Shadows of Moth (13 page)

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."