The Shadow Soul (A Dance of Dragons)

by Kaitlyn Davis

  Rhen slapped his back.

  "Getting soft old man?" A teasing glint lit his eyes. A grin picked up the left corner of his lip.

  Captain Pygott raised his brows, blue irises going crystal clear. "Still young enough to whip you into shape."

  "A futile effort I'm sure."

  "That's what they tell me." He shrugged, lips fighting to keep from laughing. "In serious though, the queen will kill me if you leave an Ourthuri bastard behind. Bad enough I'm assisting another reckless adventure. Try to keep on the mission, for my head?"

  Rhen cracked, breaking his calm composure. A second later, the captain did too.

  A horn sounded across the water, announcing their arrival at the port. Both Rhen and Captain Pygott turned. Somehow, the city had snuck up while they weren't looking, towering over their heads, sparkling to an almost blinding degree.

  "Better change your clothes, Whylrhen, it's time to become a prince once more. There are royal silks in my chamber left over from our last journey."

  Rhen looked down at his chest, bare, as he liked to be on a ship, so the sun sank right into his skin, searing him like fire. It was the only way he felt connected to the flames, the only way that wasn't in the least magical or noticeable.

  Sighing, he nodded and made his way below decks. Steering clear of his room, trying to give Jin the peace he needed, Rhen walked to the captain's rooms, pulling open the closet until he saw the bright red silks of Whylkin. Throwing a white undershirt over his head, he shrugged into the royal jacket, embroidered with diamonds and secured with pearl buttons. He found a pair of thick black leather breeches, dyed from the best hides in the kingdom. Next came his boots, tall to his knees and lined with secret pockets for the few small daggers he would bring as a precaution. Belting his scabbard around his waist, Rhen secured his golden sword. This palace was the only place in the world where it would be unimpressive, but still, Rhen felt more secure with his weapon at his hip, especially without Ember by his side.

  Taking a deep breath, Rhen prepared himself.

  He had never been alone with King Razzaq. And it was still not the safest plan to venture into the Mountain City without guards at his side, but the sailors on this ship were not guards. It would be more suspicious to bring them, more alarming, more aggressive.

  Rhen thought of Awenine, his brother Whyltarin, and their newborn baby boy. The future of his kingdom. Was the baby's hair shocking red like his father's? Or brown like his uncle's? Amber eyes like his grandfather or emerald like the queen's?

  Would he act like Whyllysle did as a newborn? Chubby and full of laughter? Never silent and commanding the attention of an entire room? Would he grow to a toddler who ran around the castle playing with wooden swords and talking of legendary battles?

  No matter what, Rhen's nephew would not share the same fate as his younger brother. Rhen had come so far to keep that child safe, to keep his family safe, and though the path was uncertain, he could not stop now. Not when answers might be within reach.

  Besides, attacking a Son of Whyl would be seen as an act of outright war. Surely, King Razzaq would not take it to that point, not after being so careful to keep his tracks hidden thus far.

  The ship shuddered, wood screeching in protest.

  The anchor dropped.

  The ship was docked.

  Rhen cracked his knuckles, balling his hands into fists, squeezing tightly, getting all of the anxiety out of his muscles, before relaxing and straightening his spine.

  It was time.

  He emerged to the craze of the docks—men shouting, ropes whipping, carts rolling, goods shifting from platform to platform. Almost like Roninhythe, but this dock was made of metal, not wood. And its people spoke a guttural language mostly foreign to Rhen's ears.

  As he expected, farther down the metal walkway a servant in the bright gold robes of Ourthuro was sprinting toward the ship, jingling as his metal jewels clanked together. Rhen moved beside Captain Pygott, waiting for the man to scurry within hearing distance as the crew lowered a bridge to the dock.

  "Son of Whyl," the man bowed as he reached the edge of their bridge. His clothes were long and free flowing, a slight band of gold secured around his waist, suggesting armor but more decorative. His wrists bore three straight black tattoos surrounded by delicate swirling patterns that wove a few inches above his wrist, denoting his membership to the palace house. Silver and gold dripped from his ears, circled his neck, and even jingled around his ankles. Definitely a messenger—a show of the king's power. "Our king bids you welcome to his city."

