Shift of Shadow and Soul (SoulShifter Book 1)

by Hilary Thompson

  “I need a sparring partner,” Resh commanded, chucking a sword at Sy, and pulling another from the scabbard strapped to his back.

  Sy had barely adjusted his grip before Resh came at him, as reckless with a blade as he was with everything else. For several minutes, they spoke only through slitted eyes, taunting smiles, and blow upon blow. The clang of metal echoed over the MagiSea.

  “What has Father General in such knots this morning?” Resh asked, dancing backward, his dark eyes nearly black with mischief.

  Sy rolled his eyes at the childish name. “Who knows.” He deflected both question and blow as he thrust toward Resh’s mid-section. Resh bent nearly double, holding his arms wide as though bowing, and sidestepped the gesture smoothly.

  “Oh, I think you know. And I’ve come to beat it out of you.”

  Their blades cracked into each other. Sy grinned, enjoying the flex of his muscles. Of course, he was better than Resh. Broader and an inch taller, too. But Resh was sneaky. He did the unexpected.

  Like now, as he parried, arched to one side, and threw a handful of sand into Sy’s face. Sy cursed, swiping blindly at his brother even through the burn and grit. Resh only laughed, stepping back in a complex sort of dance move.

  Sy hacked his sword at the empty air and called Resh a few vulgar names before blinking enough of the sand away to see his target clearly again. Then he rushed at Resh, tackling him to the ground and pinning him, his knees on his brother’s chest. Their swords flopped into the sand, and they resorted to fists.

  Good-natured, of course. It had been a few years since they had truly fought.

  “So are you going to take Father General’s offer?” Resh asked, and Sy startled badly enough that Resh got the upper hand and shoved him off.

  Surely Resh hadn’t heard of Ashemon’s threat to remove Sy’s First Son rights. He was in a headlock before he could see Resh’s face to gauge exactly what he had asked.

  “The training academy? Are you doing it?” Resh asked, cinching his grip on Sy’s neck. Relief flooded Sy just as the blood began to recede from his brain, and he used his last bit of energy to hurl Resh forward over his shoulders. Resh landed on his back in the sand before Sy.

  “Nah,” Sy answered, coughing and rubbing at his neck. He stood and brushed away the sand, noting a new tear in his shirt. “I wouldn’t make a good teacher. Why - do you want it?”

  Resh cursed and laughed. “Are you kidding? And be stuck in Weshen City every summer for the rest of my life?” He glanced toward the women’s village. “Too much fun to be had here, big brother. Not that you would know.”

  And he pushed to his feet and jogged away down the beach, laughing, before Sy could reach out to grab him. Sy shook his head and gathered the swords. His brother was almost too perceptive, and an excellent hunter, but he didn’t want to grow up. If Resh became General, he’d never be patient enough to lead the Weshen safely out of the Sacrifice.

  Sy knew this was exactly why Ashemon had given the ultimatum: Sy would trade his desires for the future of their people, while Resh was more likely to do the opposite.

  Fathers were forbidden and books of magic were rarities on Weshen Isle, but Corentine Ashaden was lucky enough to have known a good one of each, even though only the book remained now.

  When she reached the house, she found Tellen dozing in the shade, pretending to finish sewing a baby blanket.

  “Catch anything?” she asked, eying Coren’s sack.

  “Not much. Rockrabbit for you tonight, though.”

  Tellen clapped her hands and grinned. “I think this child must be a boy, for how hungry I am!” Then she fell abruptly silent, rubbing a spot on her belly. Coren knew Tellen worried too much about the upcoming birth. Her cousin had also grown up without a mother after Nollen had died giving birth to Tellen’s younger brother.

  “Rest as long as you need, Tellen,” was all Coren could manage to say, though, and then she pushed into the stale heat of the house. She abandoned the game sack, instead quickly retrieving the pocket field journal from its hiding spot beneath the floorboards. Tellen and the twins had no idea of its existence, and it was safer that way.

  Leafing through the colorful drawings with one hand, Coren rattled dishes in mock industry. She spotted the creature easily, and a chill of truth cut through the heat of the summer-warm kitchen. Vespa.

