Daughter of Moth (The Moth Saga, Book 4) (3 page)

She nodded and took a deep
breath. "I like that, Papa." She leaned over in her seat
and kissed his cheek. "Thank you."

Hayseed walked onward, pulling
the cart into the town of Teelshire. The road was cobbled here, lined
with houses that rose two or three stories tall, their roofs tiled,
their windows filled with glass. Madori saw shops selling fabrics,
pottery, sculptures, and books. An inn pumped out smoke from four
chimneys, the sign above its door displaying a wolf in a dress and
the words, "The Dancing Wolf." Everywhere she looked, she
saw the other applicants—highborn youths with darting eyes. And
among them . . .

Madori gasped. "A mage,"
she whispered. She tugged her father's sleeve. "Look. A real
mage."

The man walked ahead, clad in a
black cloak and hood. His eyes gleamed from the shadows. With a
flourish of fluttering robes, he stepped into a shop with no sign,
vanishing into the shadows.

Torin grumbled. "I've seen
mages like him in the war—the black robed ones. Nasty folk. Your
mother still has a scar along her arm from their foul magic." He
winced. "Madori, are you sure you want to do this?"

She nodded vehemently. "Yes!
Not all mages wear the black robes. Not all practice the art of war.
I will practice the magic of healing." She thought back to that
horrible year—the year her mother's belly had swelled, the year her
little brother or sister had died in the womb, leaving her still an
only child. She nodded. "I will do this. I will pass the trials.
I will gain admission. And I will become a healer."

Because healers were respected
wherever they went, she knew. Healers were not mongrels or monsters.
Healers were beloved.

Past shops, around a pond, and
along a road lined with cottages, they reached the walls of the
university. An archway loomed here, its bronze doors open, tall
enough that a cherry tree could have stood within it. Guards flanked
the entrance, clad in burnished breastplates, red plumes sprouting
from their helmets. A potbellied, mustached man stood in checkered
livery, ringing a bell. His hand was coned around his mouth.

"All applicants to Teel
University!" he cried out, bell clanging. "All applicants
step through these gates! Parents shall wait in the town. All
applicants—step through!"

Torin watched the portly crier.
"His mustache looks a bit like that thing that's growing off
your head."

Madori nervously tugged the two
long, black strands that framed her face. "You sound like
Mother. Now go—I saw a tavern farther back. Wait for me there. Swap
war stories with the other fathers."

She made to hop off the cart,
but he held her shoulder.

"Wait, Billygoat." He
tapped his cheek.

She rolled her eyes, but she
dutifully gave him a kiss. After climbing off the cart, she gave dear
old Hayseed a kiss too, then gulped and began walking toward the
gates.

"Good luck!" Torin
cried behind her.

Madori dared not even look back
at him. If she looked back and saw him waving, saw dear old Hayseed,
saw all those memories of home, she thought she wouldn't dare keep
going.

Breath
by breath,
she
thought.
Like Father
taught me.
She inhaled
shakily and walked forward.
Just
survive the next breath.

Chin raised and legs trembling,
she walked through the gates, entering Teel University.

Torin watched his daughter vanish
into the university, then stood for a long moment, staring at the
gates. Finally, with a deep sigh, he turned and headed back into the
town of Teelshire.

"Good luck, Billygoat,"
he said softly, walking along the cobbled street.

A part of him, however, didn't
wish her luck. That part, perhaps petty, wished that Madori failed at
the trials. If she gained admission to the university, Torin would
travel the road home alone. His daughter would remain here among
these walls for four years—a journey of many turns away from
Fairwool-by-Night.

I'd
miss you,
Torin
thought.
Koyee would
miss you too.

Madori often clashed with her
mother—the two would argue over everything from Madori's clothes and
hairstyle, to her disdain of Qaelish lessons, to the tattoo on her
wrist—but Torin knew that the two women deeply loved each other.

Women?
Torin frowned. Since when had Madori become a woman? It was only
recently that Torin was changing her swaddling clothes, teaching her
how to walk, and delighting whenever she learned to speak a new word.
And now—in a blink of an eye—she was a woman?

He sighed.

