Secrets of Moth (The Moth Saga, Book 3) (22 page)

When he realized what it was,
his head spun.

"Pity," he whispered.

He opened his fingers. The moth
seemed to regard him for a moment, moving its feathery antennae. The
creature seemed almost sad, as if it understood Ferius's pain. Then
it took flight and fled, wobbling, back toward its home in the dusk.

Ferius watched until it
disappeared in the distance, then wheeled his horse around. He turned
away from his rising temple and toward the Inaro River.

Hundreds of ships filled the
water, the combined fleets of northern Timandra. Once these had been
the ships of separate kingdoms, the remnants of old Riyona, that
sprawling empire that had fallen a thousand years ago into petty,
battling nations ruled by fools. Today all these ships sailed under
one banner again—
his
banner, the golden sunburst upon a red field, sigil of Sailith, of
daylight, of his dominion. Carracks towered, their masts high as
palaces, their many sails wide. Galleys filled the water like great
centipedes, their many oars raised and ready. Galleons stood lined
with cannons—the weapons of Eloria converted to sunlit might.
Between them floated countless smaller vessels, from humble rowboats
to simple reed dinghies carrying jungle warriors. The fleet stretched
across the river west and east, lit with countless lanterns, so great
it rolled into the horizon. Soldiers filled hulls and covered decks,
awaiting the glory of final victory.

Ferius smiled thinly. In the
southern lands of sunlight, a separate fleet mustered—the great
forces of the desert, the swamps, and the savannah. They too prepared
to sail. The two forces would meet in the last patch of Eloria still
standing.

"All the forces of sunlight
will meet in Asharo, capital of Ilar, and there . . . there the sun
will finally burn the last children of the dark."

Ferius unhooked the silver horn
that hung from his belt, raised it to his lips, and gave a long,
wailing keen.

From every ship, a horn answered
his cry. Hundreds of wails filled the night, a chorus like a song of
bones, like screams of death, a symphony of purification.

The ships sailed.

Ferius stood upon the riverbank,
watching them go by, carrack after galley, galleon after caravel,
cogs and ballingers, and even captured Elorian junk ships which now
hoisted the sunlit banners. Upon every deck they roared, the soldiers
of sunlight, brandishing their swords and axes and hammers,
worshiping him, singing for the death of the night.

And Ferius stood, watching them
sail by, waiting until the last ship vanished downriver.

His horse tossed its head and
nickered. Ferius stroked the beast's mane.

"No, my friend, we do not
join them. Not yet. We will ride into the ruins of Asharo, but not
yet. Ours is a different task."

He dug his spurs into the
horse's flesh. The beast bucked, whinnied, and burst into a gallop.
They raced across the darkness, heading toward the dusk. Ferius
leaned forward in the saddle and rode into the light.

 
 
CHAPTER TWENTY:
FOUR MIRRORS

The corridor narrowed into little
more than a tunnel. They walked single file, the walls brushing
against their shoulders. Cam was not a large man, and Linee was a
slim little thing; he could not imagine larger folk like his old
friends walking here.

Especially
not Hem,
Cam thought with a wince that turned into a sad smile.
He'd
get stuck here like the big loaf of bread that he was.

The
tunnel went on and on, plunging downward. The air grew cold, as cold
as the night. The ceiling dropped so low that Cam, short as he was,
had to walk stooped over. Finally they reached a fork. He paused and
Linee bumped against him from behind. Their oil lanterns flickered,
casting orange light and dancing shadows.

"The tunnel curves left and
right." He held his lantern toward each path, but he only saw
more bricks leading into shadow. "Where do we go?"

Linee peered over his shoulder.
"Right."

She sounded confident. Cam
shrugged; one way was as good as the other. They walked down the
right tunnel, plunging deeper into the ziggurat. He brushed his hand
against the walls as they walked; they were etched with old Eseerian
runes. When they reached another fork, he paused again.

"Left," Linee said and
nodded.

He looked at her. "How do
you know?"

"Trust me!" She
pointed. "Left."

