Circle of Shadows

by Evelyn Skye

  But when Kichona was a young kingdom, its emperor Mareo decided he wanted a version of Celestae on earth. He appealed to Sola, who ignored his summons. He called to Luna, but she did not reply. The gods, it seemed, were too far away to notice or care.

  There was one deity, however, who had chosen to live on earth. Zomuri, god of glory, lived in sulfurous caverns in the center of Kichona. And so Mareo embarked on the long and treacherous journey there.

  When he finally found the god’s home, he was on the cusp of death. Still, Emperor Mareo laid out many offerings for the god. There was gold. There was silk. And mounds of tiger pearls. Zomuri hoarded riches.

  On the eighth day, Zomuri appeared. He was a giant wearing an elegant silk robe decorated with embroidered flames. He stroked his long beard with a ten-fingered hand, then picked up the gold and the silk and the spears in turn.

  Emperor Mareo looked up through muddied strands of hair. “Great Zomuri, I—”

  The god waved at him. The gesture choked off the emperor’s voice.

  “I know what you want,” Zomuri said, scoffing. His breath smelled powerfully of spoiled eggs. “Did you think that gold and silk would be enough to buy you paradise?”

  Emperor Mareo shook his head furiously. Through sheer force of will, his voice broke through the god’s magic. “This was merely an offering. But I am willing to pay whatever it takes.”

  Zomuri eyed him now with an inkling of curiosity. It was nearly impossible to break through a god’s spell. And yet Mareo had managed to speak.

  “If it were possible to grant you paradise on earth,” Zomuri said slowly, “what would you do to achieve it?”

  Mareo swiped the grimy hair from his face and looked eagerly at the giant. “I have my entire life to give. I have my entire soul to dedicate to you.”

  The god considered this. It would be quite a coup to have an emperor worship him rather than Sola. But then Zomuri shook his head. “Your life and your soul are not enough.”

  Emperor Mareo hesitated. But he pulled back his shoulders and said, “I promise all the lives it shall take. All the people I conquer shall worship you. All I kill shall die in your name.”

  Zomuri smiled. “Do what I bid of you, and you shall have your paradise on earth. You shall have the Evermore.”

  The curse was made.

  Emperor Mareo’s legs buckled beneath him from exhaustion, and he hit the ground. He wept, but out of gratitude rather than pain. “Thank you, my lord. Thank you.”

  Zomuri picked him up by the scruff of his neck and stood him back on his wobbling legs. “Do not thank me yet. There is much work to be done. You will broaden Kichona’s borders as far as the eye can see. You will convert the people of the lands you conquer to our faith and make them worship me. And you will pay your tithe to me in blood.”

  The emperor quivered under the burden with which he’d been bestowed. But he had asked for it. And he wanted the Evermore.

  “The first tithe you owe comes due to me as soon as you return home. You shall find Kichonans aged one to one hundred, a male and female each, and sacrifice their lives to me in the Ceremony of Two Hundred Hearts. Only then will I grant you the right to seek the Evermore.”

  Emperor Mareo’s jaw hung open. “You want me to kill two hundred of my own people? Babies? Old women?”

  Zomuri huffed, and a cloud of sulfurous air billowed from his nose. “The Evermore is the greatest prize of them all. Blood must be shed to make Kichona into the empire I want. Therefore, the first step is a ritual to prove to me that no life is too precious for you to spare, whether young or old, Kichonan or not.”

  The emperor stood in the cavern, knees quaking. It was unspeakable, what Zomuri asked.

  But it was also a small price to pay to bring paradise to the rest of the kingdom.

  With this mission bestowed upon him, Emperor Mareo returned to his palace. He called for volunteers throughout the kingdom, a male and a female for each age between one and one hundred, promising them glory. And then, away from curious eyes, he slaughtered them, offering their hearts to Zomuri.

  After that, Mareo’s armies massacred tens of thousands overseas, and he pursued his goal to the end of his days.

  But when he died, Kichona’s borders barely skimmed the edges of the mainland. The mantle of the curse would have to be picked up by another disciple, who would, like his predecessor, offer the blood of many, many others.

