by Lori M. Lee
The word is a bruise. Whatever family I may have had is gone. There is only Kendara, who’s washed her hands of me, and Saengo. Though Saengo isn’t a blood sister, it’s true that I would go to unimagined lengths to protect her.
“Whatever wrong House Yalaeng did to you, that was a dozen lifetimes ago. Who do you think waging war against the Empire will protect, other than yourself?”
His head tilts, his gaze appraising. “You should protect yourself better. What do you think House Yalaeng will do to you when they learn the truth of what you are? You want to protect your friend, but what else drives you to such danger? I can sense it within you—a hurt and a fear.”
“You don’t know anything about me.” My fingers flex, wishing for the grip of my swords. In this dreamscape, my wounds from Luam are gone, but I’m dressed the same in plain dark clothes and boots spattered with crusted mud.
Whatever he can sense in my soul, I can sense something in his as well—an ache and a longing. And a deep, fathomless rage.
“But I will. Fate could not have better designed our meeting.” His fingers curl into the wood, where the snarling faces shy away from his touch. “You were meant to awaken me. Who else could have sensed my presence at Spinner’s End? I was mistaken before, but now—”
“Before?” I ask. I don’t believe anything he’s saying about fate, no matter how his magic probes at the chips in my mental armor. But that word, ‘before,’ means something.
“Ronin didn’t tell you. There was another before you—a soulrender at Spinner’s End. I hoped she would awaken me, but I see now she was only a bridge to someday connect me to you. Your magic is similar enough that I assume she was related. A mother, perhaps?”
All the breath rushes from me. When Kendara fled the Empire with my mother, she took her to Spinner’s End. Why wouldn’t Kendara tell me? How many more secrets is she hiding? Anger with her, and everything that’s happened since that night at Talon’s Teahouse, presses at my temples. I’m so tired of feeling overwhelmed with all the things I don’t know how to fix.
“Crafts can be common within a bloodline,” he continues. “My brother was a soulrender.”
“And what happened to him?” I ask.
“The Empire happened to him.” The throne ripples around him, the souls thrashing in a sudden frenzy. It only lasts a few seconds, but I fight the reflex to step back.
“Is Queen Meilyr moving against the Empire on your behalf? You’ve waited centuries for your chance to strike at House Yalaeng. Why let her do it for you?” I move toward him. Every step is deliberate. I will not be cowed by his attempts to unnerve me.
His anger transforms into an amused twist of his mouth. “What’s a few weeks more?”
“I imagine she keeps you informed of what’s happening beyond Spinner’s End,” I say, stepping beneath the shade of the massive tree. The souls writhe, mouths shrieking soundlessly, baring the pits of their throats. My skin crawls, the memory of coming within arm’s reach of those trees skittering through me.
Without warning, the Soulless’s hand shoots out. His fingers seize my wrist. His grip is like steel, and his skin is so cold it burns. Pain radiates up my arm, and fear spreads through me like frost over glass, but I don’t give him the satisfaction of flinching.
“You’re weak,” I whisper, despite his nearly crushing grip. But I know it’s true. Otherwise, he’d do more than taunt me in my dreams.
His eyes glint with malice. “I know your weakness too, Sirscha Ashwyn. I feel her connection to you even now.”
With a snarl, I wrench my wrist free. I’m not sure how I can feel pain in a dream, but my entire forearm throbs as I back away.
“Don’t speak of her,” I say, infusing my voice with every ounce of hatred I can muster. I made her a familiar, but he’s the reason she’s dying.
“Her soul is strong, but she will never be our equal. Your friendship won’t last. Everyone and everything I knew has become dust and ash, and, someday, so will your bond.”
I scoff. “What do you know of our bond?”
“Maybe not your specific bond, but I know of friendship.” With distance between us, he sags again into the cradle of his throne. Black sap slides down the rivets of bark, pooling at his shoulder. “I know of brotherhood. I’ve watched House Yalaeng break souls in ways worse than you or I ever could.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I told you to ask the Ember Princess about how they created me. You haven’t yet come to the truth. Ask them again, Sirscha,” he says, a challenge in his voice. “Ask them, and then you will come back to me by choice.”
