Moth Read Free Page A

he watched Hem bite his tongue and wail. But if we can calm the villagers, we've done our job.
    "We've increased our patrols," Torin spoke up, drawing confidence from Kerof standing at his side. "At any given moment one of us is up in the tower, watching the night. We're always here to protect the village. So long as we stay out of the dusk, we're safe. I promise you."
    His words seemed to have the desired effect. Women lowered rolling pins and pans. Men grumbled and lowered clubs and pitchforks. One by one, the villagers began to disperse, heading downhill and back toward the village.
    Torin breathed a sigh of relief . . . then froze when he saw the robed figure trudging uphill.
    His relieved sigh turned into a groan.
    "Ferius," he muttered and clenched his fists.
    The short, broad-shouldered man wore the yellow robes of the Sailith Order. Three of his monks walked behind him, their faces hidden under their hoods. Ferius raised his fist and cried out to the crowd.
    "Turn away soothing words that seek to blind you!" His voice hissed like a viper. "Only the Sailith Faith speaks truth. And the truth is that danger lurks. You are all in grave peril, friends of mine."
    The people paled and mumbled fearful prayers. Once more, the villagers raised their makeshift weapons. Torin muttered under his breath.
    He hated Ferius. He hated him more than all the weeds, bee stings, and leaf-rot in the world. The monk, as he called himself, had arrived in Fairwool-by-Night three years ago to build his temple and spread his faith.
    These monks called Sailith the one true religion, but Torin didn't see how it was a religion at all. He and his friends, like most decent folk, followed the old faith of Idarism; they worshiped Idar, the god of sunlight, and the green things that he grew. If this new Sailith Order had a god, its adherents never spoke of him. They preached only one message: hatred of Eloria.
    "Ferius, return to your temple," Torin said, not bothering to mask the disgust in his voice. "Do not spread your fear here. I told the villagers we were safe. I do not lie."
    The monk reached him and hissed, tongue darting between small, sharp teeth. Torin was not a tall man, and Ferius stood even shorter, though his strong frame bulged against his yellow robes. The monk's skin too bore a yellow tinge. His eyes were beady, far-set, and pale blue. His eyebrows were so sparse Torin could barely see them. The monk was only in his thirties, but already his black hair was thinning; he wore it slicked back from his broad, protruding brow.
    "Oh, but you do lie," Ferius said in that slithering voice. He leaned closer, squinted, and scrutinized Torin like an undertaker examining a body. "All you speak is falsehood, Torin the Gardener ." He spat out that last word as an insult, then turned toward the crowd and raised his voice. "My people, reject those who would pull the wool over your eyes. The heathen speaks of safety, and yet a child lies dead. The heathen is nothing but a coward. His cowardice would bring the enemy to the very edge of the dusk—to your very doorsteps. His lies mean more dead children."
    Some villagers muttered agreements, and one farmer waved a sickle and shouted for blood. Mothers clutched their children to their breasts. Yana had been a plague orphan like Torin—she had no relatives to mourn her, yet in a village of only five hundred souls, every orphan was loved. More iron tools rose, and shouts rang across the hill.
    Old Mayor Kerof, white hair billowing, blustered and raised his hands and urged calm, but his cough silenced his words. Torin helped the kindly elder back into his wicker seat, turned back toward the crowd, and shouted.
    "So what will you do? March into Nightside? Fight a war with farm tools and bread knives?" Torin shook his head. "My friends, return to your fields, workshops, and pastures. Let us in the Village Guard do our job. We will defend you."
    Ferius snorted a laugh. "Hear the heathen speak his deception!