding the sky.

It is a war we cannot win, Torin thought. It is a war without end.

He shouted hoarsely. He fired arrows. He spilled oil. When the enemy climbed the ladders, he swung his sword, and he fought them on the walls, and he slew men, and his blade ran red with blood. But through roaring fire, blasting cannons, and the screams of the dying, all seemed muffled, the whole world a haze.

It is the war eternal. It is the curse of Moth. Will we always bleed?

He knew they could not win this battle. Not with the magic tearing the walls apart, ripping down brick by brick. Not with the cannons firing, the rams swinging. The gates shattered below. A mile in the northwest, he heard distant screams, and he saw the city's western gates shatter, the enemy stream into the streets. To his right, a great section of wall crumble, and the enemy surged, climbing over the rubble into Orewood.

The dams collapsed.

The Radian forces swept into the city with chants, with galloping horses, and with myriads of swinging swords.

A war eternal, Torin thought, standing atop a pillar of stone, one of the few sections of wall still standing. Blood without end.

"Torin!" The voice seemed miles away, ages away, a voice from another world, from memory. Was it his wife calling to him? He had fought his wife once. In the city of Pahmey, she had fired an arrow at him. She—

"Torin, damn it! Come on!"

A hand grabbed his arm. He looked down. Cam was tugging him, shouting something. Torin could barely hear. His head rang. When he touched his forehead, his fingers came away bloody.

"I don't remember being hit," he whispered.

"Tor, come on, damn you!" Cam shouted.

Torin nodded. Cam tugging him, they raced down a stone staircase instants before it collapsed. Bricks and dust rained. They ran into a courtyard covered with bricks, cloven helms, and bodies. A few scattered Ardishmen stood with raised swords. Hundreds of Radians surrounded them.

"Does it end here?" Torin asked his friend.

Cam spat and raised his sword. "If it does, we go down together, old boy. Now let's kill a few of these bastards first."

The two men shouted and charged toward the enemy.

Across the city of Orewood, buildings collapsed, horses galloped, cannons fired, and blood flowed. A temple's columns cracked and fell, and the roof slammed down onto men. Fire blazed across wooden homes. Helmets rolled across the streets. Hammers swung, cleaving breastplates. Men fell and cannons rolled through the city, their wheels bristly with arrows. Bears charged at horses and lances thrust. Everywhere the fire burned. Smoke rose, black and red, hiding the crumbling city under a blanket of heat and ash.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN:

DAGGER AND BONES

Madori knelt on the cold, rocky ground of the courtyard, polishing Lari's armor. She had been working for an hour with rags and oil, shining each piece at a time—pauldrons, breastplate, vambraces, greaves, gauntlets, and helmet. Each piece of steel was filigreed with golden buffaloes and Radian eclipses, symbols of Old Mageria and the new Radian Empire it had become. Each of these pieces was priceless, worth more than anything Madori had ever owned, probably worth more than all that had been in Fairwool-by-Night.

You destroyed that village, Lari, Madori thought as she worked, shining the rubies inlaid into the breastplate. Her eyes stung. You crushed and burned it to the ground. And some turn I will avenge it. I don't know how, and I don't know when, but you will pay for your crimes.

She lifted one of the Lari's gauntlets—the one that had struck Madori's own cheek only last turn, leaving an ugly gash. She began to polish it carefully, moving the oiled rag over each finger, cleaning off her own blood. Last time Madori had failed to polish the armor carefully enough, Lari had ordered her men to beat Madori unconscious. Luckily, in her weakened state, that had not taken more than a couple blows, but it was enough that Madori had never missed a spot since.

She had been here for two moons now—two moons of beatings, of hunger, of disease—and Madori was fading away. Every turn as she awoke, she was surprised to find herself still alive.

"Lari doesn't even need armor in this place," Madori mumbled as she worked. "We're so weak we couldn't crush a mouse beneath our heels."

A voice boomed out behind her. "Work silently, worm, or you'll taste the back of my hand."

She looked over her shoulder. One of Lari's guards stood there—a yellow-haired, rat-faced man named Derin. Madori scowled at him, prepared to talk back, but when he raised his hand, she swallowed her words and returned to the armor. Derin had beaten her often enough—it seemed every guard here had—that she had lost the appetite for defiance.

If I were still strong enough to cast magic, I would crush you like a bug, she thought. Often she had tried to use her magic here, to cast a shield of air around her, to protect herself from the blows. But her body was too weak, her mind too muzzy. Whenever she tried to use magic, her skull seemed to contract, and she saw stars. A few times she had managed to create a protective shield of air around her during the beating, but the effort had sucked up so much energy, she had spent hours afterward dizzy and gagging.

The tents of soldiers rose around her. Beyond them, scaffolding rose in the night; workers bustled there, constructing a fortress for the Magerians. To her east, Madori could make out a line of soldiers guarding the canyon. The sounds of the mining rose from the chasm—pickaxes against stone and whips against flesh. Several times, Madori had tried to creep toward that canyon, to gaze down into the shadows, to see if her mother still lived. But guards always caught her and tossed her back to Lari and her wrath. And so Madori remained above in the Magerian camp, the only Elorian here, serving the princess.

"Make way!" rose a voice. "Make way—nightcrawler corpses! Make way!"

Oiled rag in hand, Madori sucked in her breath. She spun toward the voice, and she saw him there. It was Peras this time, a wiry soldier with graying hair, who was shoving the wheelbarrow through the camp. Within lay a dozen starved Elorian corpses.