I sneer. “We’ll see.”
First thing in the morning, Millie wakes us with a message.
“It’s from my father,” Saengo says, skimming the message. She sits at the foot of my bed, legs crossed, and bare feet buried in my blanket. Her cold toes press against my calves where my nightgown has ridden up my legs.
Having delivered her message, Millie relocates to the top of the pavilion’s dome and watches us with those dark, intelligent eyes.
“He’s been in contact with Prince Meilek, but … he doesn’t like that the prince is working with you.”
I roll my eyes. Could Lord Phang not swallow his superiority to save his own kingdom? “Because I’m not reiwyn.”
Saengo winces and twists her finger in the sleeve of her nightgown. “Because I told him about … what I am now.”
My mouth snaps shut. “Oh.” That is a good reason not to trust me. In his position, I would also balk at allying with the shaman who turned my daughter into a familiar.
“I had to tell him.” She lowers her gaze to her lap. “So he can find a proper heir.”
A familiar guilt leashes tight around my chest. “Saengo—”
“But we’ll need his help if we’re to turn the north against the queen,” she continues, lifting her chin again.
“We’ll think of something,” I say. I’ve no idea what that something is, though.
When I push back the blanket to rise from the bed, something on my bedside table snags my attention. A folded slip of paper is tucked beneath the corner of the unlit lantern. My throat goes dry as I reach for it.
Back in the Company, I’d find notes left in my things, as if by magic, whenever Kendara wanted me to meet her somewhere. It always vexed me how she could do it without my noticing—proof that I might never hope to match the skills of a proper Shadow.
“What is it?” Saengo asks.
I unfold the note. At the sight of Kendara’s handwriting, the tightness in my chest rises into my throat. Some stupid, foolish part of me hopes it might be a request to meet as if we were still mentor and student.
It’s not too late to leave if you can overcome your stubbornness. If this helps your decision, I’m taking my own advice. Spies rarely live long enough to see old age, and I’ve given enough. I’m leaving Mirrim and can only hope you’ll do the same.
But if you choose to follow your idiot sense of duty and stay, then seek out the Sleeper and take her hand.
For long seconds, I can only stare at the words, not quite processing their meaning. Then, I crush the paper in my fist and clench my jaw tight against the heat rising in my face.
“She’s left Mirrim,” I whisper. “Damn her.”
I expected her to leave, and yet part of me held on to the hope she might have remained in the city—that she might seek me out again. But, as ever, she has abandoned me to wade through this alone, taking all of her secrets with her. Is this her idea of love? If so, I don’t want it.
I fling the crumpled note onto my desk and stalk into the courtyard. The morning sunlight bears down on my head and shoulders, warm and reassuring. But it does nothing to soothe my anger.
My eyes sting, and I swipe at them. I won’t shed tears for a woman who has never shown me an ounce of tenderness, who left me behind, more than once, without a second thought. Wordlessly, Saengo retrieves the note and smooths it out. Once she has
finished reading, she lights the lantern and feeds the message to the flames.
I focus on trying to breathe. A moment later, Saengo approaches me from behind and wraps her arms around my shoulders, resting her cheek against my back. My lips press tight. I feel like that helpless child back at the orphanage, discovering once again that the people meant to love me the most were the ones who left me behind.
But I’m not a child. I’m not helpless. And new as it might be, I know my mother didn’t abandon me out of a lack of love.
I focus on the steady flame of Saengo’s soul. On the certainty that I am more than what Kendara made me.
“I’m sorry,” I say, turning to face her. “This isn’t about me. It’s about saving you.” What right do I have to feel sorry for myself when I’ve stolen so much from Saengo?
She takes my hands in hers, holding our clasped fingers between us. “It’s about all of us. It’s natural to feel betrayed by her leaving. Caring about one thing doesn’t mean you don’t care about another.”
