Moth

CHAPTER FOUR: RAVEN'S FLIGHT

CHAPTER FOUR

RAVEN'S FLIGHT

The Elorian stood tied to the pyre, his arms and legs bound to a pole, his feet resting upon kindling. Ferius stood before the prisoner, holding a crackling lamp.

"We shall now decide," Ferius announced, "whether this beast shall live or die."

The entire village had come to watch the trial. If only fifty folk had invaded Eloria to snatch this prisoner, all five hundred Fairwoolians, it seemed, wanted to watch him judged. They stood in the village square, a pebbly expanse. A single tree grew here, the old maple Torin had fallen off so often, his bad eye draining his depth perception. A ring of cottages surrounded the square, built of wattle-and-daub and topped with thatch.

Among the cottages rose the Sailith temple, the only structure built of stone. A golden sunburst crowned its steeple. Outside the temple gates rose a marble statue; it depicted a handsome Timandrian warrior, clad in armor and bearing a sword, stepping upon a fallen Elorian. While the marble Timandrian exuded beauty and nobility, the Elorian figure seemed twisted, its face locked in a grimace, its spine ridge bulging, its tongue dangling.

Torin looked at the statue, then returned his eyes to the living Elorian. While the marble figure seemed base and devious, the Elorian tied to the pyre seemed meek, almost pitiful. All his hair had burned off, and burn marks ran across his scalp. Bruises and cuts covered his flesh. He squirmed and squinted in the sun, his oversized eyes narrowed to mere slits. Ferius and his monks had tied the creature here only hours ago, yet already the Elorian's skin was reddening in the sunlight.

"This is madness," Bailey said, standing at Torin's side. "This is disgusting."

Shaken after the raid, Cam and Hem had both volunteered for Watchtower duty, freeing Bailey to stand here in the square. Torin's only other ally in the village, the elderly Lord Kerof, had not come to the trial; he lay abed in his home, frail and trembling with the cough.

Torin looked at his foster sister and felt some of his own shakiness leave him. The world seemed an ugly place of late, but Bailey was still beautiful and strong. Freckles lay strewn across her cheeks, and her golden braids shone in the sunlight. She wore her breastplate, green leggings, and tall leather boots. Her sword hung from her belt, her quiver hung across her back, and she clutched her bow.

She is too tall and too taunting and too mischievous, Torin thought. But now I'm glad that she's standing beside me.

"Do you think he's the one who killed Yana?" he asked her.

She snorted, watching the monks chant. "Ferius and his cronies want a show, that's all. This is simply their way of consolidating power in our village." She turned toward him, her brown eyes flashing. "Don't you remember the days before Ferius was here? Back before the plague?"

Torin watched a bee fly toward a dandelion that grew between cobblestones. "I do. Everyone in Fairwool-by-Night followed the old Idarith faith. Things seemed more peaceful then." He sighed. "But things always seem more peaceful in memory, don't they?"

She rolled her eyes. "Winky! Don't you see what he's doing? Ferius uses disaster to rally more power. Who did he blame for the plague?"

"Elorians," Torin replied.

She nodded. "Who did he blame for the drought the following year? Elorians again. Every time disaster strikes, Ferius blames them . . . and more people follow him. Already half the villagers have joined his temple, leaving the old god. And this? This is just another way for him to gain more power. Yana's death is just one more tragedy for him to exploit."