  A note in her father’s cramped writing informed that Vespa claws were poisonous, but when drained of death, their golden hue made them valuable for jewelry. A few claws had been found since the Sacrifice, but the Weshen magi had rejected them all as talismans.

  Coren’s stomach rolled over at the thought of wearing those rotten-smelling claws around her neck, or pierced through her ears. People in the cities of Riata must be very different from the people of Weshen, if that was their idea of beauty.

  Coren slipped the journal back where it belonged, then quickly skinned and salted the rockrabbit and set a pot to boil on the firestove, heading back outside to Tellen.

  “I’m heading to Auntie Maren’s. Watch the stove,” she told her cousin. Maren lived in a tiny hut well outside the cluster of other homes, and she had never been anyone’s aunt. But she had always watched over Coren’s little family, and now Coren offered her fresh meat and small talk as often as possible.

  “You’re upset,” Maren said as Coren opened the gate. Her thin skirt was knotted above her knobby knees and her feet were bare among the smart rows of vegetables. Three young stormcloud chickens pecked at her ankles as she pushed a few strands of gray hair back behind her ears and shaded her eyes against the sun. She nudged one away and its feathers ruffled and blackened as it squawked at her, before bustling away to another corner of the garden.

  “I brought groundbirds,” Coren said, shaking the sack.

  “Only two?”

  “My hunt was cut short.”

  Maren beckoned for Coren to follow her into the hut. She poured a cup of murky tea from the pot on the firestove and handed it to Coren, who accepted it. Both women knew Coren wouldn’t drink it, but that never stopped the gesture.

  “Tell me,” Maren said, pouring herself a cup and sitting at the table.

  “I saw a MagiCreature.” Coren waited for Maren to scoff in disbelief, but the older woman said nothing, only sipped her tea and waited. Maren was the only woman who knew Coren’s secrets, though Coren had always suspected the old woman hid plenty more of her own.

  “I looked it up in Kashar’s journal. I think it was a Vespa,” she continued.

  Maren set the mug down with a thunk, but still said nothing. A hard look had crept onto her face.

  “The wingspan was two dozen feet, Maren. How is something like that on the island? And in the summer?”

  “Neshra was killed by a Vespa, you know,” Maren answered, staring into her tea. “It scraped its claws down his entire back, then left him to die. Nasty Umbren creatures.” She took another drink, but not before Coren spotted the shake in her hand and the slight sheen in her eyes.

  Coren knew Neshra had caught Maren gently each summer when she was young, then returned to her secretly each summer after she outgrew the hunts. Until one summer, he didn’t come.

  Coren waited several minutes more, but Maren offered nothing else. So Coren sighed and rose, turning to leave.

  Maren cleared her throat. “They’re drawn to magic, Corentine. Somebody on Weshen is pulling it here, knowingly or not.”

  “My mother’s whip…” she whispered, sitting again as her heart stuttered with the thought that she might have called death to the island.

  Maren shook her head. “Sorenta’s whip holds only a dead talisman bound into a weak Sulit amplification spell. We lost the old ways in the Sacrifice, Coren.”

  Coren sighed. Not all of us, she thought, a tangle of sorrow and helplessness cinching her chest with the memory of her twin brother, Jyesh, who had been an anomaly in a race of people whose blood had forgotten its origins.

  But she and Maren hadn’t sp
oken of Jyesh in years. No-one had been able to explain why a boy who had never been off the island had known enough magic to kill a man without a single touch.

  Sorenta had begged for her son’s life, swearing it was the return of shifter magic and not Sulit secrets, but as no other shifter magic was found, the Ashaden family was cast into the shadows of suspicion. And as the years passed, the people stopped trying to solve the mystery, and started trying to forget what they had done to an eight-year-old child.

  “One of the hunters, then?” Coren asked finally, blinking fiercely against the image of her brother being pushed from the island, alone on the MagiSea in a boat with no oar.

  “Perhaps. Although I still trust Ashemon to tell us if Weshen magic begins to return. Anyone who is using magic must be channeling Sulit power, or even Umbren.”