I manage to smile at that. “How terribly wise, Lady Phang.”
Saengo peers down her nose at me, a look perfected by all reiwyn. “Don’t sound so surprised, Ashwyn. Some people are simply too dim to appreciate my enduring wisdom.”
I snort loudly, which makes her laugh. And then we’re both laughing, and the vise around my throat loosens.
“We’ll do this together, okay?” she says, still grinning. “You don’t have to answer that. You’re stuck with me regardless.”
Her words are meant to be lighthearted, but something about them bothers me. “Saengo, you do know that just because you’re my familiar, that doesn’t mean you have to do this with me, right? You don’t have to put yourself in danger.”
She rolls her eyes, even as her smile takes on a sad tilt. “I know. But I choose to be here.”
“You can change your mind at any time. I’m your friend, not your keeper.”
She cups my face, amusement creeping back into her voice. “Sirscha, dearest. You’re being exasperating. We do this together. I watch your back, and you watch mine. Promise?”
Sighing, I nod. “Promise.”
“Good. If we can’t get answers from Kendara directly, we’ll need to follow her clue. She said to find the Sleeper and take her hand. What do you think that means?”
I shrug and return to my bed, flopping onto the blankets. “No idea. We know the Sleeper is Suryal, so maybe the message is supposed to be some metaphor for religious conversion. She knows I keep faith with the Sisters.” Although, admittedly, I’m not the most devout of followers. It was one of my many disappointments at the orphanage.
Saengo disappears into the washroom to clean up first. Over the sound of running water, Saengo calls, “Did Kendara care much about religion?”
“Not that I know of,” I say. I doubt her message has anything to do with religion, which makes it all the more baffling.
Millie takes flight from her perch above the pavilion, lands neatly on the ledge of the window, and then vanishes into the sky. Through the window, which is too high to provide much of a view, the back of a stone head is just visible.
I bolt upright as Saengo emerges from the washroom. “Statues!” I say, which earns me a bemused look. “You can’t walk twenty paces in this place without running into a statue of either Suri or Suryal.”
Realization sparks in her eyes. “Then we’ve got a lot of exploring to do.”
Once we’re both washed and changed, we begin our search within the main prayer room of the Temple of Light. With the map of the temple’s floor plan firmly in mind, we make our way methodically from head to spine to limbs. We pass Light Temple novices praying before a statue of Suri, young lightwenders practicing their crafts in quiet gardens beneath the press of the sun, and priests and priestesses hurrying about their daily routines. The temple residents bow respectfully when I pass, but leave us to our task.
Although there’s a statue of Suryal in nearly every wing of the temple, checking the god’s stone hands results only in frustration.
Following my mental map of the temple, we turn down a corridor leading into the leg and come upon a set of double doors. Beyond lies a large room with five statues gathered in a circle at the room’s center, but none of them are Suryal.
“Suri,” I say, gesturing to the first statue. If the likeness is accurate, Suri was tall and wiry with the build of a warrior. But there’s a gentleness in her face, whether true or artistic choice.
“These must be the other members of Suri’s inner circle.” Saengo twists the troll-bone bracelet around her wrist, her fingers restless.
The other four founded their respective temple for their Calling, but all of them played a role in helping Suri build Mirrim. And, if history is to be believed, they were all friends as well.
“Did you know that some Scholars suggest Evewyn’s faith originated here, with Suri and her inner circle?” I ask, moving from statue to statue. The Sanctuary of the Sisters is an old religion, and I can’t help wondering if there’s any truth to the theory. All the statues are of women, and two of them even appear similar enough that they could be twins.
“My father would call that sacrilege,” Saengo says, running one finger along the pommel of a stone sword.
I imagine most Evewynians would be incensed to be told they’re worshipping ancient Nuvali shamans. I move to the back wall, where a stunning mural is painted across the stone. “This isn’t right. The original floor plan indicated that this wing goes farther.”
“So it’s been walled off?” Saengo asks, joining me before the mural.