They kept walking and the tunnel
narrowed further. Cam had to walk with his shoulders rolled inward,
his head bowed. He worried that he'd get stuck here like a turnip in
a glutton's throat. In his mind, he saw his skeleton again, those
bones lingering here for years, finally fading into dust, forever
lost in the depths of the ziggurat.

They kept walking, and at every
fork Linee confidently chose a path. Finally, at a fork where Linee
pointed left, Cam turned toward her and held her arms.

"Linee, how do you always
know where to go? Are you just guessing?"

She
smiled and brushed dust off his nose. "I
know.
Back in Kingswall, there was a maze of hedges in the gardens. At
first I'd always get lost and cry, and Sir Ogworth would have to come
rescue me. But I kept going back in there, because I heard there was
a beautiful garden with butterflies and pretty flowers in the middle.
One time I decided to draw a
map
.
I took parchment and charcoal and drew as I explored the paths. I
kept walking and drawing and walking and drawing and walking and
dra—"

"Linee!"

". . . and finally, I
mapped the entire labyrinth and found the garden in its center. I
know that map by heart now, Camlin. I don't even need that old
parchment. It's like the map's in my brain." She tapped her
chest, then frowned. "Wait . . . where is the brain again?
Somewhere in your belly, right?" She nodded and patted her
stomach. "Anyway, the map's in there somewhere, and I'm taking
us the right way."

Cam rubbed his eyes, aghast.
"But this is a different labyrinth! Every labyrinth has
different routes! How will your mental map from home help us?"

She
rolled her eyes and blew out her breath. "You're not listening!
Because it's the
same
labyrinth
."
She gestured around at the craggy stone walls. "I mean, back
home the walls are nice green hedges, and you can see the sky above,
and there are lots of butterflies and birds. But the paths are the
same."

"That's impossible."

She
placed her hands on her hips. "Have
you
ever been in a labyrinth?"

"No."

"And I have! I'm an expert.
So follow me. Left!"

She began to march down the left
tunnel. Reluctantly, Cam followed. Linee was perhaps crazy, but one
tunnel was as good as another, he supposed.

They walked in darkness, Linee
leading the way, for what seemed like hours. Cam began to wonder if
this labyrinth was like the staircases higher up—a trick that would
keep them moving in circles—when the tunnel finally led them into a
towering round chamber.

Gingerly, he stepped inside and
raised his lamp. A thousand other lights blasted out, nearly blinding
him. He squinted and shielded his eyes with his palm. When Linee
entered the chamber behind him, her own lantern raised, the light
grew even brighter. It felt like stepping into the sun.

"I told you!" Linee
said, squinting. "I knew the way."

Peeking between his fingers, Cam
saw a round chamber the size of the pebbly village square back in
Fairwool-by-Night. Four tall, ornate mirrors stood at each corner,
each reflecting the others in an endless recursion, tossing back the
lamplight countless times. Cam placed his lantern on the floor,
beneath the reach of the mirrors, and lowered Linee's lantern too.
The light subsided into a manageable glow.

Cam gasped.

"Oh Idar . . ."

This round chamber was not
merely the size of Fairwool's village square; it was a mockery of it,
a representation in metal and stone. One mirror's frame was shaped
like Fairwool's Sailith temple where Ferius would preach, complete
with a mock stairway and columns. Another mirror was shaped like The
Shadowed Firkin, the tavern back home; its top frame was molded into
the shape of a tiled roof, and a bronze garden—one of Torin's
gardens—lay at its feet. A third mirror's frame was shaped as the
Watchtower, tall and dark, topped with battlements—the place where
Cam and the rest of the Village Guard would watch the night. The
final mirror was shaped like Cam's old house, a humble abode with a
straw roof; several metal sunflowers rose around it.

In the center of the chamber
rose a tree, a mockery of Old Maple back in the village. Its trunk
was woven of coiling steel ropes. Its leaves were flat metal shards;
they reminded Cam of the throwing stars Elorians wielded. A face
appeared in the trunk, its eyes formed from bolts, its mouth full of
nails for teeth. The metal leaves creaked, the tree's mouth twisted,
and it spoke in a voice like grinding gears.

"Welcome home, Camlin
Shepherd."

Cam winced. That voice tore at
his ears like insects gnawing on flesh. He shuddered and drew his
sword.