Forgetting the armor, Madori hobbled toward the wheelbarrow. The chains around her ankles jangled, and tears filled her eyes.

"Please, Peras," she said. "Let me see them."

Radian soldiers gathered around, chortling.

"Let her look!" said rat-faced Derin. "I like it when she looks."

Another soldier, a tall woman named Ferla, barked out a laugh. "Remember, Derin, if she finds her maggot mother before the new moon, you owe me a silver coin."

Derin spat. "Won't be till after the new moon. Her mother's a tough one."

"No one's tough in the mines, boy." Ferla snorted. "And you're going to owe me that silver coin."

Ignoring the soldiers, Madori rummaged through the wheelbarrow of bodies, seeking her, seeking Koyee. The dead were almost unrecognizable; fallen to starvation, disease, and their cruel masters' whips, even freshly killed they looked like old corpses, shrunken and shriveled. She found men, children, youths . . . all strangers.

Madori breathed out a shaky sigh of relief. "She's not here," she whispered.

A few Radians roared with laughter. Ferla muttered and spat, while Derin boasted of the coin she owed him.

You're strong, Mother, Madori thought, returning to the armor. You'll survive this. We both will.

She gave the armor a few last passes with the rag, then turned to her next task: preparing Lari's dinner. The princess often went out riding for hours in the darkness, claiming the camp stank of death. When she returned, weary and hungry from her ride, she demanded her meals waiting on her table.

Madori hobbled to the wide tent that served as the camp's kitchens until the fortress was completed. Wobbling on her chained, bony legs, she carried plate after plate into Lari's embroidered tent, setting out the feast upon the giltwood table. Lari was a slim young woman, not much heavier than Madori had been before arriving at this camp, and yet she could eat as much as the burliest soldier, her appetite knowing almost no bounds.

Perhaps cruelty sucks up a lot of energy, Madori thought, arranging the silver cutlery.

Soon the meal was set: a roast honeyed duck upon a bed of shallots and wild mushrooms; grainy bread rolls still steaming from the oven, topped with butter; a silver bowl of dried figs, persimmons, and apricots; and a wooden box full of sweet almond clusters dusted with sugar. It was all fine Timandrian fare, imported from the day, and intoxicating with its aroma. Madori's mouth watered and her head spun. She craved a bite, desired it more than anything. Her head spun and her body shook as the smell entered her nostrils.

Only a bite, she thought, reaching toward one of the figs. Only a little . . .

She stopped herself.

No.

The first few times Madori had set this table for the princess, she had stolen a few morsels. And each time, somehow Lari knew. Each time, Madori was punched in the gut, forced to gag. Each time, Koyee was dragged into the tent, punished for Madori's crime.

There is magic here, Madori knew, looking around at the tent. Magic like my locket. Some item in this tent—perhaps one of the chalices, perhaps one of the jewels sewn into the walls—had the magic of sight, allowing Lari to spy upon her from afar.

And so Madori placed her hands behind her back, desperate for the food but daring not take a single morsel. She was slowly starving, but she wouldn't risk more punishment for her mother.

Finally trill laughter sounded outside, and the tent flap opened. Lari stepped inside. She wore a fine riding gown trimmed with fur, the skirt cut down the sides to allow her to straddle her horse. Her cheeks were flushed pink, and sweat dampened her hair.

"Mongrel!" she said, kicking off her boots. "Come. Polish them."

Madori nodded and rushed forward. The boots splattered mud across the rug as Lari kicked them aside. Madori knelt, rag in hand, and got to work, polishing the leather again and again.

As Madori knelt, polishing away, Lari sat at her table and began to feast. The duck's crunchy skin cracked. Gravy dripped off the shallots as Lari tossed them into her mouth. Her throat bobbed as she drank the wine. Madori had always imagined princesses to only nibble their food, a few bites here and there of lettuce, but Lari guzzled down her meals; it was an obscene, unfathomable sight. Madori did not know where all that food went, for Lari remained slender. Perhaps some magic was involved, a way for Lari to feed like a pig and magically transport the food away from her belly.

Or perhaps she simply burns up the energy by tormenting me, Madori thought, her mouth still watering.

Finally Lari was done eating. She slapped her feet onto the tabletop, causing the plates to bounce. She tossed one of those silver plates at Madori. It crashed onto the rug, scattering the duck's bones and fat.

"Eat your meal," Lari said. "Eat it all up, then clean up this mess."

Madori wanted to refuse. She wanted to toss the plate back at Lari. But she needed this meal, as poor as it was. She leaped onto the morsels, stuffing the duck skin into her mouth and crunching the bones between her teeth, then licking the gravy off the plate.

"Truly you creatures are pigs," Lari said, watching the spectacle, disgust in her eyes.

Madori ignored her, picking out the last bits of fat and skin from the rug. She no longer cared for Lari's mockery; any dignity Madori had once possessed had vanished here long ago. These scraps would keep her alive a little longer, long enough to find the right moment.

Chewing on a bone, she glanced up and stared at the tabletop. A knife lay here, stained with the duck grease.

If I move fast enough, Madori thought, maybe I can grab the knife. Maybe I can—

Lari lifted the knife and tilted her head. "You'd like to thrust this into my heart, wouldn't you, little one?" Lari balanced the knife in her palm. "Perhaps one turn you will try to grab it. And when you do, this blade will enter flesh—your mother's flesh." Lari licked the knife. "And if by chance you do manage to stab me, mongrel—perhaps freeing yourself from your shackles and cutting me in my sleep—you better also stab every guard in this camp. If anything is to happen to me, they have their orders." Lari grinned hungrily. "They are to immediately torture your mother before your eyes, making it last for turns, until she dies. And only then will your torture begin. So keep staring at this knife, worm. Keep dreaming of ways to kill me. You are only planning your own nightmare."