It’s a rendering of the Fall of Suryal. Whoever painted this did so with exquisite detail. The sky is a riot of colors, a brilliant contrast to the ravaged earth below. Suryal lies atop a rise, her body sprawled at the base of a massive tree, and her black hair strewn about her face, concealing her features. She wears armor painted in flecks of gold and amber, an aura of light cast about her. One hand rests beside her head, the other over her stomach.
She looks like she’s sleeping.
“The Sleeper,” I say, touching the mural. I frown and drag my fingertips lightly over Suryal’s form. “Take her hand.”
The hand lying beside her head rests atop the roots of the tree. I peer closer, running my fingers repeatedly over the spot. There’s no mistaking it—there’s a slight ridge in the wall.
“There’s a seam,” I say, following the edge of that seam up the wall and then down to the floor. “It’s a door.”
It’s well hidden behind layers of paint and the lines of the tree and sky. I wouldn’t have known it was here at all if not for Kendara’s clue.
Curious, I give the door a shove. It doesn’t budge.
“Kendara wouldn’t send us here to find a door we can’t open,” I say, stepping back.
“Take her hand,” Saengo repeats, reaching for Suryal’s other hand, the one lying on her stomach. The artist painted her wearing shining gauntlets bearing the mark of a golden sun. With the tip of her nail, Saengo presses against the symbol of the sun.
Her nail slides through the paint. She draws back, delight spreading over her face, as my stomach lurches with realization—directly above Suryal’s hand is a keyhole.
TWELVE
Thank the Sisters that, no matter how much time passes, locks generally remain the same.
It doesn’t take me long to pick the lock with hairpins I retrieve from our room. There’s a scraping click, rusted metal parts objecting to movement. Saengo and I share a look. Even if we’re caught, I have to know what’s behind this door. Why did the Temple of Light close off this wing? What does Kendara want me to find?
It takes both of us, but we manage to push in the door. The slow sound of grinding stone is uncomfortably loud. The density of old air rushes outward, a sigh of release from the room hidden beyond.
The door cracks open enough for us to slip through. Saengo removes two golden lanterns from the walls. Within the glass, fl
ames burn without any noticeable fuel source. Holding the light out, I squeeze through the gap first.
At once, my magic stretches and strains beneath my skin, heightening my senses, and sharpening my awareness of the souls around me. There’s me and Saengo and the distant gleam of temple residents, but there’s something else too—an awareness gathering around me like a rising tide.
There are no souls here, but there is a presence all the same. A memory of souls. An imprint, powerful and many and pained.
The lantern is warm in my hand. I hold it higher as my boots cross a stone floor of interlocking tiles. Whatever colors they’d once been are faded to gray. No one has been here for a very long time, yet the souls’ impressions linger, swirling around me and making my craft blaze and burn in my veins.
I’ve watched House Yalaeng break souls in ways worse than you or I ever could.
A pit grows in my stomach. What happened here?
The room is small, empty save for the dust and cobwebs gathered in the corners. At the other side of the room is another door, left ajar.
I push the door open with the toe of my boot. Beyond, the glow of our lanterns spills into a vast chamber. The room stretches into the darkness, wide and long, its walls on either side lined with plain, wooden doors. Tables run down the center, half-eaten by decay. They look like they might crumble into dust at the barest touch.
“What is this?” Saengo whispers, crossing slowly toward the first door at our left.
“A buried skeleton,” I murmur, repeating the Soulless’s words. The memory of pain lashes at my senses. My craft sears within me, but there’s nowhere for it to go, no souls to grasp.
I follow Saengo, peering over her shoulder as she raises her lantern to illuminate the space beyond. It reminds me, strangely, of the barracks at the Company. Narrow, doublestacked cots cram the space, the mattresses long bare of sheets. If the other rooms are like this one, then this wing must’ve once housed dozens of shamans.
The impressions left by those who once occupied these beds press tightly around me, the tide closing over my head. It’s too much. “Let’s get out of here.”