"This is not my home. This
is an illusion—just like your trick of staircases." He sneered
at the tree, trying to let hatred fill him; it helped subdue the fear
that shook his fingers. "Who are you? And how do you know my
name?"

The tree's grin widened with
creaking metal and raining rust. Its trunk of metal ropes twisted,
and three leaves fell to slam into the floor, cutting the stone.

"Do you not know me, Camlin
Shepherd? I have always been with you."

Cam took a step closer and
brandished his sword. "I slew your servants, the mechanical
animals guarding the trove. I can cut you too. Who are you? I don't
know you."

The metallic tree laughed. Bolts
like acorns fell from its branches.

"I am only what you bring
here with you, Camlin Shepherd. I am memory. I am fear. I am hope."
The tree licked its lips with a tongue of coiling tin. "I am
you. Your past, your present, your future. I am the labyrinth inside
you—the labyrinth inside every man. I am Ziggurat. I am only what
you are. I am only what fears and riddles already dwell inside you."

Linee
stepped up beside Cam, holding her dagger out. She frowned. "What
about me? What about
my
fears? Why don't I see any of that?"

The tree turned its metal eyes
toward her. "You walked through a labyrinth of tunnels to find
this place. You recognized it. You followed the same twists and turns
as the maze back in your homeland. You walked up and down staircases.
You knew when to jump down. Did you not recognize the staircases that
run through the Palace of Arden, your old castle, the walls between
them removed?" The tree's metal leaves shifted and glinted. "I
am Ziggurat. I form myself from your fears. I am what you made me. I
plucked the stairs and labyrinth from the mind of the young queen.
And here, in this chamber of Camlin's mind, must the young shepherd
choose his path."

Lights flickered and suddenly
the mirrors no longer reflected the chamber. They now showed visions
as from astral lands, their edges blurred, their distances too deep,
their lines bending and smudged like dreams.

The tree spoke. "As your
heart has four chambers, here you see four visions of your heart.
Choose the truth, Camlin Shepherd. Gaze into the mirrors and choose
the man you truly are. Step into the vision of truth, and you will
find the clock hand you seek. Step into a vision of lie, and only
fire and death will await you. Gaze into your heart. Gaze into four
mirrors. Choose wisely. Choose the true Camlin Shepherd."

Cam turned from mirror to
mirror, a vision in each. The true Camlin?

"Choose!" demanded the
tree, creaking, metal leaves falling. "Choose and enter."

Cam sucked in his breath.

It's
only a vision,
he thought.
The
whole ziggurat—everything from the archway to this room . . . only
visions Linee and I created.

He wanted to end this game. He
wanted to attack the tree, to storm out of the chamber, to smash the
walls. He felt invaded, violated, his most inner secrets tugged out
like entrails from a fish, rearranged into traps to thwart him. Yet
if he attacked, would he end up a skeleton like the one he'd seen?
Had that been a warning—play our game or you'll fade into bones?

He
grimaced.
So
I'll play this game. I sailed across the night and traveled through
snowy hinterlands. I fought in battles against hosts of sunlit
warriors. I can defeat the riddles inside me.

Clutching his sword, he turned
toward the first mirror, the one shaped like his old home. Within the
glass, he saw himself back in that home, sitting with his parents by
the fireplace. Cam's eyes stung and his knees shook. The reflection
inside the glass showed a younger him, not yet scarred by war, his
cheeks softer and his eyes brighter. The boy sat in an armchair,
speaking excitedly to his parents. His father, a kindly old shepherd
with a white beard, smiled at his son. His mother, a petite woman
with graying buns of hair, was sipping mint tea and knitting a scarf.
Outside a window spread their pastures, green grass speckled with
white sheep beneath a blue sky.

"Home," Cam whispered,
tears in his eyes. "This is the mirror. This is the true me."

He took a step closer, ready to
reach into that mirror, to step into the vision or whatever place it
took him to. This mirror reflected his heart, his inner soul. He was
no warrior, no adventurer, no soldier. He was that boy inside the
glass, happy, at home.

When he took another step toward
the mirror, Linee grabbed his arm. "Wait." Her voice was
soft. "Look into the others."