Secrets of Moth (The Moth Saga, Book 3) (23 page)

It pained Cam to look away from
this reflection, from the kind eyes of his parents, from the peace
and beauty of his home. When he turned his head aside, it felt like a
part of him ripped off. He rubbed tears from his eyes and turned
toward the second mirror.

This mirror was shaped like The
Shadowed Firkin, the tavern where Cam had spent so many hours with
his friends, drinking and singing with Hem, Bailey, and Torin. When
he stared into the glass, he seemed to see a future vision. A
reflection of him was walking into the tavern, clad in Elorian scale
armor, a sword in his hand. The villagers filled the common room—his
friends, his family, all those he had grown up with, and they were
cheering him. Beautiful Yara, the rye farmer's daughter, batted her
eyelids and begged to hear tales of his adventure. Perry Potter, her
long auburn hair cascading, leaned forward, kissed the reflected
Cam's cheek, and called him a hero. Everywhere men bought him drinks,
praised his name, and sang songs of his glory.

This
is me returning from war,
Cam realized.
We
defeated Ferius. We won. And I'm a hero at home.

He longed to step into this
reflection too. All his life, he had been the shortest man in the
village, a humble shepherd's boy with no coins in his pockets. The
girls had never chased him, and the boys—aside from fellow misfits
Torin and Hem—would only mock him. Yet here was the man Cam had
always dreamed of being—adored, worshiped, no longer the cynical
shepherd but a war hero. He took a step toward this reflection,
aching to step inside.

A foot away from the mirror, he
paused. The tree had warned him to choose the true reflection—not a
dream, not a wish . . . but the true Camlin Shepherd. Was this him .
. . or simply who he wanted to be?

Tearing his gaze away, Cam
turned toward the third mirror.

This mirror was shaped as the
village's Sailith temple, and Cam shuddered as soon as he turned
toward it. He sucked in his breath and felt his eyes sting anew. His
knees shook, and he reached out and clutched Linee's hand.

"Oh, Camlin," she said
softly and hugged him.

He stared at the reflection in
the mirror, barely able to breathe. He saw the ruins of Yintao, the
great city of the night, smoldering after the battle with Ferius.
Towers lay fallen, walls crumbled, and enemy troops marched over
corpses. In the center, leaning against a shattered wall, lay the
corpse of Hemstad Baker. Arrows pierced the large man's chest, and
his eyes gazed at the stars. Cam remembered finding his best friend
dead like this in the ruins; it had only been half a year ago. But in
this reflection, Cam himself lay dead by his friend, his corpse
trampled, arrows in his back.

"I should have died with
him," Cam whispered, staring into the mirror at his own body. "I
should have been there with you, Hem, but we were late for the
battle. I wasn't with you when you died." His voice shook. "I'm
sorry."

He took a step closer to the
mirror, wanting to jump in, to be with his friend again. They had
spent their lives together, and only through twist of fate, Hem had
died and Cam lingered on.

"Camlin, please, stop,"
Linee said, holding him back. "That isn't you."

He turned toward her, eyes
burning. "How do you know? How do you know that isn't the true
me?" His knees shook. "I was meant to die there in the
darkness. I would have died, but we were late, we—"

Linee growled—it was the first
time Cam had heard her growl—and slapped him. Her hand connected
with his cheek so hard he saw stars.

"Camlin Shepherd!" She
dug her fingers into his shoulders. "Don't you dare say you
should have died. Because I was there with you. We rode the same
nightwolf. If you had died there . . ." Suddenly she was
trembling. She pointed into the mirror.

Cam turned back toward the
reflection and his chest deflated. He had not seen it at first, but
now as he gazed at the destruction, he saw the corpse of a young,
golden-haired woman, her body crushed and stabbed. It was Linee.

When he turned back toward the
true Linee, she was crying. He embraced her and kissed her cheek.
"It's all right. It's just a reflection, just a dream, just a
possibility. It's not real."

She nodded and sniffed. "Look
into the fourth mirror."

A lump in his throat, Cam turned
toward the fourth mirror, this one tall and narrow and shaped liked
the Watchtower. Inside he saw himself and Linee in a carriage,
rolling into the village, dressed as King and Queen. He wore a golden
crown and a cloak of samite, and Linee wore a blue gown and many
jewels. Knights in armor rode alongside their carriage, jesters
somersaulted and juggled and blew trumpets, and Dalmatians ran along
the procession, yipping and wagging their tails. Upon the horizon,
Cam could see the palace of Arden, a place he'd only ever seen in
paintings.

