Empire of Shadows

by Miriam Forster

  Samara pressed her advantage with another overhand blow, leaving her stomach exposed. Seeing the opening, Mara sprang forward, arm out, pressing the dagger toward Samara’s belly. But Samara was too quick. She jumped back, swinging her hand-dagger down to knock Mara’s aside.

  The two circled again, swaying their daggers back and forth like snakes weaving in battle. Mara fell easily into the rhythm honed by years of training. Strike. Counterstrike. Dodge. Understrike. Overstrike. Block. Turn. Attack.

  Mara realized she was smiling, wide and feral. This was fun.

  Samara leaped high in the air, her dagger aimed like an arrow. Mara twirled out of the way, digging an elbow into Samara’s back as she landed. The woman whirled, slicing her dagger across Mara’s sleeve.

  There was a brief burning pain and the sharp metallic smell of blood.

  Mara faltered. Her eyes blurred, and her mind filled with the shine of another blade. The sword that had cut into her and taken her sanity away. She stumbled back.

  Samara slashed at her, and Mara threw herself to the side, narrowly avoiding the strike. She hit the ground in a perfect roll, coming up on her feet.

  Focus, Mara. This was her best chance at escaping her past. She couldn’t lose it.

  Mara raised her dagger again.

  Samara sprang forward, her dagger swinging, but this time Mara was ready for her. She grabbed Samara’s wrist, seized the woman’s shoulder with her other hand and fell backward, using Samara’s momentum against her. Mara’s feet came up as she fell, dealing a solid blow to the other woman’s gut and flipping her onto the ground. Samara’s back hit the floor with a crack.

  Mara rolled to her knees, her breathing fast and shallow. Sweat rolled down her face like tears, and she fumbled with her weapon. But Samara stood and sheathed her dagger.

  “I am satisfied,” she said. She held out her hand and Mara took it, allowing herself to be helped up. “You have learned much.” Samara placed one hand on her chest and bowed.

  “My teachers taught me well,” Mara said, returning the bow.

  Vivaksh came down the steps of the dais.

  “Kneel down, novice.”

  Mara dropped to her knees on the packed dirt floor, feeling the grainy dust under her fingers. A hand touched her hair.

  “As head of the Order of Khatar, I hereby name you Mara t’Riala, the newest member of the Order of Khatar. I name you, and I set you free to seek the one you will swear to.”

  T’Riala. The name shared by all the members of the Order as if they were a family by blood instead of a group of strangers who had all taken the same vow.

  Vivaksh went on. “Seek out those who are worthy, who cannot protect themselves. Once sworn, you must protect the one you choose at all costs, even unto your own life. Under the law of the Empire, if your charge is killed, you may eliminate the one who was directly responsible. Otherwise, you may kill only if you or your charge is in danger. Do you understand this?”

  “Yes.”

  “You may work for your keep until you make your pledge, but once you swear, you are bound for life. You must serve until your charge dies. Are you willing to so swear?”

  Mara’s voice was steady. “I am.”

  “You know the penalty for those who do not keep the oath. Do not break faith.”

  “I won’t.”

  The hand left her hair, leaving cool air behind. Then Vivaksh knelt and pressed something into her palm. It was a bronze earring. “Here is the symbol of your service,” he said. “Do not lose it. Now rise, Mara, and go out.”

  They stood and Mara bowed to Vivaksh. Then she bowed to the crowd of novices and teachers.

  “Thank you for my new life,” she said, the ritual words coming easy.

  “Live well,” the others chorused. “And die with honor.”

  Mara slipped the earring into the special pouch on her belt that had been made for it. It would stay there until she found someone worth giving her life to. Worth giving her life for.

  The teak-and-bone door groaned like a dying elephant when she pushed it open. The brightness was blinding, but Mara forced herself to walk forward until she stood at the top of the steps.

  After the cool shadows of the stone, the air seemed too thick, too hot. The bamboo forest around her was tangled and blurry, buzzing with noise. Mara closed her eyes, trying to convince herself to walk forward. Trying to ignore the thrill of fear along her spine.