  Coren shuddered at the mention of the magic that had torn her twin from her, and of the two shadowed lands that waited to the west and the south, beyond the MagiSea’s protection. Even the Restless King had been unable to conquer those countries. They brought only death.

  Maren drummed her fingers on Coren’s arm, demanding attention again. “So you must be very careful if you go snooping about like you did at the feast.”

  Coren flushed - somehow Maren always seemed to know everything that happened on the island, even though she rarely left her yard.

  “Send Kosh and Penna by to see me later. The pineberries are ripe, and they should pick some before the chickens get them all.”

  Coren felt dismissed, and she walked home slowly, her steps heavy with too many worries. If someone had found a way to channel any sort of magic, Sulit or other, she wanted to know, so she could plan to protect her family from any further accusations.

  The danger in such knowledge, though…she shivered even in the summer afternoon’s heat.

  She’d also have to be more careful when she hunted for food, alert for the creature - even if it wasn’t a Vespa, it flew like slow death. Kosh and Penna shouldn’t play on the open plains alone anymore. And Tellen must be watched closely, so they would be ready when the baby came.

  But above all, Coren knew she must be ready for the next hunt, as boys with ankle rings were used to getting what they wanted in life. If he wanted her, he would not give up easily.

  Chapter 3

  Sy sat contentedly at a table between the tents, the early morning sun warming his shoulders and bare arms. Spread before him was strong black tea, fresh fruit, and soft biscuits with yogurt and honey. The flavors teased a smile out of him, although his nerves hummed like the bees in the nearby tangle of sandjasmine vines.

  Resh stumbled from the brothers’ tent, rubbing his eyes and ruffling his dark, close-cut hair.

  “Up late again with Amden?” Sy said, knowing the answer. He regretted not demanding a separate sleeping tent. For eight nights, he had heard the girl’s giggles and sighs even through the tent’s thick leather divider.

  “Who? Oh, you mean the girl. Of course.” Resh grabbed a biscuit and grinned around a huge mouthful. “But the question is, big brother, are you ready to catch your first girl?”

  Sy swiped at his brother, who ducked: He wasn’t unmanned, he just hadn’t been back to the island to catch a girl since his first summer. “At least I remember their faces and names.”

  “Faces are only good for kissing. Names not at all,” Resh said, showing his teeth, then taking a vicious jab at his older brother’s ribs.

  The boys rolled to the ground, wrestling intensely. Heavy footsteps ending in large boots paused their play, and Sy looked up to see the General watching them.

  “Remember what I told you, Syashin,” he said, his eyes flashing a warning that skittered Sy’s heart. Then he pushed into the tent, waving Tag in after him. Tag grabbed two biscuits from the table, then doubled back for the crock of yogurt, laughing at Resh and Sy tangled like pups on the warm sand.

  “What was that about?” Resh asked, running his fingers lightly through his mussed hair, rearranging the dark waves to their usual perfection.

  “Father is anxious for me to catch a girl.”

  “We’re all anxious for that, big brother!”

  Sy reached for him again, but Resh darted out of the way, smoothing his shirt and brushing sand from his pants.

  “No more fighting,” he said, waggling his brows. “I need to look nice for the hunts today.” And of course, he already did. Sy surveyed his brother’s appearance. This summer, Resh had adopted even more from EvenFall’s markets, and Sy thought he must look exotic and harmlessly dangerous to the girls.

  Dressed in finely-woven black pants and a dark shirt open at the chest and rolled to the elbows, Resh also wore a rich string of onyx and pearl prayer beads, and a sly smile that said he used them to ask the Magi for forgiveness, rather than protection.

  “Looking for a new girl?” Sy asked derisively, suddenly feeling much less than his younger brother.

  “Always,” Resh laughed. Some of the men preferred to stay with one girl all summer, and although partnership and love had been banished along with the Weshen magic, a handful of the hunters still returned quietly to the same girls the following year.

  Sy grunted and rolled his eyes. Resh certainly embraced the new Weshen life, preferring to catch a new girl at each hunt, spend each of the eight nights with her, then promptly forget her, just as he’d been taught.