You
became a woman somewhere between Fairwool and Teelshire,
he thought. He was both proud and terrified of how fast she had grown
up. Maybe he was scared to let her walk alone in the world. And maybe
he simply missed the child she had been, a child who had depended on
him.

He didn't know how long the
trials would last, but he saw many other parents ambling about the
town, finding bookshops, teashops, and mostly alehouses to wait in.
They were typical nobles, he thought, men and women adorned in
embroidered fabrics, sporting bright jewels for all to see. Torin was
the son of a knight, and after returning home from the war—a hero
known across Moth—he had received his own knighthood. Yet he sought
no castles, no riches, simply the humble life of a gardener. He knew
that his simple peasant's garb, the dirt beneath his fingernails, and
his humble demeanor dreadfully embarrassed Madori whenever they
visited the courts of Arden—and even here in Mageria. Torin smiled
grimly.

Good.
It's a father's job to embarrass his children.

The
houses and shops rose three stories tall around him, their windows
displaying wares from across Mageria—rich woolen fabrics to rival
even those from his village of weavers, statues and paintings of
landscapes, armor and weapons, and all manner of books and scrolls.
The shops were doing good business this turn; Torin guessed that the
Turn of Trials was their busiest of the year, a time when the
wealthiest parents across the world came to wait nervously . . . and
spend.

Finally Torin passed by The
Dancing Wolf tavern again. He decided that more than he cared to
shop, he'd like to drown his worries in a big mug of ale. Worrying
for Madori always gnawed on him—he hadn't stopped worrying about her
since her birth—but now a new concern had risen. The encounter with
Lord Serin still weighed heavily upon him. His cousin's warning
echoed in Torin's mind.

The
Radian Order rises in the sunlight. The creatures of darkness will
cower before us.

Torin
grimaced. He had heard similar rhetoric years ago. Last time, such
hate-mongering had led to a war across the world. Torin had feigned
indifference around Madori, not wanting to worry the girl, but now
his belly twisted. The memories of that war years ago—the fire in
the night, the blood on his sword, the countless dead around
him—still haunted his dreams, and now those memories flared even
here in this peaceful, sunlit town.

Shaking his head grimly, he
stepped into the tavern.

A large, warm room awaited him.
His usual haunt back home—a cozy little tavern called The Shadowed
Firkin—was a place of scarred oak tables, a scratched floor, and
commoners boasting about the size of their squashes and the longevity
of their sheep. But here Torin found a tavern that looked almost as
luxurious as a nobleman's hall. Tapestries hung on the walls,
depicting scenes of hunters and hounds under a sky full of birds.
Actual tablecloths covered the tables, revealing cherry-wood legs
engraved in the shapes of horses. Armchairs basked in the heat of two
roaring fireplaces, and sunlight fell through stained-glass windows.
Casks of ale and wine rose along one wall, and a bar stood gleaming
with polished brass taps. The tavern was still half-empty, but every
moment the bell above the door rang as more parents shuffled in.

Nodding at a few other
fathers—their cheeks were already red with ale—Torin made his way
to the bar. He sat on a stool, placed a few coins on the counter, and
ordered a dark brew.

He raised the drink in the air,
silently making the same toast he always did—a toast to old friends.
To Bailey. To Hem. To lost souls, old memories.

"It's been seventeen years,
friends," he said, his voice too low for anyone to hear. "I
still think about you every turn."

He drank for them, thinking of
home, missing that old tavern near the dusk, missing his old friends.

Snippets of conversation, rising
from the armchairs by the fireplace behind him, reached Torin's ears,
interrupting his thoughts.

"Now the Radians!" one
man was saying. "There are some folks with sense to them, I say.
Proud. Get things done. They're doing some good work in Timandra."

A second voice answered. "I've
been saying it for a while, I have. Can't trust the nightfolk. Damn
'lorians moving into the sunlight now—I saw some myself, right here
in Teelshire! You let in a few, soon they'll swarm. Let the Radians
deal with them."

Torin twisted in his seat,
glancing toward the hearth. Two noblemen sat there, holding tankards
of ale, their cheeks ruddy and their bellies wide. They noticed his
glance and raised their tankards.