"King Camlin and Queen
Linee!" announced one of their jesters, his voice a faded echo
inside the mirror.

Watching the reflection, Cam
couldn't help but laugh. This was one mirror he thought it safe to
avoid. Him—a king?

But Linee nodded and pointed.
"This is the mirror to enter. This is the true you."

Cam watched himself as a king.
Now the reflection showed him sitting upon a throne, Linee at his
side, surrounded by guards.

"How can this be me?"
He shook his head. "I'm not a king. I'm just a shepherd."

He turned away from the mirror
and faced the metal tree. It stared back at him, its eyelids
clattering, its boughs creaking. More metal leaves fell, slicing into
the floor.

"Choose," said the
tree, grin widening with menace, rust dripping from its mouth.
"Choose the true Camlin Shepherd. Step into the true vision and
live. Enter the lie and perish."

Cam looked from mirror to
mirror. A boy back in his childhood home. A hero returned from war. A
corpse. A king.

"It has to be the boy back
home," he said, taking a step toward that mirror.

Linee
grabbed his arm. "No! Camlin, listen to me." Her eyes
flashed and her cheeks flushed. "Listen
.
That
was
you. That was you years ago. Are you still a carefree shepherd, a boy
with rosy cheeks and an easy smile?" She shook her head
vigorously. "That's only a memory, not a reflection. That's who
you
were
,
not who you
are
."

Cam breathed out shakily,
feeling close to tears. More than any other reflection, this one
tempted him, but Linee spoke truth. He was no longer that boy; it was
a memory whispering.

"The war hero?" He
looked into the second mirror. "A soldier returning home to
glory? It must be. That's who I am now—a soldier."

Again Linee pulled him back.
"No. Camlin, look at that reflection. Women are fawning over
you. Men are buying you drinks. You're a hero there, craving glory,
lapping it up. That's not you." She touched his cheek and gazed
into his eyes. "I know you. You don't crave fame. You came here
to fight Ferius, to save the night, to serve honor and truth. Not for
glory. Not for a hero's welcome. That isn't who you are. I know it."

Cam lowered his head. Perhaps
she was right. "But . . . that leaves only the corpse in the
ruins. You said that wasn't me either."

"It's not." Linee held
his cheeks in her palms. "Because you're alive. You're with me.
That means the last reflection is true—you and me as king and queen,
still together, married, living in a palace."

Cam laughed bitterly. "A
fairy tale."

"The
truth!" Linee stamped her feet. "Maybe the future will be
different. Maybe we won't live in a palace. Maybe I'll never be queen
again, and maybe you won't be king. But look more closely. It shows
us together—at peace, strong, wise. Not craving glory. No longer
silly youths. Not bodies in ruins. It shows . . . it shows who we are
inside
.
I still feel like a queen inside." Tears streamed down her
cheeks and she kissed him. "And you are a king. Maybe not out
there." She pressed a hand to her heart. "But you are
my
king. I see who you are. That's the true you. With me. Step into the
Watchtower mirror."

At their side, the twisting tree
of metal creaked. Rust filled the air. Its voice rose into a shriek
that made Cam cringe. "Choose! Choose now." Metal leaves
shot out like throwing stars. One whistled over Cam's head, embedding
itself into the wall behind him. Another slammed down by his foot,
driving an inch into the stone floor. "Choose a mirror. Enter
the true vision. Enter now or I will slay you in this chamber."

Cam turned again from mirror to
mirror, holding Linee's hand. A boy. A hero. A corpse. A king.

More leaves shot out and Cam
winced; one sliced his arm. Another whistled over Linee's shoulder,
nearly cutting her ear. She gasped.

"Choose!" shouted the
tree, a sound of crumpling steel.

Linee held Cam's hands and gazed
into his eyes. "Trust me," she whispered. She pulled him
toward the narrow mirror that showed him a king. "Trust me like
you did when jumping off the staircase. Trust me like you did in the
labyrinth. Trust me, Camlin." She kissed his lips. "Please."

