Queen of Stars and Shadows (Pathway of the Chosen)

by Cat Bruno

  Jarek was upon the man so quickly that spittle landed upon his face. When his hands reached for Kennet’s tunic, he could feel the man quivering. But it was not with fear, he realized. The ward that encircled him was the strongest Jarek had felt, stronger even than the ones the Mage-Guild crafted for the king. His fingers burned, yet he did not release Kennet. Instead, Jarek grasped what little air surrounded him, twisting it around the ward and pulling at it until the ward began to buckle.

  Tighter and tighter he wrapped him in the stale air, until the man’s face began to redden and his breathing became shallow as he sputtered and coughed.

  Throwing Kennet to the floor, Jarek spewed, “With one more tug, your ward would have snapped. Watch your tongue or I will tear it from you.”

  From the floor came more of the cackling laughter as thickly-bound books tumbled atop the fallen man.

  “Oh yes, you will do just fine. Aldric told me of your abilities, but I thought him overly partial. I will admit that I was wrong. Yes, yes, you will be just what the girl needs,” the librarian sang gleefully.

  “Strengthen your wards, Kennet!” Jarek spit. “You are not as safe here as you believe. Use whatever magic you need to ensure that it is done.”

  As Kennet scurried to a seated position, with his narrow back leaning against a row of books that still stood, Jarek said, “Now you will tell me all that you know of the Elementals.”

  On the morrow, Jarek would journey back to Rexterra. And ready himself for war.

  *****

  Never before did she resemble her mother so little, Otieno thought, watching as she retied the laces of her cuirass. It had been a surprise, but not an unpleasant one, when he first spotted the new armor, the gleaming wolf head threaded with strings of moonlight.

  He had begged her to wear a helm, but she declined, complaining how it dulled her hearing. The Sythians were so confident in their skills that they would have permitted iron and steel, if Syrsha had chosen to wear it. She declined that, too. Instead, she wore finely made leather, untested and as dark as nightfall. Her gauntlets were supple and worn from moons of swordplay. Her boots had been pricey, yet worth it for they looked new yet. A new scabbard hung at her waist, matching the cuirass. It was only on second look did Otieno notice its etching, which stood tall down the center.

  His vision blurred for a moment, clouding with memory. She is her mother’s child, too.

  In thread dipped in fire was the outline of a sprig of lavender, the healer’s plant. Few would know why it shone like flames. He was not one of them.

  The diauxie worried for the girl, even though he learned long ago how strong she would become. But she was young and rash, reckless and stubborn, like many her age. She had the blood of gods in her, yet her body was mortal still. An arrow could kill her, just as others. Yet he knew enough to understand that she must be challenged. And so he allowed the kyzkua to begin.

  Syrsha did not reach for her sword as the horns quieted. Instead, she readied to run, as he had instructed. Low and close to the ground, Syrsha waited. From across the field, he could not see her eyes, but knew that she had already studied the course, memorizing as much as she could and making marks of where she would find safety.

  The field was wide, dotted with yellow-tipped flowers and browned grass. Shrubs, green and thick, provided some coverage, yet Otieno had little doubt that the Sythian arrows could spear through them. Slight mounds created gentle rolls, but they would do little but slow her down. Sun-faded slate curved a trail across the field, a tempting one, he knew, but the wrong one for the path was central and exposed.

  The girl would need to be quick, pausing little. Around the field, the archers readied, climbing onto mounted stands constructed of wood from the now-distant forests. There were eight in total, although even a sole archer could strike from such an advantage. He could see why few survived.

  From where he stood, Otieno could not see the final section of the course so he raced up a small hill, motioning for Aldric, Gregorr, and Sharron to join him. The fennidi appeared calm, the mage anxious. But it was Sharron who looked the most worried, her face drawn and gray. A healer always, she would never be at ease on a battlefield, even one such as this. Overhead the skies reflected the orange haze of the rising sun. Flittering birds, dark dots against pale blue, cried out in warning.

  But their cries were silenced by a final call from the brass horn.

  His hand reached for the twin daggers strapped near his boot. With the throwing blades in his hands, he watched, ignoring Aldric’s whispered words of caution.

  It was the girl from Tian who sent the first steel-tipped arrow loose. Syrsha, who had not yet moved, easily dodged it by leaning toward her right, as if she had expected it.

  The others followed Liang’s lead, loosing arrows in quick succession, silver tips shining like ice as they sped toward Syrsha. But she was Tribe, blessed with sight and hearing that were beyond anyone else’s. And as soon as the arrows had been released, she had lunged, running toward the second post.

  With a roll, she reached for the white-flagged staff. Sticking it hurriedly into the ground, she signaled her first victory. From what he had learned the night before, Otieno knew there would be eleven additional flags scattered around the field. There was no order in which she had to free them, and the Sythians had not told any where to find them. One flag for each moon, that is all that they had offered.

  She could not rest long, for he spied a few archers climb down and rush to other posts. They were spreading out, forming a larger arc and allowing them more access to the course. Makeena did not move, but she pointed and called to her kin, nodding as they lifted bows again.

  The first flag had been a gift, he then realized, counting the few arrows that lay scattered across the field. They would allow her to think herself safe and allot her a lead. But the Sythians’ quivers were full, enough so for a few to be wasted, almost in jest.

  His face reddened in fury at the thought, and he hissed to Aldric, “They play a game with the faela and tease her as if she is little more than a trapped deer.”

  As understanding darkened Aldric’s face, the mage whispered hoarsely, “Let them think her a deer. Her bite will hurt all the more because of their foolery.”

  With less anger, Aldric added, “She is your student, Otieno. If you knew the game for what it was, so will she.”