  Thus, it continued. There were periods of peace, when no one was foolish enough to desire what Zomuri had offered, not at so high a cost. But the avarice of men always rears its head again, and in time, another would try for what those who had come before him had failed to achieve.

  But there was never enough blood to quench Zomuri’s thirst for glory in his name. Never enough for the god to grant heaven on earth. Therefore, it was not man who achieved immortality but, rather, the curse, which trailed their greed like an unshakable, eternal shadow.

  The Evermore was never worth its price.

  Chapter Ten

  A crowd had formed in the center of the camp in Takish Gorge. The Dragon Prince walked to the edge of it. He cleared his throat.

  The warriors turned. As soon as they saw it was him, they bowed and said, “Your Highness,” and stepped aside.

  A path quickly appeared. Two taiga warriors from Paro Village had been captured that morning, and they were being kept in cages made of the skulls and femurs of foxes and wolverines and other forest animals, held together and unbreakable by magic. It was a specialty of another one of Gin’s soldiers.

  The Dragon Prince strode to the cages and peered inside. “New recruits?” he asked.

  The prisoner on the left gawked at him.

  Was it because she was surprised to see him? Or was it the hideous scars on his face? Gin fought the urge to draw the hood of his cloak over his head. A true leader showed no fear. He had to project the aura of impenetrability.

  Meanwhile, the taiga prisoner in the other cage spat at him. “I’d rather die than join a traitor like you.”

  “Oh, really?” one of Gin’s warriors in the crowd asked. It was Skeleton, the one who’d built these cells. “Let’s see how true that is.”

  Without his even forming a mudra or uttering a chant, the bones of the cage began to arc inward. As they did so, the bars splintered, turning into hundreds of bone stakes and spears. They closed in on the taiga rapidly.

  “Stop!” her gemina cried.

  Gin let it go on for another second, then held up his hand. The killer instinct in his warriors’ veins was a good thing. However, the taigas were not enemies. They might resist Gin at first, but they were part of the kingdom he meant to rule, to raise to great heights.

  Once his warriors were abroad, though, Gin would unleash them and all their magic on their true adversaries.

  On his command, the bones of the cage ceased their crushing movement inward.

  The taiga in the cage quivered visibly, but contempt still glinted in her eyes.

  “Skeleton,” Gin said, “I’d appreciate if you didn’t kill our prisoners before I’ve had a chance to decide what to do with them.”

  “Yes, of course, Your Highness,” Skeleton said, bowing. “I let my excitement run away from me. Please accept my apologies.”

  Gin turned to the prisoners. “I understand why you hate me. History is written by victors. I lost the Blood Rift; therefore, I’m the enemy. But the truth is, I care for Kichona as much as my sister does. We simply have different views on what’s best for the kingdom.”

  The promise of the Evermore swelled in Gin’s heart. It was soft, like the petals of a golden rose trying to bloom, and yet it ached, for it was a dream so big, it couldn’t fully unfurl in the space of one human being. He wanted to share his hope with the kingdom, to make the fantasy a reality for all of Kichona.

  It would, of course, mean sacrifices had to be made along the way. Lots of blood would be shed, but it would be outweighed by the happiness, the paradise, that woul
d come. That was Zomuri’s point. Only a truly courageous leader would have the fortitude to do what needed to be done to achieve the Evermore for his people.

  Gin had the ability to do it.

  Actually, more than that. When he was born, Luna had passed over Aki but had chosen to bless Gin as a taiga. Then, after the Blood Rift, he’d been on the brink of death yet somehow survived. His warriors had fled with him overseas and nursed him back to health in the rugged mountains of Shinowana, where he recovered and discovered new magic. All these improbabilities couldn’t have been an accident. The gods wanted him to know he was special.

  Therefore, Gin had the responsibility to pursue the Evermore, to bring the best future possible to his people. It burned like a torch in the center of his chest.