  “If I may offer a suggestion?” Samara said from just behind her. “The Imperial capital of Kamal lies to the west and south of here, across the biggest of the Five Sacred Rivers. There is a Jade Circle there, a place for healers and scholars and warrior monks to gather. Go to the temple with the naga on the gate and ask for a warrior named Suni. Tell him you’re my student. He’ll give you shelter until you find someone to pledge to.”

  Mara felt her muscles relax a little. That was what she needed, a direction, an idea of where to start. Get to the capital and worry about everything else later. She opened her eyes.

  “Thank you, Samara. And tell the others thank you too.”

  The weapons master smiled, the first full smile Mara had ever seen on her. Then she put a hand on Mara’s head, just as Vivaksh had. Her touch was comforting and Mara leaned into it. Touch was important to all the Tribes. It was how you formed bonds, how you welcomed travelers home.

  And how you said good-bye.

  “Go in peace, Mara t’Riala. And may the Ancestors see your sacrifice and balance their scales in your favor.”

  I don’t believe in the Ancestors, Mara thought. Her Tribe had worshipped Nishvana the Silent-Pawed. But she was grateful for Samara’s blessing all the same. It made her feel a little less alone.

  Mara took a deep breath, then turned and walked down the steps. Behind her, she heard the heavy door shut.

  She didn’t look back.

  Water falling from the sky

  Where has all the magic gone?

  Spots of light in blackest night

  Where has all the magic gone?

  Earthsleep comes and seasons turn

  Flowers grow and flames will burn

  Wait for old days to return

  Where has all the magic gone?

  Kildi children’s rhyme

  “WE’VE GOT TROUBLE.”

  Emil Arvi looked up from the toy that he was carving. His twin brother Stefan’s broad shoulders filled the doorway to their shared tent.

  “Trouble? What kind of trouble?”

  “One of the goats is missing.”

  From where he was sitting, cross-legged on the rug, Emil had to crane his neck to see his brother’s face. “Are you sure?”

  “I counted twice,” Stefan said. His forehead wrinkled into a frown. “We’re one goat short on the tie line. It’s not being combed out, it’s not in the medicine tent, it’s not anywhere.” He paused. “I think it was taken by a tiger.”

  Emil set the wooden figure and the carving knife down and rose to his feet. Standing, he was at least a head taller than Stefan; he had to duck to keep from brushing his head against the striped cotton of the tent.

  “There hasn’t been a tiger this close to the Imperial capital for decades.”

  His brother’s scowl deepened. “I know the print of a tiger’s paw when I see one. Looks like the prints of those cat friends of yours, only the size of my hand.” He spread his fingers to illustrate. “Look, I know it doesn’t make any sense, but I saw the print and the goat is gone. I can show you if you want.”

  Outside, one of their younger cousins laughed, a ripple of sound. Fear tightened Emil’s shoulders. A rogue tiger could take a child as easily and silently as it took the goat. If Stefan was right . . .

  “Here’s what we’ll do,” Emil said. “I’ll tell Father while you find the Master of Livestock. We need to do a head count, gather the children in, and make sure everyone is safe.”

  “There’s no time,” Stefan said. He pushed past Emil and into the tent, grabbing a long spear.
“We need to go after it, get the goat back, and kill the beast.”

  “Are you crazy?” Emil said. “The goat is probably dead by now.” For a moment, he imagined Stefan dead, his chest ripped and bloodied, his eyes blank. The thought made his hands shake, and he put them behind his back. “We need to get everyone together and leave the area.”

  Stefan stared at him. “We can’t leave! The Clothing Fair is tomorrow. As for the goat, it might still be alive. We have to try.”

  Emil resisted the urge to reach out and shake his brother. Stefan always did this, always charged ahead without thinking of his own safety, or the effect he had on the people around him.

  I won’t lose another member of my family, Emil thought. I won’t.

  “We can’t afford to lose any more goats,” Stefan went on, and for a moment, Emil thought he’d spoken his thought aloud. But Stefan just kept talking. “After that sickness that struck them during Earthsleep, we were lucky to get anywhere close to enough from the ones we have. We need this fair and we need that goat and I’ll be damned if I’ll let some tiger drag it off and put the whole camp’s welfare in jeopardy.”

