Moth

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO: GIFTS OF THE NIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

GIFTS OF THE NIGHT

Ceranor leaned over his ship's prow, stared down the river, and beheld a distant cluster of glass and light. He sucked in air and gripped the railing.

"A city," he said. "A city in the night."

For years, his face had done nothing but frown. Now a smile twitched the corners of his lips and creaked his skin.

From here, miles away, he could see no details. The glow ahead looked like a jewel discarded upon a black blanket, shards of green and pink and silver rising like crystals. Ceranor could have hidden them with his thumb. All around this glowing nexus, the darkness spread into the horizons, endless miles of lifeless plains and hills under a starry sky.

"A beacon of light in the darkness," he said softly into the night wind. "Here is our prize."

His ship, the River Raven, sailed smoothly along the river, the current taking them toward the distant lights. The water was a mile wide; sailing along the northern bank, Ceranor could only glimpse the southern lands when moonlight glinted against boulders. He sailed ahead of his fleet, and when he looked behind him, he saw a hundred ships following, the Ardish navy in all its might.

"My king," said Torin, coming to stand beside him. "We cannot repeat what happened at the village. We cannot slaughter these people mindlessly, soldiers and civilians alike."

Ceranor turned to look at the boy. It had been ten hourglass turns since they'd burned the village, and Torin still seemed shaken. Rather than stare at the distant city in delight, the boy's eyes filled with shadows. His face seemed milky pale in the moonlight, and even the lamps that hung from the River Raven's masts, casting warm light, could not hide his pallor.

"You have my word." Ceranor nodded. "What happened at the village was unfortunate. We were too eager to fight; we destroyed when we should have conquered. But this city . . ." He looked back at the distant lights and inhaled deeply. "This city is a great prize--not to crush, but to cherish, to keep safe. This will be a place of jewels and gold and wealth. Do you see the little lights on the river? Those are ships, Torin. Elorian ships bearing the treasures of the night. They will be ours."

Torin said nothing, only stared ahead, face blank.

He has no lust for conquest, Ceranor thought. He is still a gardener at heart; he feels lost in a barren land where no tree, flower, or grass can grow.

Ceranor thought back to his own youth. When he'd been eighteen, the same age as Torin now, he'd fought his first battle, an ugly affair in the southern jungles of Naya. Their horses and carriages had gotten bogged down in the swamps. Mud had filled their armor and insects had laid eggs in their skin. The southern warriors, clad in tiger furs, had ripped through the Ardish infantry. Ceranor had marched south a callow youth; he returned to Arden scarred and hardened, mourning the loss of his friends, his heart tempered like his blade.

Torin's spirit will be forged here, Ceranor thought. He is soft now, and he is afraid, but this land will make him a man.

"I wish your father were here with us, Torin," he said to the boy. "The men loved him. I miss him. I know you do too." He placed a hand on Torin's shoulder. "I cannot bring him back, but I promise you--in this battle, I will watch over you as a father."

Finally Torin looked at him, eyes haunted. "What would my father say if he were here? Would he celebrate this conquest, or would he ask you to sail back home?"