Madori looked away.

Not yet. Not while Mother is imprisoned. I have to free her first.

She did not know how she'd reach the canyon where the miners worked. Guards patrolled it around the clock. All Madori could do was bide her time, grow stronger, keep eating whatever scraps were tossed her way, and wait for her wounds to heal. If she obeyed Lari for long enough, perhaps the beatings would stop. Her bruises would fade, and with the pain lessened, she would find her magic again.

With magic I can sneak past the guards into the mine, she thought. With magic I can free my mother and everyone else. Her eyes dampened. I miss you, Mother. I miss you so much.

Kneeling here before Lari, eating scraps like a dog, Madori thought back to her time back in Fairwool-by-Night, living with her parents. How she had clashed with her mother then! How often she had yelled at Koyee, rebelled, made her mother cry! Whenever Koyee would scold Madori for her hairstyle or clothes, Madori would shout, smash things, storm out of the house and not return for a turn or two, leaving Koyee in tears. She had hated her mother then, had thought Koyee the most ruthless tyrant in the world.

I'm so sorry. Madori's tears fell. I love you so much, Mother. I'd give everything in the world to live with you in that old house again.

Sniffing, she tried to remember that house which the Radians had burned; it still stood in her memory. She remembered her father working in the gardens, tending to sunflowers, tulips, and sweet summer peonies. She remembered her soft bed and quilt, and how she would lie there for hours, reading in the sunlight that always fell through her window. And she remembered good times with her mother from before her rebellious youth, back in childhood when the world had seemed so bright: walking with Koyee to the river to look at the fish, entering the night with Koyee to watch the stars, or simply listening to Koyee sing her old songs of Qaelin.

At the memory of warmth, music, and love, Madori's tears would not stop falling, and she vowed that if she ever saw Koyee again, that if the two ever escaped this place, she would never yell at her mother again.

I will always love you, Mother. Always, whether we die this turn or in many years.

Lari finally left her table and lifted a lantern. She stared down at Madori's tears with a smirk on her face. "Follow me, mongrel. I have a new task for you this turn."

The two left the tent and moved about the camp. The other tents rose at their sides, and soldiers moved among them. In the east, the workers were bustling across the scaffolding, and a great wooden lever—dozens of feet tall—was lowering a basket of bricks onto a half-completed wall. In the west lay the mine; Madori could not see into the canyon from here, but she heard the cracking whips and the screams of workers. As usual, she was the only Elorian up here outside of the canyon.

Lari led her toward the camp's serrated iron fence. Guards moved aside from the gates, and Lari walked outside into the open night, beckoning for Madori to follow.

Madori stood frozen, hesitant. Why is she leading me out of the camp? She swallowed. Does she intend to kill me out there, to leave my body for the worms?

"Follow!" Lari barked. "Here, mongrel."

Madori raised her chin. Whatever Lari planned out there could be no worse than the camp. Chains rattling, Madori hobbled through the gates and outside into the darkness. The only light here came from Lari's lantern; the moon was gone from the sky.

Her eyesight will be weak here, Madori thought. She has small Timandrian eyes. I can fight her here.

They walked for a stretch before reaching a wheelbarrow of Elorian corpses. A smoking pit gaped beyond it, and a stench hit Madori's nostrils like a blow.

"Come, stand on the edge," Lari said, inviting Madori forward. "Look into the abyss."

When Madori stepped forward and looked down into the pit, she had to cover her mouth. She felt her paltry meal rise back up.

"By Xen Qae," she whispered.

Hundreds of charred skeletons filled the chasm. They were Elorian skeletons, Madori saw; the skulls' eye sockets were twice the size of a Timandrian's. Shreds of burnt flesh still clung to the bones, and a foul smoke rose to sting Madori's eyes.

"Beautiful." Lari stared down into the mass grave with delight and awe in her eyes. "It's the most beautiful sight I've seen—the purification of the world, the light we bring to the darkness." She turned to regard Madori. "Some turn soon, your mother will burn in this pit too. That turn, I will spit upon her bones. But that won't be for a while longer. I have a task for you while you still live."

Madori stared at the emperor's daughter. "You're mad," she whispered. "Lari, how can you delight in death like this? How can you slay innocents?" She gestured down at the smoking bones. "These were women, children, not soldiers. They were—"

"They were nightcrawlers." Lari licked her teeth. "Have you truly not understood yet, mongrel? They are all my enemies. Their very presence in this world disgusts me."

"Why?" Madori whispered.

The princess caressed Madori's cheek. "Because they corrupt all that they touch. Everything they approach turns to rot. Like you, mongrel. Your blood is half Timandrian; your father is a man of sunlight, sharing my own blood. The nightcrawler whore tempted him, lured him into her bed, and they produced you. A monster. An abomination. You could have been pure, Madori. You could have been like me, a lady of sunlight. We are cousins, and we could have ruled the world together, two companions, two mistresses of light. Now you are ruined, a freak."