  Sy had always thought the whole thing false - a sorry substitute for the love his people had lost in separating women and men. But now, all his lofty opinions found him in his last summer with no heirs and his father’s anger like a storm cloud in the distance.

  “Seriously, Sy, is that what you’re wearing? They’ll probably actually run from you.” Resh shook his head and turned back to the tent, taking his food with him.

  Sy felt his face flush as he looked down at his faded hunting shirt, noticing silvery MagiCreature blood staining the front and the poorly-mended rip in his pants. His untrimmed hair fell over his eyes in shades of wet sand, and he knew his face was full of unshaven scruff. Perhaps he should take a cue from Resh.

  The General’s Second Son could have any girl he wanted, even with his careless reputation.

  So an hour later, Sy stood stiffly on the beach, dressed in loose navy pants and a spotless white cotton shirt that was almost too tight across his chest. His jaw was clean-shaven, and his dark, choppy hair had been dampened and combed back. He tried to ignore the tense feeling in his gut as he watched the girls file through the rocks, clumping together in groups of friends.

  Resh wasn’t really helping as he waited nearby, commenting on each girl who entered the hunt.

  “I caught her last summer. Boring. Oh, that one’s very sweet - might be tame enough for your first time. Don’t catch the brunette, or you’ll never be the same again.”

  Sy ignored him, watching only for one girl.

  Finally, he saw her: Corentine. She stood apart from the other girls, alone. She didn’t watch the boys like the other girls did. She didn’t search them for the familiar faces of previous lovers, or the potential smiles of new ones. She only watched the ocean and the vast blue sky. She did not appear concerned.

  But she should have. Sy had spent every afternoon the previous eight days exploring every path and hidden crevice of these rocks. It was like relearning an old weapon - he didn’t remember the island from his childhood, but he had practiced enough to commit the girl’s possible escape routes to memory.

  Syashin Havenash was Weshen City’s best hunter - its youngest Paladin - and today, he was ready to prove it on new grounds. And more than anything, he was curious. He wanted to ask her why she always ran as though her life depended on it.

  “Just think of it like any other hunt,” Resh said, breaking into his thoughts again.

  For once, the brothers agreed.

  Resh grinned at a pretty blond whose blue eyes were piercing even at thirty feet, but Sy trained his eyes on Corentine, keeping the Guard with the horn in his per
ipheral vision.

  He raised the instrument and Corentine bolted before the notes had even reached Sy’s ears. He sprinted after her, his leg muscles leaping with adrenaline. Her thick braid snagged on a branch and she yanked it over her shoulder, several strands now flying loose.

  Sy glimpsed the glorious, snaky tattoo on her leg and nearly twisted his ankle on a stray rock in the path.

  She darted suddenly into a hidden passage, and his brain automatically searched the internal map he’d created. He cut ahead of her on a different path, anticipating where she would come out of the rocks.

  Sy reached the open plain a half-second before Corentine burst from between the rock walls, and he felt a surge of excitement as her eyes widened, seeing him waiting for her. She shifted directions, barely breaking stride, and he had to scramble to follow. They cut across the plain quicker than blades flashing, and Sy thought of a Cheetana he had hunted once, sleek and confident. But ultimately his.

  She slowed and he heard her curse as she veered away from another passage. The opening had been blocked by a few larger rocks, recently fallen from the cliffs above. But even though the plain was wide, it ended abruptly, emptying its grass into the ocean far below. She would be forced to double back to escape. Corentine cut past Sy, and his fingers grazed her arm, closing on air.

  He poured every bit of remaining stamina into his burning legs and reached the passage ahead of her, blocking her way. She skidded on the sandy grass, sliding just close enough that he clamped his hand on her sky-blue dress. She fluttered for a moment, an insect caught in an arach’s web.

  Then Sy saw the hatred in Corentine’s eyes, and the smile from the hunt’s thrill stuttered as a strange panic rose in his throat.

  But his father’s glare jumped into his mind, his threat echoing with each heaving breath.

  And Sy gripped Corentine’s dress tighter, reaching to grasp her shoulder with his other hand.