  "On behalf of the Kingdom of Whylkin, I, Prince Whylrhen, Son of Whylfrick, thank your king for his kindness." Rhen put his hand over his heart, nodding his head in greeting. "I hope our unexpected arrival has not caused any trouble, for King Razzaq is nothing but a friend to my house and my people."

  Beside him, Captain Pygott released a light breath, holding in laughter for only Rhen to hear.

  "Dear Prince Whylrhen, quite the opposite. My king bade me bring our finest carriage to carry you to the palace. He is most glad to see you and wishes to hear of your father, King Whylfrick." He spread his arm wide, indicating an enclosed gilded box near the end of the dock.

  "I send my thanks to your king for his overwhelming kindness and will gladly visit with him. I must also request that my four guests gain passage with me." Rhen turned behind him, motioning for the four Ourthuri on the ship to step forward. Clinking from the chains, they moved to the rail. The servant gasped, eyes widening, before recovering his stoic pose.

  "Of course. A guest of Whylkin is a guest of Ourthuro." He licked his lips, fingers twitching, before adding, "Please, follow me."

  Rhen turned, picking up the end of the chain to lead the prisoners with him. Before stepping onto the bridge, he looked at the captain, whose blue eyes were dark with worry.

  "If I have not returned by nightfall, you will know my plan has gone awry. If that happens, you must notify the king immediately—of everything we have found." He reached with his free hand, gripping the older man's shoulder. "Can you do this for me?"

  "Of course, my prince." The captain nodded, clasping Rhen's arm quickly. "Of course."

  Rhen nodded, squeezed his fingers in farewell, and stepped onto the ridged incline, bringing both him and the prisoners securely onto Ourthuri territory.

  A few more steps and he was in the carriage. The prisoners were chained to the back, to be pulled like cattle behind him. Rhen didn’t like it, but he was in no place to demand a change. This was not his kingdom—these were no longer his rules.

  The servant sat beside the driver, leaving Rhen alone. The carriage rocked back and forth as the horses began the long journey up the steep incline of the Mountain City, and even the plush cushion beneath his bum was not enough to provide comfort.

  Rhen pushed the curtain to the side, opening the view by a few inches—just enough to gaze out at a city still as foreign to him as its people.

  The commoners stopped as he rolled by, careful not to move, not to breathe, and especially not to dare look into the window. Their clothes were loose, without shape, aside from the occasional metal belt around the waist. Homes were rectangular—small boxes piled atop one another. The bridges were firm. Even as Rhen looked below at the far fall down steep cliffs, he was not worried—the Ourthuri were known for their craftsmanship, for their unbelievable skill, which unfortunately put the blacksmiths of Whylkin to shame.

  No, the more Rhen watched, the more he marveled at the sight.

  As they continued to climb, houses gained more shape. Copper window frames, dome-like silver roofs. But no glass, he realized. All of the houses were open, welcoming in the wind, blocking it only with thin gauzy curtains that seemed more for privacy than anything else.

  Jewelry clanked around people's ankles, their necks, draped from their earlobes—both sexes alike. As they entered the silver district, headdresses of woven metal dripped down women's foreheads, covering their faces like veils. The o
ne consistency, whether rich or poor, was the open sleeves. Every person was bare from shoulder to fingertip, his or her tattoo the only decoration of need. And the higher Rhen climbed, the more intricate, deluxe, and lengthy those tattoos became.

  Suddenly, gold surged into Rhen's view, tickling his irises from the brightness. After a moment, he realized they had crossed a golden bridge, carrying them higher into the topmost platform of the city—the palace.

  As they rolled through a towering golden archway, the spindles of the great pulleys took up Rhen's entire view. Giant golden wheels stretching at least one hundred feet across were circling slowly. The steps of a thousand men stomping in unison thundered in Rhen's ears, deafening in their roar as the unmarked moved to bring the platforms higher and higher up, pushing golden spires in circles all day and night.

  This was King Razzaq's show of power. His mode of intimidation.