"I'd never be like you." Madori shoved Lari's hand away. "Never. My father is a pure Timandrian, and he's also pure of heart. But your heart is rotten. There was never impurity in the night nor in me. I realize that now. For many years, I too thought I was impure." Madori shook her head. "But I'm not. The true disease is not in my mixed blood but in your heart, Lari, and in the heart of your father. If you will kill me for these words, then kill me. There is no value left to my life. Not here."

Lari smiled thinly. "Madori, have you heard tales of the old empire of Riyona?" She gazed back into the pit and seemed to contemplate the bones. "The empire was mighty and ruled all lands north of the Sern River, all the way to the coast in the north, the mountains in the west, and the darkness in the east. All other lands in sunlight paid tribute to Riyona's glory. Do you know how the Riyonans built an empire?" Lari's lips peeled back in something halfway between grin and snarl. "With cruelty. With strength. They stamped out their enemies and they intimidated all others to obey. The Riyonan emperors had a practice. When an enemy was truly great—a warlord or rebel leader—the emperor would skin him alive, then create a book out of the skin. Human parchment. Upon the book, the emperor would write the names of those he had slain." Lari turned back toward Madori. "Some of those old books survive. I've seen them in Markfir, capital of a new empire—the Radian Empire. We are the new Riyona. But unlike that old empire, we will rule forever." She gestured at the fresh corpses in the wheelbarrow. "I will have you create me a new book, made from the skin of my enemies. Choose one body. Peel off its skin, and we will write the names of all those I kill upon the parchment."

Madori found herself strangely calm; perhaps after so much pain, so much terror, she was too hurt, too jaded for shock. She met and held Lari's gaze.

"Then hand me your dagger." Madori nodded toward the dagger that hung from Lari's belt. "I'll need a blade."

Something strangely subdued, almost calm but fully dangerous, filled Lari's eyes. Not breaking her stare, she drew her dagger and held it out, hilt first. Madori took the weapon. For a moment the two women stared at each other, saying nothing.

Finally Lari broke the silence. "You have a choice now. You can attack me. Maybe you'll even kill me. And then my soldiers have orders to torture your mother to death." Lari shrugged. "It might be worth it. Koyee is nearly dead anyway; I doubt she'd last more than another month here. And if you slay me with this dagger, well . . . that would be a great boon to the nightcrawlers, would it not? And a great act of vengeance for you; you might even get a chance to flee into the darkness after slaying me. There are no guards here to stop you." Lari tapped her chin. "But I wonder . . . I wonder if you'd be willing to flee, to abandon your mother here to death and torture. Let us see how honorable a mongrel is. So choose, Madori. Thrust this blade into a corpse and bring me its skin . . . or thrust this blade into me. Your choice."

Madori held the dagger before her. She looked to her right; skeletons smoldered in the pit and corpses lay in the wheelbarrow. She looked to her left; the camp fence rose in the distance, and screams sounded from beyond it.

What do I do? Madori thought. Her belly twisted. She raised the dagger an inch, desperate to attack Lari, to thrust the blade into her heart. The princess made no move to flee or fight.

It's a trap, Madori thought. It had to be. If she attacked, Lari would use magic to thwart the thrust. Perhaps magic was already shielding the princess with invisible armor. And yet . . . maybe if Madori thrust hard enough, fast enough, maybe she could kill Lari. Maybe she could have her vengeance, then run into the darkness, flee this place, be free.

And leave my mother behind.

A part of Madori screamed inside her: Koyee is already dying! She might be dead already. How could you give up your vengeance and freedom for a dying woman?

She looked east, across the chasm, to the open night. Mother would want me to flee, Madori thought. She would tell me to kill Lari, to escape, to leave her . . . yet it's something I cannot do.

"Have you chosen?" Lari asked.

Madori looked at the corpses in the wheelbarrow. A dead youth, younger than her, hung across the rim, glassy eyes staring at Madori, mouth still open in a silent scream. This was not something Madori could do either. She would not disgrace the dead.

"Choose!" Lari said.

She had only one choice left, Madori knew. The only choice she had ever had, perhaps. The only choice that could thwart Lari's plans and end this pain.

Madori placed the tip of the dagger against her own neck.

She closed her eyes, the steel against her skin.

She saw the swaying rye fields of Fairwool-by-Night, golden in the sunlight. She saw her mother smile, singing softly as she tucked Madori into bed. She saw her father wave from his gardens, saw herself run to him, jump into his arms, and kiss his cheek. She saw all her friends: Tam, the boy she had once thought she would marry; Neekeya, her dear, brave friend from distant lands; and Jitomi . . . the only boy she had ever kissed, ever loved as a woman loves a man.

Goodbye, she thought. Goodbye, my family, my friends. Goodbye, Timandra. Goodbye, Eloria. Goodbye, this world we call Moth. I love you all.

She took a deep breath, prepared to shove the blade.

"Madori."

The voice was distant, soft, carrying on the wind. His voice. The voice of Jitomi, the voice she had thought she'd never hear again.

"Madori!"

"I have to do this," she whispered to his memory. She saw him in her mind: a young man with white hair, his nose pierced, a dragon tattooed across his face. "I have to."

"Madori!" His voice was louder now, torn with pain, coming from above her, from the stars. Perhaps he had died before her, and she would join him now in those celestial halls.

"Madori, wait!"

A chinking sound rose above, and a roar pierced the world, louder than thunder. The dagger still clutched in her hands, Madori opened her eyes, looked up, and gasped.

A black dragon flew above, and Jitomi sat upon its back, calling her name.

"Jitomi!" she shouted back at him, tears in her eyes.

