Artaios the Skylord looked Moth up and down. He studied his face, then his old, wrinkled coat. He sniffed at his dirty hair and grimaced at his fingernails. Finally, he looked down at the Redeemer.
“This is the one who commands the Starfinder?”
The Redeemer nodded quickly without raising her head. “Yes, great Master. He’s the one!”
Artaios’ bright eyes widened. He looked young to Moth, though Moth knew he must be impossibly old. “I have never seen a human child before,” he said. “And never a living thing but a Skylord who could command the Starfinder.”
“I can,” countered Moth. “And I’m not a boy. I’m thirteen.”
“Thir…?” Artaios laughed. “Thirteen years?” His white wings fluttered. “You’re right. You’re not even a boy yet. You’re an egg! But I’ve never seen an egg command the Starfinder either, so that makes you remarkable.” Artaios kicked at the Redeemer. “Get up.”
The Redeemer flew to her feet. “I serve you, Master.”
“This boy is in rags. He looks starved. Have you fed him?”
“No, Master, no,” said the Redeemer. “We waited, is all.”
Moth couldn’t help staring at Artaios. His youth and golden hair reminded him of Skyhigh, but his voice was more like thunder, and his skin like mirrored bronze.
“Are you hungry, Egg?” asked the Skylord.
“Yes,” answered Moth hotly. “And my name’s not Egg. It’s Moth.”
“Moth? Like an insect?” Again Artaios laughed. “If you’re hungry, you will feast.”
Moth hesitated. He expected an execution, not an invitation. “Where are we going?”
“To the Palace of the Moon,” said Artaios. He gestured to his chariot. “I’ve seen your wretched airships. Floating junk. Come with me, Egg, and I will show you what it means to fly.”
THE HOUSE OF JORIAN
FIONA AWOKE WITH A SHOUT. The dream she’d been having fled from her mind. She lifted her head from the pillow of grass, heart pounding, and tried to recognize her strange surroundings. The fabric walls, the smell of clean air, the unfamiliar scene through an unshuttered window—all these things bewildered her. Then like a knife came the one thing she remembered.
Pain.
It throbbed in her skull, driving her down to the pillow again. She squeezed her eyes tightly shut and sobbed, hoping someone would hear her.
“Hello?” she called, but it was a kitten’s voice that spoke, and no one answered.
Fiona turned her head, spotting a giant archway with a curtain for a door. The fabric was left open, but she couldn’t see what was on the other side. When her fingers clawed her bedding, she realized she wasn’t in a bed at all, but sprawled out on clean, soft straw and tucked into a blanket.
Heaven had beds, or maybe even clouds, so Fiona knew she wasn’t dead. She remembered the river. And drowning, too. She remembered…
“Moth!”
Her cry startled someone in the other room. The sound of heavy footfalls came closer. Fiona pulled her blanket to her chin as a big shadow darkened the doorway. A face peered around the corner, first puzzled, then lighting with pleasure as it noticed Fiona.
“You’re awake!”
Fiona squinted her blurry eyes. The face was pretty, with the complexion of cream and gemstone eyes. A woman’s face. A tall woman, Fiona decided, until she rounded the doorway on the four legs of a horse. Instead of hair, a white mane rippled down her shoulders. Pointed ears twitched with excitement. Her hooves clopped closer. She smiled at Fiona in the bed of straw, bending as if to coo at a baby.
“Look at you!” chirped the woman. “Now don’t be afraid. Just lie still and catch your breath.”
Fiona forgot her many pains. She sat up, gaping in disbelief. She knew horses and she knew humans, but the thing staring at her was both. From its withers on up was the body of the most stunning woman Fiona had ever seen, with skin as soft as a teardrop and long, snowy hair that touched its equine shoulders. Her coat was white as well, looking like velvet to Fiona, her back draped with scarlet fabric tied to her tail with a golden braid.
“Nessa,” said the woman softly. She pointed to herself, repeating the word. “Nessa.”
When Fiona didn’t answer, the creature frowned. “Poor thing.” She knelt down on her forelegs, running human fingers through Fiona’s tangled hair. “Don’t worry. I’ll teach you to speak.”
At last Fiona said, “You’re a centaur!”
Startled, the creature jerked back. Then she laughed and said, “You understand me! Oh, I knew I was right about you! I knew you would speak!”
“Yeah, I can speak,” said Fiona. “I’m a person. I…” She put a hand to her aching head. “Where am I?” She glanced down and noticed her clothes had changed, replaced by a soft, baggy tunic that looked like a nightshirt, tied around her waist by a belt of fabric. “What happened to my clothes?”
The centaur pinched her nose. “Phew! They were rags.”
Fiona looked under the blanket. Her legs and feet were naked. “My boots! My stockings…”
“Mended,” said the centaur. “And dry now. Sit back…”
Fiona’s head was spinning. She felt like a mess and knew she looked it too. She lay down again, staring up into the creature’s remarkable eyes. “Tell me what happened. Where am I?”
“Pandera.” The creature lightly touched Fiona’s bruised head. “How does that feel?”
“Hurts.” Fiona winced. She felt the bruise again, this time detecting bumpy threads. “Oh my god, stitches?”
“You were in the water with the rocks,” said the centaur. “You’re lucky to be alive.”
“I was with somebody… a boy… my friend Moth.”
The odd face grew gentle. “Only you made it through the mountains.”
Fiona thought hard, yanking memories from the darkness. “Pandera,” she said. “I saw you,” she remembered. “On the sand. You saved me.”
“Tyrin found you,” the creature corrected. “He was hunting when he saw you on the bank. The river must have carried you under the mountain.”
“Tyrin. Okay. And you’re Nessa?”
“Yes.” The centaur smiled.
“And this is Pandera. I remember now. We were running. I fell into the river. Someone was chasing us.”
“Who?”
Fiona glanced away. A dragonfly had chased them. Her grandfather. If Moth wasn’t dead, then surely they’d caught him.
“Moth,” she whispered, trying not to cry.
She felt sick. Her dry throat threatened to retch. Nessa saw this and hurried a nearby bowl to her lips, but Fiona pushed it away.
“I have to go,” she groaned. “Maybe he’s out there somewhere. Maybe he needs me.”
“You have to rest,” Nessa insisted. “A few more days at least.”
“A few more? How long have I been here? What is this place anyway?”
“You’re in the house of Jorian,” said Nessa. “You’ve been here three days.”
Fiona felt panicked again. Merceron had sent her and Moth here, she remembered, so they’d be safe. But three days?
“I have to see him,” said Fiona. “I have to see Jorian.”
“You will,” promised Nessa. “When you’re well enough.”
“No,” said Fiona. “I have to see him right now!”
Nessa shook her mane. “Child, Jorian keeps his own time. Jumping up and down won’t make a difference.” She patted Fiona’s chin. “I should know. I’m his wife.”
When Fiona woke again, the sunshine through her window was gone, replaced by pearly moonlight. Her head was clearer, too. It still ached, but she could remember things better now. She rolled over, comfortable in her bed of straw, expecting to see Nessa watching over her, but the room was empty. Peaceful, too.