Beyond the Shadowed Earth

by Joanna Ruth Meyer

  “I already have my quarrels with the gods,” said Eda carefully. “White is the color of mourning in Enduena. The color of shrouds and dead things. I can’t wear it. I won’t be your qirta.” Her voice shook.

  “You misunderstand,” said the priestess, softer now. “You are not to be the qirta. You are to fight with us against the coming darkness. Honor us. Honor our goddess.” Once more she held out the dress.

  Eda swallowed, hard. “Very well.”

  The priestesses helped her into the gown, tugging the finely spun Itan silk over her head, fastening the three hundred buttons that ran from the high neckline all the way to the hem. The sleeves were long and came to a point over her wrists; the cuffs were embroidered in silver.

  When she was dressed, the youngest priestess gave her a dagger in a supple white leather sheath and matching belt.

  “What is this for?” Eda asked, uneasy.

  “To serve you until you find Lumen’s knife.” The priestess buckled it tight around Eda’s hips.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  THE PRIESTESSES ESCORTED EDA FROM THE TEMPLE, their skirts and hers an ocean of whispering white silk, making her feel as if they were an army of ghosts passing through the Circle of the Dead. Her uneasiness sharpened as they stepped into the great hall, which shimmered with light and warmth and music. A fire roared at the back of the room, and platters of food were laid out on the long oak tables. Monks and villagers and people who must be from the caravan sat and ate together. The priestesses drew Eda to a seat near the end of one of the long benches, and all but the youngest priestess left her there and went to sit by the fireplace. To Eda’s surprise, the youngest priestess waited on her as if she were an attendant back in the palace, serving Eda food and keeping her cup full.

  For a while, Eda’s hunger forced her attention wholly to her plate. There was hot, gamy meat with rice and herbs, fresh corn tortillas drizzled in dark honey, creamy yogurt, and clear cold water that tasted as if it had been blessed by the gods themselves. It was the first good meal she’d had since her wedding feast, and she ate until she was actually full.

  “Why aren’t you eating?” she asked the priestess when her hunger had finally subsided.

  “We do not eat on holy nights, so that we can listen to our goddess.”

  “And does your goddess speak?”

  “Perhaps she will, and perhaps she will not. Either way we will listen.”

  Eda’s fingers twitched to the knife at her hip. “How did you know about Lumen’s blade? I had only just finished reading about it in the temple.”

  “Our goddess appeared to me in Ita, told me to forge that knife and sew the sheath and belt, that you would have need of it. It’s the only reason I was allowed to take my vows and make the journey to Tal-Arohnd, even though I have not yet reached my twentieth year.”

  “You’re a bladesmith?”

  The priestess smiled. “We have many skills on Ita. We do not just make silk.”

  Eda’s face warmed. “What’s your name?”

  “Ahdairon. We are all Ahdairon—we give up our names when we take our vows, and assume instead the name of our goddess.”

  “Doesn’t that bother you?”

  “I serve the gods, and they speak to me. That is worth more than a name, don’t you think?”

  Eda was about to retort that no, she didn’t think that, when the younger monks rose to clear the tables while the rest of the company settled onto the floor facing the fireplace where the priestesses waited. The youngest priestess bowed to Eda and went to join them. With one voice, the priestesses began to sing in their ancient tongue, an eerie, awful melody that made Eda’s skin crawl. Firelight shone orange in their black hair and danced in the fine weaves of their silk gowns. Eda wanted to run, far, far away. The music sank into her. Ate her.

  Torane was suddenly at Eda’s elbow, his face drawn and sad. “They sing of the felling of the Tree, of the day when Tuer slew a man and brought death and time into the world.”

  Eda’s chest tightened. “The day when all mankind wept for the folly of a god.”

  Torane looked at her sharply. “Death would have come, with or without Tuer’s anger.”

  “Would it? Don’t you think the world would look wholly different now, without Tuer in it?”

  “Dear one.” Torane’s voice was gentle, but held a note of deepest sorrow. “Do not blaspheme the gods. Do not offend them.”