A choked sound ahead of her drew her attention. Madori looked back down to see Lari trembling, her skin pale. Her eyes widened with rage. Her hands balled into a fists.

With a roar, Lari leaped forward, slammed against Madori, and knocked her down. The two women tilted over the edge of the smoking pit . . . then fell, crashing down toward the shadows and skeletons.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT:

UPRISING

Koyee swung her pickaxe again and again, chipping away at the wall. Around her, a thousand other slaves worked with her. All were silent this turn. None wept, wailed, or so much as groaned. Nervous eyes darted toward Koyee, then up at the sky. She followed their gaze.

The moon is gone, she thought. Only the stars shone above.

It was time.

Yet Koyee kept working, loathe to give the signal to attack. She kept chipping away, waiting for . . . for what? A shred of hope? A sliver of courage?

She looked behind her. Upon the chasm's eastern ledge, a hundred soldiers stood in steel, staring down into the mine. Beyond them lay a camp of tents, and somewhere up there Madori still lived, still needed her, needed a mother.

Once I swing this pickaxe at a soldier, I will never see my daughter again, Koyee thought.

She took a shaky breath, and her arms trembled. Guilt coursed through her along with her fear. Why had she always been so hard on the girl? Once Madori had grown up, had learned about her mixed blood, she had begun to rebel, to shout at her parents, at anyone who approached. Koyee had always responded with shouts of her own, even with a few slaps to Madori's cheeks, and now the guilt seemed too great to bear.

I should have hugged you then, Koyee thought, not fought against you. I should have held you close, told you that I loved you, told you that your crazy hair, your crazy clothes, your crazy ways are fine, that I love you as you are. Instead I scolded you, and I drove you away from me.

Koyee would have sold the treasure of an empire for another life with Madori, even just another moment—to hold her daughter, to tell her that she loved her always, that she was sorry.

I might never see her again, Koyee thought. But if Madori must see me die, if she must see my body wheeled away, at least she will know I died fighting. Koyee's eyes stung. The way my father died when I was young.

She took a deep breath, remembering that turn—so many years ago—when Torin had returned to her the bones of her father. Koyee squared her shoulders. She raised her chin. She turned toward the other miners, and she shouted as loud as she could: "Elorians! We are the night!"

Across the mine, the Radian overseers stared, confusion twisting their faces.

An instant later, a thousand miners swung pickaxes at their masters.

Koyee screamed as she swung her tool, now her weapon. Overseer Nafar ran toward her—towering, gaunt, and sneering. The Magerian raised the stump of his right arm, the one which ended with a whip instead of a hand. He swung that whip toward her. Koyee's pickaxe drove into his face before the lash could strike her. The overseer—the man who had whipped her so many times, had slain so many Elorians around her—crashed down, blood gushing from the ruin of his face. Koyee was so weak she nearly collapsed, but she swung again and again, slamming the pickaxe down until the overseer moved no more.

That is for all those times you beat me, she thought, panting, blood on her face.

"The nightcrawlers are attacking!" shouted Gora, the squat Magerian who had led Pahmey's survivors here, who had beaten Madori bloody too often to count. Koyee silenced the brute with a swing of her pickaxe just as he drew his sword. When Gora fell, blood gushing from his belly, she drove the pick into his neck, finishing the job.

That is for my daughter, she thought, drenched in his spurting blood.

She glanced around her, panting and dizzy. Across the mine, the Elorians were swinging their picks against their masters, but only three other Radians had fallen; many more remained. Dozens of Elorians already lay dead, pierced with Radian swords or simply fallen to exhaustion and disease, the attack taking out the last of their strength. Koyee watched, frozen for an instant, as the living Radians plowed through the herd of slaves, swinging their swords, cutting Elorians down. Most of the picks rebounded harmlessly off the Radians' armor.

"Aim for their faces!" Koyee shouted. "Don't attack the armor. Elorians, aim for—"

Whistles filled the air. Arrows descended from above the canyon. Koyee turned to see many Radian archers standing upon the rim, firing down. The arrows drove into the crowd of Elorians, and screams rose. Blood splattered. Elorians fell dead.

Koyee screamed and swung her pickaxe again. Two other Elorians fought at her side; the three picks took down another Radian soldier.

And so here I die, Koyee thought as more arrows fell from above. Here, in darkness, fighting, a weapon in my hand. It was not a bad way to die.

"Fight your way out!" Koyee shouted. She pointed at the craggy staircase the Radians had carved into the canyon wall, letting them move between the mine and tents above. "Up! To their camp! Overwhelm their tents and slay them all!"

She knew it was hopeless. Not with a hundred thousand slaves could she defeat men in armor, not with the slaves so famished and ill, already nearly dead, chains hobbling them. But if she could, she would die seeing Madori one more time. Her daughter would see her fighting as a free heroine, not dying as a slave.

"Eloria, we are the night!" Koyee cried, leading the way toward the stairs. Behind her, those Radians already in the canyon were butchering Elorians one by one. From above, arrows still fell. Soon a hundred slaves had died, but Koyee climbed onto the staircase, and she swung her pickaxe, knocking a Radian down. The other Elorians climbed behind her—bald, battered, weary, and free warriors.

"We are the night!" they cried together. "For Eloria! For Koyee!"

She kept climbing, knocking men down. Her ankles were hobbled, the chain only a foot long, just long enough to let her climb step by step. She had fought in battles before—upon the walls of Pahmey, in the canal of Sinyong, in the streets of Yintao, in the heart of Cabera Mountain—but here was her greatest battle, the last battle of her life. Here she was stronger and nobler than ever before.