  And damn it if Rhen couldn’t hold back a gulp, his throat suddenly dry and his palms increasingly sweaty.

  At a time like this, it was hard to believe that his people outnumbered the Ourthuri ten to one. That his army was greater, his ships stronger, his land heartier.

  The carriage stopped.

  The servant scurried down from beside the driver to open the door, and Rhen emerged into the bright sun of the palace courtyard, fighting the urge to put a hand over his eyes.

  The scene did not disappoint. Brilliant golden spires, domes, and pillars sunk in and out of the earth to create the palace. It was not as tall as the castle at Rayfort, built from gleaming white stone slabs, but it was just as grand. Stretching wider and longer, far more open in its corridors, as though the king had nothing to fear, was not worried about protection.

  There were no walls. No slits for arrows. No fortified enclosures.

  This was a king secure in his power.

  And Rhen wished for nothing more than to run through the front corridor and plunge his golden sword right through King Razzaq's chest—just to prove him wrong—but he held steady, muscles hard as the rock beneath his feet.

  Wordlessly, Rhen followed the servant, regaining his hold on the prisoners as they walked across the courtyard, through several rows of thick columns and into a grand atrium.

  Not one door, Rhen shook his head, amazed at the hubris on display here.

  Halfway through the giant room, the servant fell to his knees, arms plastered flat against the floor. Behind him, Rhen felt his prisoners struggle to do the same.

  For his part, Rhen inclined his head in greeting at the man sitting yards away in his golden throne. A headdress almost as large as King Razzaq's face sat atop his brow, dripping in jewels and golden chain links. But more than anything, Rhen took in the black tattoos curving and swirling all the way up his arms, ringing the base of his wrists up through his shoulders. Floral designs, island mountains, faces, animals, stones—everything Rhen could imagine was painted with intricate detail on the king's arms. A permanent display of his place above his people.

  To each side, a series of guards stood, arms decorated with varying levels of lines and dots. Over their flowing robes were metal plates of armor. In each hand, a metal weapon.

  Rhen looked at the iron chain in his hand, feeling how out of place it was. Even chains were made of gold here.

  "Prince Whylrhen, welcome to Da'astiku. What brings you to Ourthuro?"

  Rhen tugged the men behind him forward, watching the king's reaction. His black-brown eyes remained impassive. His larger build didn’t jerk or bend. His darkened olive skin didn't pale.

  Someone must have sent word, Rhen concluded, but no matter. He would press forward.

  "King Razzaq," he inclined his head, "My king thanks you for your kindness in welcoming his son to your grand home. I am overwhelmed by the bountiful city I have seen thus far. A true masterpiece."

  "We thank you," the king nodded ever so slightly, the muscles on his thick neck coiling.

  "I have traveled far to return these four men to your person. We found a ship floating aimlessly through our waters, adorned with the flag of your great kingdom, and took it upon ourselves to search for survivors. Locked below deck, we found these four men alone in the dark. In a show of no bad will between our two kingdoms, peaceful now for over a hundred years, I, a Son of Whyl, came to deliver them unharmed."

  "Step forward," the king commanded, eyes narrowing on the four men. His pupils shifted to their wrists, checking each for a station, pausing on the unmarked man the longest.

  Raising his hand, the king flicked two fingers toward the group.

  Before Rhen could move, four spears soared through the air, followed by the thud of four bodies falling to the ground.

  He gasped, fighting the jerk of his limbs, trying not to show any weakness.

  It didn't matter.

  A cry echoed through the hall, piercing his ears, surprising everyone—everyone aside from the unaffected King Razzaq. Even the guards jumped slightly.

  Rhen furrowed his brows, searching for the source of the noise through the walls of thick columns, but there were too many places for someone to hide.

  Blood pooled by his feet, brilliant red and glistening from the reflections of the sun. Unable to stop himself, Rhen looked down, into the eyes of the unmarked man. They held no shock. No surprise. Almost as if he knew this would be his fate.

  But why not mention it? Why not fight to survive?

  Rhen's gaze returned to the king, who studied him with a slight smile on his lips. What did the man know? What plan was circling in that calculated gaze?

