A Moth in the Night

I’ve learned to differentiate the guards from their sounds and footsteps.

There are four of them, for each of the quarters. The same guard slides food through the slot under my cell door every half cycle. I still don’t know day from night but since I woke up each guard has been here ten times, following the same order, so I’ve been here for at least five cycles.

I have never heard them speak.

One guard is heavyset with a slight limp that gets worse at the end of his quarter; another is lithe, sturdy, with a quick pace and whose boots scrape at the turns in the corridors; the next is steady, often seems to be the most light-footed but runs with powerful heaviness, taps their foot when static; the last is quiet with feather-light steps, and they like to lurk outside the cell doors as if listening through the wood. I see their shadow under the door, disrupting the faint light filtering in from underneath.

The faint light.

I thought it might help me tell time but it hasn’t changed since I woke up. It barely makes a difference in the darkness. My vision has adapted enough to navigate my cell without jostling the heavy metal anchor point for the braided ropes that bind my ankles and wrists.

The ropes are charmed. They shocked me when I tried to free myself. The whole compound must be charmed, or at least the cells, because I can’t channel and I can’t cast. Something blocks me, even in deep meditation which allowed me to find a deposit of quartz twenty feet away in the ground, learn its shape, every ridge, and imagine its weight in my hand, but I could not access it.

The nakedness I feel without my jewelry is incomparable. I was stripped of every piece before I woke up, and they didn’t even leave the plain metal cuffs and chains— it’s not like I can cast with metal alone, it’s just a harmonizer.

Maybe their charms are limited. Maybe they have to take such measures because another mage bested them. Maybe their charms cannot be altered.

Who would come here? These Insulates have nothing to offer us. They’ve deprived themselves of true magic, hiding away in the mountains, willfully ignorant to the makings of the Child, nothing but recreants who commune with the fae and dress up like insects.

I’m not meant to be here.

I don’t know where here is.

I didn’t think I was that close to the frontier.

I didn’t think Patricians took prisoners.

An extra set of footsteps draws my attention to the door. I strain to listen, to absorb as much detail as I can. It’s almost hidden by the guard’s paces, needing an extra step to keep up, just slightly out of sync.

I don’t think it’s a child. It could be a fate, but I’ve never known them to do such bidding for anyone, their relationship with the Patricians is based on agriculture, infrastructure and elemental magic, nothing the recreants have to practice themselves.

I imagine a dancer, light on her feet.

The slot under my door scrapes open and my tray is slid through.

When she retreats, I get up carefully from my cot and collect my food. It has been the same loaf of warm herb bread each time, the size of my two fists. It is more than I expected to be served. At the very least, whatever it is made of has been charmed to keep me satiated until the next delivery. I tear into the loaf with my thumbs, ripping a piece off and begin eating eagerly.

-

There are five guards now, or at least, the heavyset one has a companion. It seems like the guard tries to camouflage this extra presence, making his own steps louder than usual. She’s been here four times, and I know her steps just as well as the others now. She is the one who slips my tray through the slot in my door.

I sit up when I hear them coming, curious. She is faster than the guard this time. Eager. Her step comes one before his, but still halfway hidden. I hear him delivering trays a few doors away.

The slot under my door scrapes open and my tray is shoved through.

“Hey!”

I startle at the sound of his booming voice, staring at the door as if willing myself to see through it. The slot is slammed shut, those light footsteps retreating as the heavy ones approach.

She responds with an impatient grunt. I knew it was a woman.

Somehow I expect the guard to open the door and take my food as if some violation has occurred. But they depart, and I am left with my heart kicking against my chest, unmoving as I regain my composure.

I shut my eyes and begin to breathe, slow, deep inhalations and exhalations, filling my chest and belly with air and then pushing it out until there’s nothing left. I will not eat scared. Not even here.

It starts as a low, whining hum, a stark difference from the quiet of the cell. I open my eyes, focusing my gaze on the source of the sound: the tray. I’m still breathing, slow and deep, and as I take another inhalation I see it.

A green light.

My loaf is glowing.

I go over to it, kneeling carefully on the floor, and pick it up. I do not need to tear into it with my thumbs, it is already torn. There is something inside it.

A crystal drops onto my lap.

A beautiful, translucent green crystal, cut into an octahedron, the size of a plum.

I am so unused to light that its glow briefly blinds me. I drop the bread and grasp the stone in both my hands, clutching it against my belly. My head swims. I have not been without a crystal channel so long in my life and to be reunited feels like cold water on parched lips.