She reached the edge of the staircase, emerged from the mine, and hobbled into the camp. Her ankles were still shackled. Her arms were so weak she could barely hold her pickaxe. Twenty Radians or more rode toward her upon their horses, all in steel, bearing lances, and Koyee raised her pickaxe, ready to fight and die.

Steel arrows flew through the night.

Battle cries rose.

Koyee winced and swung her pickaxe blindly.

The Radian riders crashed down, arrowheads bursting out from their chests. Their horses reared, whinnied, and scattered.

Koyee stared and gasped. Tears flooded her eyes.

"Hope," she whispered. She trembled. "Hope is here."

With battle cries and swinging katanas, a hundred Ilari soldiers rode into the camp upon black panthers, slaying the Radians and roaring for the night.

Koyee ran. Her chains clattered between her ankles. She fell and found that she could not rise. She crawled.

"Madori!" She climbed over a Radian corpse. At her side, an Ilari warrior astride a panther locked swords with a Radian rider. "Madori! Daughter!"

No answer came. Koyee tried to stand up. She fell again. Her head thumped against the earth, and her pickaxe fell from her hands.

* * * * *

They rolled among the smoking bones, the daughter of an emperor and a famished, dying woman torn between day and night. Above in the sky, the dragon howled and swooped. Magic shot out from Lari's hands, blasted skyward, and stretched across the pit's opening like a membrane. Tianlong the dragon crashed down against the black, quivering shield; Madori could see his fangs and claws scratch against it, unable to break through. Jitomi's muffled voice cried from beyond: "Madori, Madori!"

Lying with Madori among the bones in the mass grave, Lari laughed maniacally. "They cannot break through! Even the dragon of the nightcrawlers is too weak to resist my magic." She looked back at Madori. "It's just you and me now, mongrel. You tried to steal my plaything. You tried to kill yourself. But you are mine to torment, and you will be mine for many years." She grabbed Madori's wrist. "Return me my dagger so that I may cut off your fingers. You won't be able to try that trick again without any fingers."

Madori screamed and tried to hold onto the dagger. But she was too weak. She cried out as Lari twisted her wrist, and the dagger fell from her grip.

"You cannot win!" Madori shouted. "Ilar attacks. Eloria fights back. You will die this turn."

Lari laughed and drove her knee into Madori's belly. Madori coughed, unable to breathe. She gagged, losing the paltry meal she had eaten in the tent.

"I will live forever!" Lari shouted, laughing. Shreds of magic still clung to her fingers, and her hair crackled and rose like a fire. "No nightcrawler can harm me. I will turn you into a creature. Give me your hand! I will cut off finger by finger."

She grabbed Madori's wrist again. Lying on the pile of skeletons, Madori screamed, grabbed a bone, and tugged. The bone detached from the skeleton, and Madori swung it like a club. The femur connected with Lari's head with a crack.

"You cannot win," Madori repeated, her voice hoarser now, weaker. Every breath drained out precious energy. "I defeated you at the trials at Teel. I will defeat you now. Your kind will never win."

She swung the bone again. Lari's temple bled, but the princess managed to catch the bone. She shattered it in her palm as if it were a twig.

"We've already won, mongrel." Lari smiled and licked blood off her lips. "Your kind is all dead, all but a few scattered wretches. You will be the last nightcrawler alive."

She swiped her dagger.

The blade sliced Madori's finger, cutting through the joint.

Madori screamed.

Her blood gushed out, spraying Lari's face. Her finger fell, dangling from her hand by only a shred of skin. There was no pain, only horror, only so much blood.

"I love the taste of your blood." Lari greedily licked the blade. "Now for the next finger. Slower this time, so you can feel it."

The princess grabbed Madori's hand again and lowered her dagger.

Madori's eyes rolled back. She felt ready to faint. She felt the blade begin to cut her skin.

I'm sorry, Mother. I'm sorry. I failed you.

Koyee was smiling down at her, rocking Madori in her arms, singing a lullaby, a song of the night. They were back in Fairwool-by-Night, and Madori was very young and felt very safe. Sunlight fell through the windows and a robin sang outside. The music soothed her, the song "Sailing Alone," a song of fear, of longing, of passageways in the dark.

You survived, Mother, Madori thought. You survived, Father. You fought great enemies and you defeated them.

The blade cut deeper.

"Good . . . bleed for me, mongrel," Lari said.

Madori screamed in rage.

"I am Elorian!" Her voice roared, torn with pain. "I am a daughter of Eloria. We are the night!"

She formed a fist with her four remaining fingers. She drove that fist upward and slammed it against Lari's face.

Lari fell back, her nose crushed, her tooth knocked loose. The dagger fell from her grip and clattered between the bones. As the skulls watched, Madori lifted the dagger, stumbled toward Lari, and drove the blade downward.

The dagger crashed into Lari's chest, thrust between the ribs, and sank deep.

Lari screamed, gurgling on blood.

"You could have lived," Madori whispered. "You could have lived in peace, an empress, an ally." She twisted the blade. Lari twitched, kicking, gasping. "Now you die among the bones of those you murdered."

Madori pulled the dagger out. Lari gave one last twitch, one last gurgle, then lay still and silent.

The magic vanished above, revealing the sky again.

Madori fell.

