Moth

CHAPTER TWELVE: THE KING'S COMMAND

Torin couldn't believe what he was hearing. He lowered his head and clenched his fists at his sides.

"My father always told me that the wisest warrior knows when not to fight." He looked up at the king from under his eyebrows. "If he were here, he would call for peace."

The king's frown deepened, and they kept walking down the path. Goldfinches and grackles flew overhead, landed upon the grass, and pecked for seeds. A dogwood rustled.

"We walk here surrounded with life, light, and beauty," said Ceranor. "I chose to meet you here, for I know of your love for things green and growing. Yet across the border, in the darkness, evil brews. Ferius is a violent man; that I know. He lusts for blood; I do not share his passion. Yet I am afraid, Torin. I know it's strange for you to hear. I know you see me as a hero, as a strong and noble king, yet even I am afraid." He shook his head sadly. "Eloria attacked your home. I fear that they muster for more violence. Do you not believe that they are evil, Torin?" He turned to look at him, eyes narrowed. "Do you not believe that the Elorians crave our blood?"

The king's eyes were so cold Torin was surprised they didn't wilt the gardens. He looked down at the pebbly path.

"I don't know, Your Highness," he said honestly. "All I know is that for years, until Ferius arrived in my village, we lived peacefully alongside them."

"And that peace shattered. Do not blame Ferius for the crimes of the night. That is like blaming a wild dog for barking at a forest fire." They walked under an archway bedecked with vines, heading toward a fountain. "Torin, you hate violence and you love peace. Those are qualities I admire and share. You are cold water to temper Ferius's flames. Which is why I want you with us. March with me into Eloria. Fight at my side. Swing your sword with mine and speak your wisdom into my ear."

Torin froze. He whipped his head around and stared the king.

"Your Highness! I am no warrior like my father. I cannot go into battle with you."

"And why not? You serve in the Village Guard. You protected our border. You fought the Elorians in Fairwool-by-Night and in the dusk itself. No other man in my army has done these things." The king clasped Torin's arm. "I fought with your father in Verilon, yet now we head into greater danger. I want you by my side in the dark."

Torin planted his feet firmly on the path.

"I refuse," he said simply. "I know you are my king. I know I should obey. But this I cannot do. I cannot fight a war I don't believe in."

The king watched two starlings chase each other around an almond tree. "And yet our warriors would believe in you. They believed in your father; he was a hero to them. They need a hero in this war too." He passed his hand over a row of roses, then pulled his finger back when a thorn pricked it. "I cannot be that hero; I must a leader, a king, a steel monarch. But I am not a man of the people like your father was. If my soldiers know that Torin Greenmoat, son of Teramin, marches with them, their hearts will fill with courage. So will mine. I do not command you to join. I am asking you. Not as a king, but as a friend."

Torin swallowed. Merciful Idar! How had this happened? He had come here to beg for peace, and now the king not only demanded war but insisted Torin join too.

Bailey would know what to say, he thought. She'd stamp her feet, twist the king's collar, and demand that he listen to reason. Torin sighed. She'd probably get tossed back into a dungeon, but at least she'd get her point across.

"My king," he tried again, "please speak to Bailey. Free her from the dungeon or visit her with me. Hear what she says. She believes that no Elorians ever attacked our village, that Ferius himself burned it in disguise. She languishes in prison because she accused him of this ruse. Will you listen to her? I beg you: send men to free her, bring her here, and hear her words. She's my friend. Grant her freedom and the chance to speak of her suspicions."

I hope you're all right, Bailey, he thought, belly twisting. He worried about war with Eloria. He worried about marching into the night himself. But mostly he worried about her. In all the halved world of Moth, she was the dearest person to him, and he could not rest while she languished underground.

The king walked toward a bed of hyacinths and tulips, turned toward Torin, and stared at him steadily.

"I would be happy to free Bailey," he said. "She's a good friend of yours. Same as I was good friends with your father. I still care about friendship. We'll head straight to the temple and free her from its dungeon. Furthermore, I will command Ferius to never harass her again. Are we agreed then? You will march with me to Eloria?

Torin stared back, eyes narrowing.

"Are you . . ." He tilted his head. "Your Highness, are you saying you will only free Bailey if I join you in this war?"

The king stared at him a moment longer. His words spoke of friendship, but no compassion filled his eyes, only ruthless calculation. The king's face seemed as cold and hard as a stone jabbing into flesh.

"Choose, Torin," said the king. "Choose wisely. Return to your gardens . . . or march with me into war, and Bailey will be freed."

Torin stared back, mouth agape.

He's serious, he thought. By Idar, he means to let Bailey remain underground unless I join him. He swallowed. I'm not a soldier! I'm just.. I'm just Torin the Gardener. How could I inspire the troops, even if my father was a hero?

He shut his eyes, remembering walking into the dusk with the bones of the slain Elorian. He remembered seeing the young woman there, the Elorian girl with the scarred face. He remembered her eyes, blue and as large as chicken eggs, staring at him in fear and wonder. He remembered the lights of the village gleaming behind her.

They are a peaceful people, he thought. I know that they are. How could I march with my king to burn them?

In his mind, the vision of the Elorian girl melted, and he saw Bailey's face. She smiled at him mockingly and called him Winky. Freckles covered her nose and cheeks, and her two golden braids shone in the sunlight. He ran with her through the fields, swam in the river, and wrestled with her atop bales of hay.

Bailey. My foster sister. My dearest friend.

And he saw her shackled in the dungeon. He saw the monks of Sailith torturing her with blades and whips. He saw her aging in chains, growing old and feeble, crying for him to save her.

I must save you, Bailey, he thought, eyes stinging. You would want me to spit upon the king. You would want me to leave this garden in disgust. But I cannot leave you.

He lowered his head and touched the hilt of his sword, the same sword he had fought the Elorian with. He raised his stinging eyes, looked at the king, and swallowed a lump in his throat. He nodded.

"Let's go free Bailey."