I do not expect the soft sob that leaves my lips as I sink back against the cot, nor the tears that spring into my eyes. I must steel myself. I must eat, and I must rest. This stone is my only tool to get out of here.

-

The lurking guard is on duty, I can hear their steps every so often as they go from door to door. They haven’t arrived at my cell yet but they’re nearby. I doubt I could guess their motive, why they stand outside the cell doors so silently. They cannot see inside, so what are they listening for?

I hid the stone under my pillow, but I’ve kept it clutched in my fist— setting it down, I was overwhelmed with a deep dread that I’d imagined it and this place had broken me. But I settled my anxiety. I meditated with the stone, learned its every edge and plane, and its channel has comforted me.

There is an opportunity when a guard leaves my corridor, they only pass twice a quarter. My timing matters just as much as my intention. I cannot be wasteful with this stone, I must cast as concisely as I can, especially since my magic will need to fight the charm on these ropes.

The lurking guard is outside my door now.

I take slow even breaths, clutching the stone tighter. Their shadow is ink under my door, making the faint light coming through seem more concentrated and bright.

Everything slows down, and it feels like I am engaged in a battle of wills, my heartbeat marking the passage of time. Could they know? How could they know?

Someone else is in the corridor. A hurried faint step, farther away. The guard’s shadow hastily retreats, running toward the newcomer.

I sit up.

Clutching the stone in both of my hands, I perform the finger tuts to cast an unbinding. The ropes around my wrists hiss and spark, sending shocks through my arms. A grunt leaves my lips and I force myself to breathe through the discomfort, focusing on my task, breaking the charms.

The whining hum emanating from the stone gets louder, its glow brighter, and even as I shut my eyes to help my focus the green light is everything I see.

Two heavy thumps draw my attention.

The ropes stop sparking and fall away.

I rush from the cot and press my fist to the door, listening as I tut my fingers to unlock it. The resulting sound is heavy and metallic but not as heavy as the door when I pull it open.

I blink against the light, though it is not very bright, and look into the face of a giant brown and blue moth.

There is a tall skinny man in a heap on the floor, down the corridor ahead of me. The moth is poised over him, tying his wrists and putting a sack over his bloodied head. A wooden club lays on the floor beside them.

The moth looks up at me, though I do not see any eyes. It is a beautiful mask, made of fabric and metal, fitting over a human head like a hood.

She lifts her gloved hands, I shrink back instinctively.

« FOLLOW» she signs urgently and takes off running down the corridor, her moth-wing cloak billowing out behind her.

I follow her. I run.

She remains ahead of me until we reach the next corridor. Even in the soft light, close up I can see the intricacies of the costume. The moth points at me, behind me.

« GO LEFT, OUT LEFT » she signs again and runs down the corridor the opposite way.

I flee.

It doesn’t take me long to find the exit.

I tumble into the dark, made breathless by the brightness of the moon. It was barely in its waxing crescent when I last saw it and now it is nearly full. Ten cycles. I’ve been locked up for ten cycles.

I hear a door slam somewhere inside. I run.

I run.

I do not care to be quiet now, I let my feet pound against the ground. I do not yet know where I am going.

I am being pursued, they are not trying to hide their approach.

I tut my fingers and cast to stun, throwing the spell behind me.

She yelps and gasps.

“Mage, I have your jewelry!” she chokes.

I come to a grinding halt, dropping to my knees.

It is the moth.

I scramble back to her, grabbing the leather bag from her hand and yanking back her hood mask.

She is a delicate-looking thing. Her skin is like soft brown moonstone.

“We must go!” she whispers urgently.

“I have questions.” My voice is hoarse. I put down the green stone, shoving my hand into the bag and pull out my jewelry piece by piece.

“I will answer, we cannot delay.”

I replace some earrings, feeling truly balanced for the first time in over a sennight.

“Unglove your hand and swear it then!” I retort, grasping the green stone again and holding it between us.

She eyes it apprehensively, but tugs off her glove within seconds, clasping her hand over mine and looking me in the eye intensely.

“I swear to answer your questions as best I can, pending our successful escape.”

Her sass makes me smile, and I chuckle, tutting my fingers to seal the contract. A green line appears on her finger.

“Your name?” I ask.

“Yours first, Mage.”

“Marit,” I reply, pulling my hand away, returning to my adornments.

She puts her glove back on.

“My name is Koah. Let’s leave before they find out what I’ve done.”

“I am with you.”

She gets up and rushes ahead, and I follow the moth into the night.

Thank you so much for reading! Your engagement helps me reach a wider audience! If you like my work and would like to support me, please share and consider leaving a tip. No amount is insignificant. ♡

— Rooney