She lay on her back atop the skeletons. Her head tilted sideways, and she saw the skulls looking at her, and it seemed to Madori that she could see their eyes again. They were watching her. Thanking her.

Arms wrapped around her, and blinking, Madori thought she could see Jitomi's face. He was kneeling above her, calling her name, but then he faded like the world, and she smiled.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE:

THE DISTANT LIGHT

"Hush now, little Madori. You are home. You are home."

The little girl smiled softly, her nightmares easing. Whenever she dreamed of monsters under her bed or ghosts in her closet, her mother's soft words could soothe her. Mother was stroking her hair now, and Madori felt her fear flow away. The pain of fever dreams melted like the candles they used in the night.

She blinked softly, struggling to open her eyes. The bed was soft around her, warm and safe, womb-like, enveloping her. Mother looked down from above, her lavender eyes loving.

"Mama?" Madori whispered. "Are the monsters gone?"

"Yes, sweet child." Koyee wiped the sweat off Madori's forehead. "All gone. We defeated them."

Madori shivered. These dreams had been worse than monsters or ghosts. She had dreamed of cruel men in steel, and many bones, and starvation in darkness, and . . .

She frowned. She sat up in bed so quickly her head spun. The room swayed around her. And she remembered.

She was no longer a child but a woman. The iron mine. The chasm of bones. Lari. Jitomi.

"Mother!" Madori's eyes flooded with tears. "Mother, you're alive."

Koyee looked thin, almost skeletal, her cheeks sunken and her eyes huge. White stubble covered her head, all her long, silvery hair gone. But she wore a cloak of lush black silk, the cloth embroidered with red flames. She smiled warmly and color touched her cheeks.

"I'm alive, sweetling. We're both ali—"

Madori would not let her complete her sentence. She leaped up and wrapped her arms around Koyee, squeezing so hard, never wanting to let go. Hot tears flowed down her cheeks onto Koyee's cloak.

"I'm so sorry, Mother." Madori shook, barely able to breathe. "I'm so sorry for everything. For everything. For how I was. For fighting, rebelling, running off to Teel. Please forgive me."

Koyee laughed and her own tears fell. "Only if you forgive me for being a horrible, stern nightmare of a mother to you. My own mother died when I was so young, and I didn't know how to handle you." She held Madori tight. "I'm so glad we're both here."

Held in her mother's embrace, Madori looked around her. Where was "here?" She saw curving clay walls, iron beams, and a small round window. The room was still swaying. At first Madori had thought herself dizzy, but now she realized—she was on a ship.

Gingerly, she released her mother, stepped off the bed, and stood for a moment on bare feet. She was wearing a silken gown, and her wounds were bandaged. A thought struck her and she looked at her hand. Her finger, which Lari had cut off, was reattached and bound tightly. A smile tingled across her lips, and Madori tiptoed toward the porthole and peered outside.

A gasp fled her lips. Many other ships sailed outside, a great fleet—their sails battened, their decks lined with cannons, their figureheads shaped as dragons and panthers. Red flames were painted onto iron hulls.

"The Armada of Ilar," she whispered in awe. She spun back toward her mother. "Jitomi! I remember. He brought aid." She laughed. "Not all Eloria has fallen. There is hope."

A voice spoke softly behind her. "There is always hope."

She turned around, saw him standing at the door, and her eyes dampened anew. "Jitomi."

He smiled, though there was pain and sadness to that smile, and suddenly Madori hesitated. She had parted from Jitomi in anger at Oshy. Would he still be mad at her? Were things still broken between them? But then his smile widened, and his eyes softened, and he held out his arms. She raced toward him and they embraced. He kissed the stubbly top of her head.

"Silly little Billygoat," he said.

She gasped. "Nobody but my parents is allowed to call me that." A thought struck her, and she turned back toward Koyee. "What of Father? Have we any word of him?"

Koyee still sat upon the bed, her hands in her lap. Her eyes darkened. "Only rumors. They say that your father was captured in Kingswall, but that Cam freed him from his Radian captors. Men speak of a Free Arden in the northern forests, joined to Verilon. A northern front rages there. I believe that Torin still lives, that he still fights." She placed a hand against her chest. "Our hearts are joined, and I can feel his heart still beating with mine."

Madori breathed a sigh of relief. Father was fighting in the war, but he had not died, at least not that they knew of. She sniffed and turned back toward Jitomi. "What of Tam? And Neekeya?"

Jitomi lowered his head. "Of them we have no words, no whispers, no rumors. All we know is that, when we parted last year, they were heading to Daenor. We've heard talk of Daenor falling to the Radians, but not of our friends' fate."

Madori nodded silently, and fear for her friends gnawed on her. "I need to see the water and the sky." She wobbled toward the door, still so weak. When she passed by a mirror, she looked at herself, and she barely recognized the reflection. The girl she had been—with tanned skin, fierce eyes, and two long strands of black hair—was gone. Instead she saw a pale, thin woman, only black stubble on her head. Her purple eyes seemed even larger than usual in her gaunt face. She tightened her lips, looked away, and exited the chamber.

She found a staircase and climbed, holding onto the rail for support. The smell of oil, steel, and water filled her nostrils, and she breathed in deeply and climbed onto the deck.

"We're sailing on the Inaro," she whispered in awe. She would recognize this river anywhere; it was the river that ran south of Oshy, her home in the night, and that morphed into the Sern River upon which Fairwool-by-Night had stood. She did not recognize what part of the Inaro this was, only that here was the starlit water of her childhood.