  He looked at the two prisoners again. Gin focused on the air around him. His magic appeared, like the dust of a million emeralds ground into glitter, floating in the breeze.

  Take control of their minds, he willed the sparkling green particles.

  They streamed toward the taigas, flurrying around their heads in a maelstrom. The taigas couldn’t see them, and they stared ahead, oblivious. The magic funneled in through their ears and into their heads.

  The effect was startlingly sudden. One moment, the taigas were scowling, and the next, they smiled. For them, Gin’s control of their minds would feel like the soothing sound from inside a conch shell. They were still themselves—mostly—but they could relax, no longer burdened by the stress of whether their own decisions would be right or wrong. Gin would take care of everything. His presence in their heads gave them the security and purpose they’d always hoped for.

  “We are proud to serve you, Your Highness,” the prisoners said, their declarations coordinated through their gemina bond.

  Gin nodded, swallowing the tinny aftertaste of what he’d done. He hadn’t needed to enchant any of his original Blood Rift warriors to follow his commands; they had believes in his cause from the start. But his plan to capture the Council at Isle of the Moon—and, in effect, control the rest of the Society—had failed, so now it came to this. If the Society wouldn’t join him willingly, he’d make them his soldiers by force. With magic.

  It’s necessary, he reminded himself. This is for my people. My kingdom.

  Gin interrogated the two taigas before him, and they told him everything he needed to know: someone had seen him here in Takish Gorge, the Council had sent them to investigate, and they were to send back a dragonfly messenger immediately with a report.

  “If the Council is waiting to hear from you, I suppose I can’t compel you to stay here.” He thought for a moment. “You’ll return to Paro Village and report that you found nothing here except the trash from an Autumn Festival celebration. You won’t say a word about me or this army.”

  “Yes, Your Highness.”

  He ordered them freed, and they hurried away to return to Paro Village.

  “Congratulations, Your Highness,” Virtuoso said. She was one of his most talented warriors and potentially his deadliest weapon. “This is so exciting. Your plans are falling into place—”

  Gin held up a hand. Virtuoso was also one of the younger of his soldiers, and her unbridled enthusiasm was too much at the moment. “I have a headache. Order the camp packed up. I’m going to my tent to rest.”

  It was a lie, the part about the headache. It was Gin’s conscience that hurt.

  But he couldn’t let it stop him. Not for too long.

  He’d been put on earth for a purpose—make the taigas and Kichona the greatest they could be. Bring glory to Zomuri. And give his people eternal joy and immortality.

  Gin clenched his fists. “This life was given back to me when I should have died. And so I swear on it: I will achieve and claim the Evermore.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Fairy perched on the short wooden bench in the towel room of the boys’ bathhouse, tilting her head so her hair cascaded down like a sheet of mahogany silk. The light from the narrow window above hit her at just the right angle to emphasize the heart shape of her face. Across from her sat Racer, a Level 10 who had enough stubble along his jaw to almost pass for a Level 12. Fairy was fully clothed, but she knew well how the fabric of her tunic draped over her curves, and she also understood how, sometimes, more was a lot better than less.

  “Has anyone ever told you that you look like you could be the empress’s sister when the sun illuminates you that way?” Racer said, trying to lean casually against the shelf of towels. His desire to cross the two feet of distance between them and smash himself against Fairy was obvious, but he didn’t. He knew the rules—he could look but he couldn’t touch, not until she gave him permission to. Racer was working very hard to stay on his side of the tiny linen room.

  “No one’s ever said I look like the empress,” Fairy said coyly, even though loads of boys had given her that compliment before. “You’re terribly sweet to say so.” She leaned forward so that the collar of her tunic gaped slightly. A shadow concealed her cleavage, but the fact that the fabric was open was enough to make Racer’s Adam’s apple bob visibly. A thrill fluttered through Fairy’s chest.

  “I really want to kiss you,” Racer said. He held on to the edge of the towel shelf, as if that were the only thing keeping him from closing the last twenty-four inches between them.

  “I’m wearing cherry-flavored lipstick today,” she said.

  “Oh gods,” he groaned. “Please.”