  “They’ve offended me,” she said fiercely. She clenched the hilt of the priestess’s blade, itching to wrap her fingers around Lumen’s knife. “Haven’t they offended you as well? You’ve served them all these years, and yet they had no thought to keep your mother alive long enough to see you one last time.”

  Torane’s face closed. “Take care, little one. The gods will require much of you in the end, I think.” He left her, and Eda hated herself. Torane did not deserve her anger. Lady Rinar did not deserve her scorn.

  The priestesses sang on, their voices reaching a high, keening pitch that echoed shrilly in the stone hall. Eda resisted the urge to clap her hands over her ears. The youngest priestess locked eyes with her, and the words she had spoken to Eda in the temple echoed in her mind: You are not to be the qirta. You are to fight with us against the coming darkness.

  A sudden chill permeated the room, and the air in front of Eda grew crackly, bright, sparks of silver splintering out from her like threads of gossamer web. The world seemed to pull, to stretch, and the splinters joined together to form a massive crack. Behind it teemed shadow, power, rage.

  And then the spirits burst through in a rush of dark wings, a dozen, no more. Eda caught a glimpse of empty white eyes, of noseless faces and gaping mouths filled with jagged, broken teeth, of bleached bone swords set with black jewels.

  The spirits hurtled toward the crowd, swords swinging, teeth gnashing. Heads and arms tumbled to the floor; Eda’s vision was a spray of red. She stared at a Haldan woman whose headless body stayed upright for one heartbeat, two, before falling in an awful, mangled heap beside several others.

  The monks drew swords from beneath their robes and launched themselves at the winged spirits.

  The villagers and people from the caravan stampeded to the door, screaming and shoving each other.

  The priestesses lifted their hands, their song morphing into a single, monotone note. Wind rushed into the hall, harsh and cold and stinging like scorpions.

  Eda just stood there, staring at the dead bodies littering the floor, at the widening pool of blood that crept toward her feet.

  And then she blinked and one of the spirits stood before her, a spirit she knew.

  He was even clearer now than he’d been on the ship: his wings rippled with dark feathers, his sword was made of bone and was set with a flashing white jewel. Flames licked round his brow, his fiery crown unable to consume him.

  In one swift movement, he pulled her tight against his body and wrapped his wings around her. Clawed fingers cut through the white gown and into her skin. His breath was scorching hot in her ear: “Do not fear, little Empress. I will not let them harm you. You are to be queen, when the spirits are free. It’s why I made you. Why I called you.”

  She writhed in his grasp, scrabbling desperately for the dagger at her hip. She tore it free from its sheath and drove it upward, as hard as she could, but it merely passed through him.

  “I told you, little Empress. You cannot kill a shadow.”

  She twisted around so she could look into his eyes—their fathomless depths seemed to swallow her, and her hatred of him evaporated her fear. “When I find you in your Mountain, you will not be a shadow. I will kill you then.”

  He laughed. “Then run. Run to the Mountain. See what awaits you there.”

  He released her so suddenly she fell in a jumble, her right hand sliding in a pool of blood. For an instant all she could do was stare, horror clawing at the edges of her vision: the youngest priestess lay dead on the floor, a jagged red line slashed across her throat
, her eyes staring vacantly at the ceiling.

  And then a hand closed around Eda’s, and someone pulled her to her feet, tugging her insistently to the door. She had a glimpse of a blue and red poncho and a boy’s dark hair, before they burst out into the night, the spray of breathtaking stars savagely incongruous with the slaughter they had left behind.

  She planted her feet and looked back at the great hall, her head wheeling.

  “We have to go,” said the boy. “We have to go now.”

  She allowed him to pull her down the path, stumbling over loose rocks as she ran. She felt numb and strange, the shadow-god’s words echoing in her ears: You are to be queen, when the spirits are free. It’s why I made you. Why I called you.

  A distant part of her realized the boy running with her down the mountain was Morin.

  Chapter Thirty

  EDA YANKED HER HAND OUT OF MORIN’S and stopped dead on the trail, gasping for air.

  He stopped too, though the tension evident in every line of his body screamed his desire to keep running.

