Moth by Daniel Arenson

lump in her throat.
    "The journey east will be long, Eelani," she said. "We must travel as fast as we can."
    She packed silently, filling a sack with jars of food, her hourglass, and some candles. Into her pouch, she placed all the money she had—a single copper coin.
    "It's not much, and I don't know if the food will last. But it will have to do. Now say goodbye to our home and don't cry. You have to be strong, Eelani. You have to be strong like Father was."
    Her katana at her side and her sack slung across her shoulder, she left her home.
    As she walked across the village square, the cobblestones cold against her bare feet, the wind pierced her fur tunic, and Koyee shivered.
    Past the last few huts, she reached the boardwalk of Oshy, the heart of the village. The river flowed, lit with moonlight, a silver stream that sang a familiar song. Stone docks stretched into the water, black arms in the night. A dozen junk boats sailed here, their hulls built of leather stretched over whale ribs, their battened sails painted with the moonstar of the Qaelin empire. Lanterns hung upon their masts, casting pale light.
    Bare-chested men moved along the boat decks, raising nets woven of tendons and hair, pulling in crayfish, clams, and bass. Women knelt beside them, sorting the catches into tin bowls, collecting the valuable creatures and tossing minnows back into the water. The familiar scents filled Koyee's nostrils—fish and burning tallow and the sweat of labor. It was the smell of home, a smell Koyee loved.
    "Koyee Mai," the fishermen and their wives said. They lowered their heads, and the wind fluttered their hair. "We will pray for you. May the moonlight bless you on your journey."
    Throat tight, she nodded. "I will bring back aid. I swear to you, my friends. I will tell the elders of Pahmey of the demons that dwell here. I will return with help, I promise you."
    Every villager she passed handed her a gift—silver thread, a dried mushroom, a bone hook, a ridged seashell, a jar of fireflies. They were humble gifts. They were the best gifts she had ever received.
    She walked along the docks, heading toward the Lodestar , her father's boat. It was a small vessel, just large enough for one or two, its hull built of leather and bone. Koyee climbed inside and her eyes stung. For sixteen years, she would board Lodestar with her father, sail along the water, and fill nets with crayfish.
    "Now I sail alone," she whispered. "Now I sail with no net in the water. Now I sail farther than I've ever gone."
    The people of Oshy gathered along the docks, staring silently, all one hundred of them. They raised their hands to the moon and chanted prayers. Little Linshani, the daughter of the village potter, played old tunes with a bone flute—songs of moonlight and blessings.
    Koyee untethered her boat, grabbed an oar, and steered away from the docks. The current caught Lodestar , moving it east along the water.
    "Farewell, Koyee Mai!" cried Yinlan, the elderly bead-maker with the stooped back; he had once made Koyee a pair of ill-fitting but warm fur mittens. His eyes watered as he stood upon the docks, watching her leave. "May the constellations bless you. We pray for you, our daughter, our light in the dark."
    She raised her hand, a silent gesture of farewell, and her throat felt too tight for speech. As her boat moved downriver, she remained standing, facing the village and watching it dwindle into the distance, and she kept her hand raised. The villagers of Oshy remained on the docks, singing for her until their song vanished in the distance, and the lights of Oshy sank behind the horizon.
    Koyee stood alone in the boat. She heard nothing but the flowing water and cold breeze.
    For the first time in her life, she did not see the dusk. No more orange glow filled the west, for the Inaro River took her into the great night, the black lands of Eloria. The stars and moon shone above, and the plains of her homeland spread all around her, dark and