  “What have the other boys told you about me?”

  He shook his head. “No one has said a word.”

  Fairy smiled her cherry-lipped smile. “That’s right. Because if anyone kisses and tells, I’ll rip out his manhood and serve it to him on a platter. Right?”

  Racer’s Adam’s apple bobbed again, but for a different reason. “Right,” he whispered.

  “Good. I’m glad we understand each other.” She stepped forward until she was only an inch away. Her head came up to his chest. She looked up at him through her lashes and reached up to cup his face, drawing his mouth down toward her. He held his breath as her lips approached his.

  Someone rapped on the door.

  Racer jumped and smacked his back against the towel shelf. Fairy, on the other hand, whirled around in a huff. Every apprentice knew that a closed towel room door meant it was occupied.

  She opened the door a crack, ready to tear into whoever was on the other side.

  It was Broomstick. “A dragonfly just came in from Paro Village. Your ramparts were up so I figured you were here. I wouldn’t normally bother you, but I thought you’d want to know.”

  “Stars, yes.” Fairy stepped outside the towel room and shut the door behind her. “What did the message say? Was it really Prince Gin?”

  Technically, Broomstick wasn’t supposed to have access to the dragonflies. The Council’s communications with the Society command posts across the kingdom were strictly confidential. But Broomstick was the kind of person who everyone couldn’t help but like. He had an easy smile and stopped by every office in Warrior Meeting Hall each morning to say hello to all the staff. He remembered their birthdays, where their families were from, and what their hobbies were. Everyone in the building relaxed around Broomstick and chatted freely with him, because conversation with him was an effortless joy.

  It also meant they told him all sorts of things he wasn’t supposed to know.

  “The message said there was only garbage from a messy Autumn Festival celebration, and the ‘fortifications’ were simply part of a reenactment of the Blood Rift, mimicking the Citadel walls.”

  Fairy frowned. “Have you told Spirit and Wolf yet?”

  Broomstick shook his head. “We should go do that.”

  “Wait.” She opened the towel room door and popped her head in.

  “Racer, something came up. I’m sorry, but we’re going to have to do this another time,” she said.

  His face fell. “Oh. When do you think—?”

  “I don’t kno
w. But I’ll come find you, okay?” She didn’t know when, if ever—it really depended on her mood—but she wanted to let him down easily. Besides, he was cute.

  He smiled eagerly.

  “All right then . . . see you later.” She shut the door, leaving Racer inside, and rejoined Broomstick.

  “You know Spirit is not going to be happy about this, right?” she said as they exited the bathhouse and turned across campus toward the girls’ dormitory.

  “I know. But I’m guessing it’ll spur some new scheme of hers.”

  When they were nine years old, one of the other Level 2s bullied Broomstick about his then-puny size. Sharktooth drew pictures of Broomstick, pummeled him when the teachers weren’t looking, and stole his lunch nearly every day. So Sora “borrowed” a laxative from Fairy’s lab and baked a batch of cookies. Broomstick happened to bring them for lunch the next day. Sharktooth helped himself to them . . .

  And never stole Broomstick’s lunch or uttered another mocking word about him ever again.

  Fairy nodded now as they walked. “I feel a little guilty that the message didn’t turn out the way Spirit wanted it to, but I’m curious to see what she has up her sleeve next.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Sora sat with Daemon on the lawn between the girls’ and boys’ dormitories. He’d gotten them pumpkin ice cream wrapped in pancake cones from the mess hall, in an attempt to get her to eat something while they waited for the taigas’ report from Paro Village, but Sora just sat there, staring into the distance as the ice cream melted and dripped all over her hands.

  As soon as she saw Fairy and Broomstick approaching, though, she jumped to her feet, her cone abandoned on the grass. The ice cream rolled in a sloppy globe into a patch of dirt.

  Daemon sighed and rose too.

  “Did the dragonfly come in?” she asked.

  Broomstick nodded. “The conclusion was that what you saw was an Autumn Festival celebration. Prince Gin was just part of a reenactment.”