  "We thank you, Son of Whyl, for returning these men, but as you can see it was unnecessary. Traitors have no place in Da'astiku."

  "Had I known their fate, I would not have dishonored this palace with their presence."

  King Razzaq waved his hand aimlessly through the air, shaking his head. "It is no matter." He paused, leaning forward ever so slightly. "Tell me, Prince Whylrhen, how is your king? We hear Whylkin has a new son to welcome."

  "The kingdom rejoices, and with it, its king." Rhen held his hands behind his back, widening his stance and gaining a more relaxed pose despite the tightness in his lungs. The air felt heavy, electric somehow. His eyes flicked around, looking at the spaces between the columns, trying to find a stone out of place. But each curve blended into the next, deeper and deeper, until his mind hurt from the illusion.

  Something within Rhen did not feel right.

  An unease burrowed between his shoulders, coiling into a painful knot.

  "Our own son is not old enough to birth children, but we can only imagine the joy of solidifying the future of the kingdom with another strong heir. We are surprised you were able to leave such celebrations. Did you not miss it?"

  "King Razzaq," Rhen said, forcing his voice to carry louder as his nerves grew. Why had he come alone? He was a prince, not a spy. A prince, no matter what he wanted. That position demanded protection. "You have touched my heart with your concern. I did in fact miss it, but I did what any good son would and followed my father's commands. The prisoners were delivered unharmed." Rhen looked at the blood seeping under his shoe, his chest burning with injustice. "And now I must bid farewell and return to my kingdom."

  "Will you not stay for one meal? Surely the longs days of travel were tiresome."

  Rhen raked the room with his eyes, noticing that a few more guards had moved around the columns, holding their curved swords before their faces, alert.

  His own fingers itched for the smooth hilt of his weapon.

  "I am afraid, great King, that I cannot."

  Rhen swallowed his spit, wetting his scratchy throat. Steps drummed in his ear, loud in the silence of the hall. A guard walked past him, bowing on bended knee at the base of the throne before handing the king a golden box.

  Rhen stepped back, creating red footprints on the tiles below his feet.

  Something was very wrong here.

  "We are very surprised by your urgency, dear Prince."

 
"My captain waits for me."

  He took another step back, making no pretense to hide the hand reaching for his sword.

  The king smiled wider, fully opening the golden box in his lap. His arm muscles flexed, rippling along his tattoo, as he clutched at an item out of Rhen's view.

  Slowly, he lifted.

  White strings circled his fingers.

  White curls.

  Moving quickly, King Razzaq jerked. His arm pulsed fully aloft, throwing the object at Rhen.

  It rolled, over and over, with a red river flowing in its wake.

  Only when it stopped at his feet, did Rhen see the blue eyes looking up at him—the eyes of the father he always wished he had.

  "Your captain waits for nothing."

  The words like knives pierced Rhen, sinking under his skin and cutting him apart. His hands shook. His eyes widened, water pooling at their bases. But his pupils were like iron, nailing King Razzaq to his throne.

  In one swift movement, Rhen pulled his sword from its scabbard, charging. A furious yell spilled from his lips, echoing through the hall, bouncing from column to column with no wall to stop it.

  He bounded the steps, eyes on the throat of his enemy—a throat gyrating from laughter. A throat that would look much better cut in half.

  Hands gripped his ankles, and Rhen fell, forehead slamming against the step in front of him. Drops of blood slipped from his brow, blocking his vision. Black dots invaded his sight.

  But it would not stop him.

  Swinging blindly, his sword dug into something. A cry hit his ear. Rhen rolled to the side, narrowly missing the blade that clanged to the ground next to him. Wiping the blood from his eyes, he kicked out, slamming his foot into a guard. His sword followed, partially severing the man's arm.

  Rhen jumped to his feet.

  There were too many of them. Everywhere Rhen looked, gold plated men were running toward him, eyeing him, pausing just out of reach.

  Circling.

  Like an animal, Rhen was trapped.

  "My father will destroy you," Rhen seethed, sword still held up for protection.

  "We don't believe so," King Razzaq chuckled. Then deeper, "Disarm him."