  Emil and Stefan shared the same black, wavy hair, and the same square jaw, but despite the family resemblance, they were as different as water and stone. Where Emil was lean and sharp, Stefan was blunt and muscled. Emil had the ready smile and dark eyes of their dead mother. Stefan had their father’s pale-brown eyes and constant frown. They were different in other, less visible ways, too. Emil was the voice of reason to his brother’s rashness, the calm to his brother’s temper. But trying to steady Stefan was like balancing on a rock in the middle of a swift-flowing river. One wrong step and you were lost.

  Emil took in a deep breath of warm air and let it out. “Stefan,” he said, “we are not going after that tiger. You and I are going to go tell Father about the missing goat. And we’re going to let him decide what to do. All right?”

  Stefan’s face turned a dull red under his scruff of beard. “You tell Father,” he shot back. “You’re his favorite anyway. I’ll go tell Meri.” He dropped the spear with a clatter and stomped out of the tent.

  Frustration bubbled up in Emil’s chest, and he resisted the urge to bang his head on the tent pole. Why does every conversation we have end in a fight? he thought. Why is it so difficult to talk to my own brother?

  But the silent tent didn’t answer him. Emil kicked a stack of blankets just to make himself feel better, then went after Stefan.

  Outside, the camp was showing signs of the hectic trading season. The donkeys were tethered to stakes pounded into the ground, not corralled in a pen the way they usually were. The hastily raised tents sagged, and stacks of grain and supplies were piled around them. Many of the Arvi hadn’t even bothered with tents, electing to sleep on pads of black goatskin around their cooking fires instead. The clack clack of looms mixed with the calls of the donkeys and the bleating of the nearby goats.

  Stefan was nowhere in sight.

  Fine, Emil thought. I’ll deal with this myself. Like always. Nearby, his twelve-year-old cousin Rona, a purple scarf wrapped around her dark curls, was brushing a donkey. Emil beckoned her over.

  “Rona,” he called. “I need you to do something for me.”

  “What is it?” Rona asked. Flecks of straw clung to her gray cashmere skirt, and her sturdy boots were streaked with dirt. Another scarf, woven in stripes of green and purple, was tied around her waist. Rona tucked a wayward strand of hair behind one ear. “You look worried. Is something wrong?”

  Emil smiled at her. “I don’t know yet,” he said. “But something took a goat last night. Will you gather up the children and make sure everyone’s accounted for?”

  “Of course,” Rona said. “They’ve been pestering me for another clapping game anyway. Do we know what took the goat?”

  “We’re not sure,” Emil said. It wasn’t exactly a lie, and everything would go faster if no one panicked. “But if it can take a goat, it can take a child. Spread the word that no one is to go into the forest, and count the younglings. Let me know if anyone is missing.”

  Rona darted off. Emil headed for the few caravans parked at the edge of camp. Lovingly carved and painted with colorful birds and flowers, each caravan was a traveling, permanent residence, reserved for the Elders who ruled the Arvi. There was a Master of Trade, a Master of Livestock, and a Master of Camp. And overseeing them all was the Kys, the leader of the Arvi and Emil and Stefan’s father.

  Emil cursed under his breath. Going to talk to your own father should not feel like going into battle. It hadn’t been that way when his mother was alive.

  Has Father changed that much? Or is it Stefan and I who have changed? Emil stifled a sigh. Maybe it was him who was changing. Maybe he was the only one changing, and wasn’t that an unsettling thought?

  At least a tiger was a problem his family could deal with together. He tried not to think about how grateful that made him feel.

  THE KYS WAS sitting on the steps of his wagon, his arms resting on his knees. Short hair, lightened by age into a yellow gray, covered his head and face, a striking contrast to his dark, lined skin. A necklace of polished ivory, mahogany, and gold beads hung around his neck, showing his rank.

  Emil’s uncle Pali, the Master of Trade, stood next to him, wearing a finely woven tunic. There was a roll of rice paper in his hand.

  “I hate to put our booth on the edge of the Clothing Fair,” Pali was saying. “But these two clans aren’t getting along right now, and their booths are next to each other. . . .”

  “And a fight at the Clothing Fair hurts everyone,” Emil’s father said. “Very well, move us down the row and tell the Nuri clan they can have our booth.” He glanced up as Emil approached. “Ah, you’re just in time, Emil. This would be a good leadership lesson for you. We’ve got some problems with the fair tomorrow.”