  “What are you doing here? Where are you taking me?” She couldn’t stop shaking, couldn’t shut out the images of the dead priestess’s eyes or the Haldan woman’s headless body crumpling to the floor.

  “Up the Rise.”

  “What?”

  He grabbed her hand again, his eyes intent on hers. “I’m taking you to find Tuer’s Mountain.”

  And then they were hurtling down the path again, the stars a blur of silver above them.

  They slowed a little as they reached the village, a haphazard collection of stone cottages sprinkled about the sprawling valley. A river curled away to the west, hugging the shoulder of the mountain.

  Eda couldn’t run anymore, pain stabbing up through her ribs, but she walked as quickly as she could, gulping mouthfuls of icy air. Beyond the outskirts of the village, Morin led her up a worn track to another stone cottage. Flags flapped on a line that stretched from the peak of the roof to the top of a stone well. A pen of sleepy goats butted up next to the house.

  The door creaked open and a girl looked out—Tainir, the same girl who had operated the aerial lift. She looked older somehow than she had earlier, her hair tangled about her shoulders, her face smudged with dirt. Eda realized why her eyes had looked so familiar, why she’d recognized Tainir’s surname—she must be Morin’s sister.

  “Is everything ready?” said Morin.

  Tainir nodded. “We can leave as soon as she changes.”

  Morin waved Eda toward the door and she stepped inside. The cottage was impossibly cramped, a worn canvas couch facing the fireplace, an iron stove in the corner, a table under one small window, and a doorway hung with a leather covering that Eda assumed led back to sleeping quarters. Three huge packs were piled by the front door with coils of rope and a battered kettle.

  A lantern burned from the center of the table, which was covered in half-drawn maps, ink bottles, and paint jars. An intricate collection of pen nibs and brushes marched neatly beside the inks and paints, organized by size. Eda was reminded with a pang of Niren and her illuminated manuscripts.

  Tainir pressed a mug into Eda’s hands, steam curling up. “Drink it quick—we’ve a long way to go before morning. You can change back there.” She waved toward the leather-covered doorway.

  Numbly, Eda slipped behind the covering, which concealed a short hallway and two tiny bedrooms. In one, a set of clothes was laid out for her. With shaking fingers, she clawed at the priestesses’ dress, having to rip the buttons off because she couldn’t undo them by herself. The white silk puddled on the floor, spattered with red. She drew on the trousers, shirt, and thick poncho quickly, then gulped down the contents of the mug: gods-blessed Enduenan tea.

  Morin and Tainir were waiting for her in the front room, each wearing a pack. Tainir helped Eda into the remaining pack, adjusting it on her shoulders and tightening the strap across her chest.

  “Let’s go,” said Morin grimly.

  All three of them stepped out into the night, Morin pausing to lock the door. He led the way up the path that wound behind the house, and Eda followed in a daze. She was dimly aware of a pair of graves a little ways off the trail, spread with wildflowers and illuminated by a single lantern. Tainir went to blow it out.

  “My mother didn’t make it up the Rise,” said Morin in a choked voice. “I’ve only known since yesterday. I told Tainir this afternoon.”

  Eda’s own dead paraded through her mind: her parents, the Emperor, Niren, all jumbled up with the slaughter in the great hall. “I’m sorry.”

  He just shook his head, waiting for Tainir to join them before starting to move again. The track wound ever upward, clouds scudding across the stars.

  “Why are you helping me?” Eda asked. “How did you know to pull me from the great hall? How did you even get to the monastery before me?”

  Morin glanced back. “Tuer sent me a vision, up on the cliffs. I’ve been preparing for our climb all day.”

  Unbidden, Ileem’s words slid into her mind. Rudion came to me in Halda. He gave me a vision. Unease twisted through her. “What did he show you?”

  “The girl I gave the map to stolen by a creature with dark wings. The whole world being swallowed up by darkness, unless I found her, and brought her up the Mountain. But he didn’t show me why. Why are you here, map girl? Why are you searching for Tuer?”

  “Because he destroyed me. And because I cannot kill a shadow.”

  “Tell us,” said Tainir behind her. “Tell us everything.”