He nodded, lips tightened,
throat constricting. More shards flew. Cam and Linee took deep
breaths, clasped their hands together . . . and stepped into the
Watchtower mirror.

 
 
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE:
SHALESH

"I need a gear of silver,"
Koyee said to the elders of Montai. "Four feet in diameter with
forty-eight teeth." She gestured at the cache upon the floor.
"As my payment, I offer you all we own."

She stood in the Temple of
Shalesh, the finest building in the coastal town. Marble columns,
lined with silverwork, held the vaunted ceiling. Black and white
tiles spread across the floor. A statue of the goddess Shalesh—a
woman with six arms and no mouth, nose, or ears—stood behind an
altar, her blue eyes staring down, burning with inner light. Koyee
stood beneath that statue, and Nitomi and Qato stood at her sides,
clad in their black dojai silks. Before her stood the Montai elders,
their wrinkled skin dark as charcoal, their hair white as moonlight
on snow, their eyes gleaming blue.

On the floor between them, Koyee
had stacked her payment. Upon a blanket lay all her belongings:
coins, hourglasses, jugs of wine, and fine Ilari armor of gleaming
plates. Nitomi and Qato had donated their possessions too; Nitomi had
even placed all her daggers save a single blade upon the pile. Most
of all, Koyee's eyes stung to see her most precious memento—perhaps
the most precious thing anyone ever owned.

My
father's sword. Sheytusung.

The katana lay atop the pile,
worth more than all that lay beneath it. Sheytusung had been forged
in Pahmey by master smiths, its blade folded and hammered a dozen
times. Koyee's father had carried this weapon to war in Ilar, and
Koyee had wielded it throughout all her battles, from the streets of
Pahmey to the ruins of Yintao.

But
now we must part from that sword, Eelani,
she thought, knowing her invisible friend could hear. She felt a
hollowness inside her and a chill upon her shoulder; Eelani sat there
and she grieved too.
We
need a silver gear. We must part from this blade of legend, from this
memory of Father, for the world to turn again.

As she looked upon the blade,
she knew that emptiness would always fill her.

The Montai elders looked at one
another but did not speak. Koyee bit her lip, and at her side Nitomi
bounced anxiously. Towering over the two, the giant Qato grunted,
stared at his own sword upon the pile, but said nothing.

"Will you accept my
payment?" Koyee said, her voice sounding too loud to her,
echoing in the temple. "Will you forge me a gear of silver?"

Please,
she added silently, staring at the elders. She could bring a silver
gear to the weaveworms. She could swap it for the true Cabera Gear.
She could see her beloved again—her dear Torin—upon the mountain of
the clock. And she could fix that clock, could let the sun rise upon
the night, could invalidate all of Ferius's preachings and end this
war.

"Will you not speak?"
she said, looking at the elders. "Why are you silent?"

The elders stared at one another
again as if sharing silent words. All eyes turned back toward her,
blue moons in midnight faces. Finally it was Siyun, the elder who had
first greeted her in this town, who spoke.

"We do not crave your
coins, armor, or blades."

Koyee tilted her head. "I
have no other gifts to offer."

Siyun bowed his head. "You
have your courage. You have strength. You have fought in the great
battles of empires. We will forge you a silver gear, four feet wide
and bearing forty-eight teeth. But we ask for payment of a different
kind."

She narrowed her eyes. "What
payment?"

The elders' eyes flicked upward,
glancing to the statue of Shalesh, then back to her. Siyun reached
out his hand. "Follow, children of night. And take your
weapons."

Koyee glanced at her companions,
but Nitomi and Qato seemed just as confused. The elders turned and
walked toward the temple exit. When Koyee lifted Sheytusung, the
comforting silk hilt and familiar weight brought tears to her eyes.
This blade was a part of her, as much as her invisible friend Eelani,
as much as her heart, as much as her memories of home. When Nitomi
and Qato had reclaimed their own weapons, they left the temple and
followed Siyun down a stone path.

They left the village, climbed
to the hilltop henge, and stood between the stones and glowing runes.
The worlds shone above, hanging in the night sky like lanterns, blue
and green and red, siblings to Mythimna, this world Koyee fought for,
a world men called Moth. Under the light of the skies, protected in
the ring of stones, Siyun turned toward her, and sadness filled his
eyes, and an ancient fear hovered upon his words.