The deck stretched hundreds of feet long, and many Elorian soldiers bustled across it. They were not the soldiers of Qaelin, her homeland; Qaelish soldiers wore steel scales and elegant, curving helmets. These soldiers wore heavy, lacquered plates painted red and black, tassels hanging from them. Their helmets were shaped as snarling demons complete with horns and fur mustaches. Many katanas hung across their backs, the grips wrapped with red silk. Here were the soldiers of Ilar, the southern empire Jitomi was from.

When she looked across the water, Madori saw many other Ilari ships, all bearing the Red Flame sigil. She gasped to see some Timandrian ships too—tall carracks built of wood, their sails woven of canvas. When she noticed that Ilari banners rose from them too, she tilted her head.

"We captured them in battle," Jitomi said, coming to stand beside her. He placed his hands against the balustrade and leaned forward, gazing at the rest of his fleet. "Many sailed against us further southeast. Many sank." He smiled thinly. "I took a few for my fleet."

She looked at him, eyes narrowed. "Your fleet?"

He smiled wanly. "For a while longer."

He spoke then of the past few moons—how he had traveled to Ilar, how his father had died, how he had become Emperor of Ilar. He spoke too of sailing north along the Inaro, of meeting the Radian fleet in the water, and of sailing onward until he reached the ruin of Pahmey.

"I had hoped to find you in the city," he said. "When we saw that Pahmey was gone, we captured a few Radian soldiers who were lingering around the ruins. We questioned them. When I learned of the mine, hope sprang in me, hope that you still lived." He took her hand in his. "And you are alive."

She leaned her head against his shoulder. "For a while longer."

He placed an arm around her and pulled her close. "Now we must choose, Madori. We must choose our path. We are a lone army in a sea of enemies. A lone beacon of hope in a land where all other hope is lost. Do we land our fleet upon the bank, then march across the darkness of Qaelin, seeking survivors?"

"Where is Serin?" she asked.

Jitomi looked out across the water. "Radians we captured spoke of him returning west into sunlight, back to his palace in Mageria."

"Then that is where we go." She walked along the bulwark, moving between soldiers, until she reached the prow of the ship. An iron figurehead, shaped as a dragon, thrust ahead. The western waters were dark and calm; their ship led the way. Darkness waited there in the distance, but beyond it, Madori knew, lay the light of day. Jitomi came to stand beside her, and they stood together, staring at the horizon as behind them sailed hundreds of Ilar's ships.

"We sail on," she whispered. "We sail through darkness and we sail into the light. We sail along the Inaro, and along the Sern River, until we reach Serin's backyard. We will do what no Elorian army has ever done: Invade the daylight."

Jitomi wrapped his arms around her and kissed her head, but Madori would not relax in his grip. She kept staring ahead into the shadows, and pain filled her.

I will never forget this pain, she thought, and her eyes stung, and her throat constricted. I will never forget how the whips hurt me, how the hunger clawed at my belly, how I watched my people die. Forever, in darkness or in light, that nightmare will fill me. We will meet again, Serin. I promise you this. I vow this by the stars of my forebears. We will meet one more time, Serin . . . the last time. The time I kill you.

The fleet sailed on through the darkness. Ahead, across many miles of shadow, the dusk blazed with light.

The story will continue in . . .

LEGACY OF MOTH

The Moth Saga, Book Six

COMING SOON

To learn when Legacy of Moth is released, sign up to the Daniel Arenson mailing list (you'll also receive a free ebook as a gift): DanielArenson.com/MailingList

AFTERWORD

Thank you for reading Shadows of Moth. I hope you enjoyed this novel.

Want to know when the next book is released? Here are some ways to stay updated:

* Join my mailing list at: DanielArenson.com/MailingList

* Like me on Facebook: Facebook.com/DanielArenson

* Follow me on Twitter: Twitter.com/DanielArenson

And if you have a moment, please review a Moth book online. Help other fantasy readers and tell them why you enjoyed reading. And please help spread the word! Lend Moth to a friend, talk about Moth online, and help others discover these books. You can review the first Moth book here.

Finally, remember to visit the Moth website, where you can find original Moth music, artwork, a wiki, and more: DanielArenson.com/Moth

Thank you again, dear reader, and I hope we meet again between the pages of another book.

Daniel

NOVELS BY DANIEL ARENSON

THE MOTH SAGA

- Moth

- Empires of Moth

- Secrets of Moth

- Daughter of Moth

- Shadows of Moth

- Legacy of Moth

REQUIEM

- Dawn of Dragons ‒ Requiem's first dragons fly.

- Requiem's Song

- Requiem's Hope

- Requiem's Prayer

- The Complete Trilogy

- Song of Dragons ‒ Can Requiem rise from ruin?

- Blood of Requiem

- Tears of Requiem

- Light of Requiem

- The Complete Trilogy

- Dragonlore ‒ An enemy of fire invades Requiem.

- A Dawn of Dragonfire

- A Day of Dragon Blood

- A Night of Dragon Wings

- The Complete Trilogy

- The Dragon War ‒ Civil war engulfs Requiem.

- A Legacy of Light

- A Birthright of Blood

- A Memory of Fire

- The Complete Trilogy

OTHER WORLDS

- Eye of the Wizard

- Wand of the Witch

- Firefly Island

- The Gods of Dream

- Flaming Dove

KEEP IN TOUCH

www.DanielArenson.com

Daniel@DanielArenson.com

Facebook.com/DanielArenson

Twitter.com/DanielArenson