  Of course we do, Emil groaned to himself. Once, just once, he’d like to talk to his father without everything being a lesson. “I’m afraid we have more problems than the fair, Father,” he said. “One of the goats is missing, and Stefan found a tiger track.”

  “A tiger?” His father’s eyes narrowed. Beside him, Pali tensed. “Are you sure?”

  “Stefan is,” Emil said. “And I trust his opinion. I’ve already started pulling in the children, but we should do a head count.”

  Pali rubbed the gold-and-silver embroidery that lined his hem. “Mihai,” he said, addressing Emil’s father. “We cannot cancel the Clothing Fair. We’re already low on funds for the year, and summer’s not even over yet. We need this trade.”

  “No one is canceling anything,” Emil’s father said. “But Emil is right, we do need to make sure everyone is accounted for. Then we need to send messages to the other clans and alert them.” He looked at Emil. “Have you spoken to Meri yet?”

  “Stefan went to find her,” Emil said, just as the door of one of the traveling wagons opened. A woman in a dyed black tunic and trousers, her hands stained with medicine and her clothes smelling of goats, walked out. Everyone in camp wore cashmere, but the Master of Livestock was the only one who dyed her everyday clothing.

  “I heard my name,” Meri said, shaking her shoulder-length hair out of her face and tying it back with a leather thong. “What’s going on?”

  Something cold and suspicious ran down Emil’s spine. “Stefan was looking for you,” he said. “Have you seen him?”

  Meri looked confused. “No,” she said. “I haven’t, and I’ve been right here all morning. What’s happening?”

  But Emil wasn’t listening anymore. Leaving his father and Pali to explain, he turned and ran back to his tent.

  The tent looked much as it had when he’d left it. There was the pile of blankets, the bags of dried vegetables, the bedrolls.

  But Stefan’s spear was gone.

  Emil cursed. Flinging open the chest where he kept his belongings, he pulled out a long bundle of waterproof skins.

  “What’s h
appened, Son?” His father stood in the doorway, flanked by Pali and Meri. Emil unwrapped the skins, taking out a simple bow and a quiver of arrows.

  “Stefan’s gone after the tiger.”

  For the briefest of moments, Emil saw fear on his father’s face, harsh lines digging into his dark skin. Then it was gone, and he was once again Kys of the Arvi, calm and in charge.

  “Pali, send messages to the other camps. Tell them there is a tiger in the area and we need help to track it down. Meri, go find Lel. The head count is his job. The two of you need to make sure that everyone is accounted for and that all the livestock are in. Emil—”

  Emil didn’t let him finish. “I’m going after Stefan,” he said. “I’m going to stop him.”

  His father studied him. “Be careful,” he said finally. “We need you.”

  “We need Stefan, too,” Emil said, making the words intentionally sharp. But his father didn’t flinch.

  “How are you going to find him?”

  “Easy,” Emil said, slinging the quiver over his shoulder. “I’m going to get Esmer to help me.”

  Outside Emil’s tent, the cheerful chaos of the morning was gone. The Arvi stood in small groups, whispering anxiously. Rona, along with the other older children, had gathered the younger ones into the center of camp, and they all sat in a circle, clapping and singing.

  Earthsleep comes and seasons turn

  Flowers grow and flames will burn . . .

  Lel, Pali’s partner and the Master of Camp, was already busy. He hummed tunelessly as he marked off a scroll of names, making sure no one was forgotten. Emil stopped to check in with him.

  “I’m going after Stefan,” he said. “Don’t let anyone else leave camp.”

  Lel never looked up from his list. “Be careful,” he said, still humming under his breath.

  Emil felt a rush of affection for Lel. The man had been a wandering Wind caste scribe, until Pali met him at a trading fair in the south and brought him home. The Arvi—like most of the Kildi—were open to outsiders joining them, as long as they did their fair share of the work and didn’t cause trouble in camp. Lel fit into the Arvi family right away. He’d taken over the duties of Master of Camp with quiet efficiency, and he trusted people to do their job properly. If Emil was going after Stefan, then Emil had a good reason.