"Oi, friend!" said one
of the pair, his yellow mustache frothy. "You agree with us,
don't you? You're a man of Arden; I can tell from the look of you.
Right on the border with the night, you lot are." He nodded.
"The Radians will protect you. They'll protect us all from this
infestation of filthy Elorians."

Torin
winced.
Filthy
Elorians . . .
His wife was Elorian. His daughter was half-Elorian. He had fought
and killed to save Elorians from the cruelty of daylight.

The ale tasted too bitter in his
mouth. He turned away from the men and faced the bar again. His heart
sank.

Did
I make a mistake?
he
wondered, throat tightening.
Should
I have truly brought Madori here into the wide world—a world that is
hostile toward her?
Part
of him wanted to race outside, barge into the university, grab his
daughter, and drag her home to safety. Madori would shout, claiming
she was old enough to seek her own fortune. Even Koyee would insist
that they could not shelter Madori forever. But how could Torin let
his little girl go alone into this world—a world full of hatred and
ignorance, a world that would hate her simply for her blood?

A stool creaked as a cloaked,
hooded man sat down beside Torin. After ordering his own mug of ale,
the stranger spoke in a low voice.

"You're right to ignore
those fools." He turned his head toward Torin, though his face
remained hidden in the shadows of his hood. "You can't fix
stupidity, only hope to avoid it for a while."

The stranger's voice seemed
familiar, as did his slender, short frame. Torin leaned closer,
squinting, trying to see into the hood's shadows.

"Bit warm in here for a
hood and cloak," Torin said.

The man received his mug of ale,
took a sip, then leaned closer to Torin, letting some light fill his
hood. "Warm but safe."

Torin's eyes widened. He nearly
choked on his drink. "Cam?"

His friend—Camlin, King of
Arden—smiled thinly and pulled his hood further down, letting new
shadows hide him. "Hullo, Torin old boy. I thought I saw you in
the crowd outside. You stick out like a black sheep with those
ridiculous clothes from home."

The weight instantly lifted from
Torin's shoulders. The world was dangerous, his daughter was leaving
home, and hatred lurked only several paces behind him—but his friend
was here, and things suddenly seemed a little brighter.

"
I
stick out?" Torin said. "Look at your clothes." He
pointed at Cam's shabby old cloak.

The slender man sipped his ale.
"That's different. I'm in disguise." He dropped his voice
to a whisper. "I can't just walk around without this cloak and
hood. People would mob me. I'm the King of Arden after all."

"King consort," Torin
corrected him. "Queen Linee is the real monarch."

Cam groaned. "Will we ever
have a single conversation without you reminding me of that fact?"

Torin grinned. "Depends.
Will your head ever shrink back to its previous size?" He
grabbed his friend's shoulder and squeezed it. "It's good to see
you, old friend. When's the last time we met? It's been... Merciful
Idar, a year now. Not since last summer when Madori and I visited the
capital. What are you doing here in Mageria?"

Cam glanced around the tavern,
but it seemed like all the other patrons were busy speaking among
themselves, bragging of their children's prowess and making wagers on
who'd gain admission to Teel. The diminutive king turned back toward
Torin.

"Tam's here—trying out for
the university."

Torin's eyes widened. "Your
son? The Prince of Ard—"

"Shush!" Cam glanced
around, eyes dark. "He's here in disguise too. I begged the boy
to stay in Arden. We have fine schools there as well, but the lad
wanted to study magic. In fact, I blame you." He gave Torin a
stern look and jabbed his chest. "It's your daughter who put
that nonsense into his head. Turns out last summer, when Madori and
Tam were taking all those walks in the garden, they weren't having a
secret romance as we feared. Oh no. It was much worse than that.
Madori was telling my boy all about how she wants to be a mage
someday, and well . . . Tam hasn't stopped talking about magic
since." He gulped down ale and sighed. "It can't have been
easy for Tam, growing up in the palace, only several moments younger
than his twin. Imagine it, Torin! Robbed of a birthright by a moment
in time. The twins are identical—Idar, I can barely tell them
apart!—yet one is heir, the other not. I suppose I can't blame Tam
for wanting to find his own way, to find his own power. But I'll miss
him. This isn't his home. Honestly, I don't know if I wish him to
succeed or fail and return to Arden."