  And so she did: the story her father had told her as a child, the deal she’d made with Tuer’s Shadow, her ascension to the throne, her squabbling Barons. The temple. Niren’s death. Ileem’s betrayal.

  Morin and Tainir listened in silence.

  The words poured out of her, and when she was done, she felt entirely empty.

  “Are you sure the gods have wronged you?” said Morin then, almost apologetically. His boots crunched through the gravel. “Tuer kept his promise. He made you Empress.”

  “And then he ripped my Empire and Niren away from me.”

  “But maybe it was never about you. Maybe becoming Empress was just a distraction. Maybe Niren’s life was never yours to give, and the gods were always going to take her, without any regard to you.”

  Guilt pierced her, and so she was cruel. “Did the gods have need of your parents, too?”

  His jaw tightened. He didn’t answer.

  The silence was awful, after that.

  They went on, and despite the icy wind, sweat trickled down Eda’s shoulder blades. She had nearly worked herself up to an apology when the trail came to a dead end against a sheer cliff wall.

  “It’s called Tuer’s Face,” said Tainir, waving up at the rock. “Catch your breath for a few minutes—it’s a hard climb.”

  Eda tilted her head back as far as it would go, but the top of Tuer’s Face was lost somewhere in the night. “We’re climbing that in the dark?”

  “No way around.” Tainir shrugged out of her pack and started digging through it. “This is the shortest way up.”

  Morin glanced up at the sky, the clouds clearing away, the moon starting to rise. For a moment, he seemed to stare intently at something behind them, but then turned back to Eda with a forced smile. “There should be enough light to see by. How are you at climbing, Your Majesty?”

  She didn’t understand why, but it irked her to hear her title from his lips. “I’ve never done it before.”

  “I’ll show you.” Morin unpacked climbing gear, which looked to Eda like nothing more than a mess of ropes and buckles. To her surprise, he carefully explained the harness, and helped her put it on and tighten it around her. Next went her pack, with pouches at her waist for climbing spikes and a mallet to drive them into the rock. He demonstrated how to use them, and had her practice on level ground until he was satisfied she’d be all right on the cliff. He avoided her eyes the whole time.

  Tainir flashed
Eda a tight smile. “Gods keep you—see you at the top.” And then she leapt onto the cliff like a mountain goat, quick with her hammer and spikes, a dozen feet up before Eda could even blink.

  Morin waved Eda up next, and he came behind her.

  At first, it wasn’t so bad. She fell into the rhythm of the rock and the hammer and the spikes, the cord of the rope and the strain of hauling herself slowly upward. Sweat danced on her forehead, her shoulders and arms aching.

  And then she made the mistake of glancing down at Morin, and saw how high she’d climbed already.

  She yelped and pressed herself against the rock, heart slamming, head wheeling with terror.

  But Morin put a gentle hand on her ankle. “It’s all right, Eda. You’re safe. The ropes will hold. Just keep on like you’ve been. I passed out on my first climb, and that wasn’t on the sheerest cliffside in Halda. You’re doing well.”

  She took a long breath, then another. She waited until her pulse grew steady again. “I’m sorry for what I said about your parents.”

  “The gods have taken from us all, Your Majesty. I don’t blame you. Now climb, or we’ll never catch Tainir.” There was an urgency in his voice that hadn’t been there before.

  His forgiveness was an unexpected comfort, but the anxiety she sensed from him scared her. She turned back to the cliff.

  On and on they climbed, Tainir so far above them that her form blended into the rock. Eda wondered if Tainir was actually part goat.

  Beyond the mountains the sky began to lighten bit by bit, the world going silver at the edges. Eda glanced behind her, and thought she saw a glimmer of darkness on the distant horizon. She squinted, but couldn’t tell if there was really something there or if exhaustion was making her see things. All at once, the sun lipped over the peaks, flooding the cliff with light and warmth, and whatever lurked behind them was swallowed by the dawn.

  Another hour later, when Eda thought her arms were going to break from the continual upward strain, Tainir came into view, leaning backward, black braids swinging. “We’re almost there—just a little farther!”