  He had to hope that the mage’s words were true and that Syrsha did not fall into the Sythians’ trap. They could say no more, for Syrsha darted toward another marker, raising it as arrows tumbled behind her, none near enough to be considered a threat. It was the same for the next three flags. Each time another was staked, arrows followed, late and ineffective.

  It was not until the sixth flag that the Sythians’ aim improved.

  Halfway through the kyzkua, as Syrsha doubled back to a small station that she had overran, an arrow clipped her boot, causing her to stumble. The sharpened point penetrated through the thickened leather, yet the shaft did not. Otieno called out to Gregorr, for the forest-man had eyes nearly as sharp as Syrsha.

  “Look closely,” the fennidi told him. “See how the pronged point reflects the sun. It went clean through her boot, but did not touch skin.”

  With that, the seventh flag waved in the increasing breeze.

  “What of her eyes?” Otieno asked, not needing to explain why he did so.

  “Dark. And her cheeks are flushed.”

  Eyes of a wolf, an angry one. None, including Gregorr, had ever seen her shift. None even knew if she could. But Gregorr knew enough of the Tribe to have been able to teach her to control it. And she had. But for most of her life, Syrsha had lived without threat, safe in exile, her wolf-blood tame and quiet.

  Shaking his head at the thought, Otieno stated, “She must control it.”

  It was the fennidi who replied, “If she is to rule the Tribe, she must know what it is like to taste blood on her tongue.”

  Beside him, Sharron covered her mouth with
a shaking hand. But she did not disagree, Otieno noticed. Nor did Aldric.

  Even he himself could not find fault with Gregorr’s answer.

  And so he watched as the girl crouched low, her back toward the archers as she rested behind the seventh flag. With a gloved hand, she broke the arrow off, throwing it to the ground as she began to race toward the farthest of the flags. Lark calls mixed with the clicks of bows, almost in song as new arrows whirred toward Syrsha. No longer just behind her, these flew near, and she reached for her short sword.

  Twice she swung, knocking arrows from her path, the crack echoing loudly across the open field. When the eighth flag blew strong, Otieno whooped, throwing his hands high into the air in celebration. He had not thought she could hear him, but a quick nod of her head told him elsewise.

  Four flags remained, lining a long, straight stretch toward the finish. Syrsha would be without cover, the advantage heavy on the side of the archers. With a quick look toward the Sythians, Otieno eyed them refilling their quivers. Eight archers with quivers full meant the girl would face at least a hundred arrows before she reached the end. Queen Makeena circled her arms, another directive no doubt.

  Without placing the sword back in the lavender-laced scabbard, Syrsha hurried toward the ninth flag, which lay nearly hidden beside a sun-washed pile of stones. To place it took her longer, and three times she had to drop it to swat away arrows that would have struck. The last had come close to her back, and Syrsha had spun just before it could hit. Twirling as if she was a Cossiman veil dancer, she reached for the wooden staff before another volley of arrows could be launched. With a final thrust, she pounded it into the rocky ground with help from her sword hilt.

  More arrows flew, more than he could count or watch, falling to all sides of her as she ran. When the Islander next looked, the short sword had been replaced by her daggers, two twin blades nearly orange under the sun’s glance. He had warned her to use them least, for the blades were fine and sharp, but small, offering little to shield her.

  But he watched with admiration as she wielded them quickly, lightning flashes of fire as she deflected arrow after arrow. Around her, the fallen shafts lay against the ground in defeat, broken, bent, and harmless. Her daggers had been a good choice, he conceded, although few would have had the speed to use them as she.

  The tenth flag, its wooden pole round and thick, now stood, shorter than the others, but the rough-spun cotton shone radiant to his Island eyes.

  Only two flags were now left to secure.

  He did not see who shot the arrow that clipped Syrsha’s shoulder, tearing a chunk from the dark fabric. Moments later, blood spilled from her pale skin, and he looked toward Sharron.

  Her voice low, she told him, “It will require stitching, no doubt, but a rather safe spot to be struck. No more than a sting, really.”

  Sharron was both cautious and wise, even as she had grown quieter over the moon years. For their time in Cossima, she healed all who came before her, regardless of coin. Yet she spoke little, blaming her uneasiness with the language. Once, he thought she might marry and have children of her own, but she had not. Instead, she played mother to Syrsha, even though the girl had little desire for one.

  Or so she had believed.

  Turning from her, Otieno gazed at Makeena, and, to her left, a thick-shouldered woman with brown, wiry hair, unbound and wild. Across her arms were blue-dyed images, etched into her skin. From shoulder to wrist, the woman was marked, a permanent story of her skill with the bow. Of all the Sythians, she was the most heavily dyed.

  And, he realized, the deadliest shot.

  To reach the eleventh flag, Syrsha would have to cross in front of the woman, who leaned forward, her elbow resting on the raised platform. A large-tipped arrow was notched and readied, steady under the woman’s hand. Beside her, Makeena spoke, although Otieno could not hear what the queen commanded.

  With her tunic torn, exposing an upper arm covered in blood, Syrsha dashed forward. As she ran, Otieno observed her tuck the daggers into small scabbards near her boots. A concerned glance toward Aldric silently questioned the move as the mage shrugged, keeping his own pale-blue eyes on Syrsha. The diauxie thought she might reach for the short sword again, but her hands stayed high and tight to her body.

  The crack of arrow being thrown from bow thundered all around them as the Sythians all took aim at the racing girl. From where she now ran, the archers formed a nearly enclosed circle. The winds hissed, buzzing with arrow-tipped threat as they shot, swift and straight. Over and over, arrows came toward her.

  Several fell behind her, not unstrung fast enough and of little concern. One arrow nearly struck just below her knee, but she jumped it in time, letting it whizz by her until it struck grass. Most seemed to be aimed above her waist, coming toward her chest and neck with near-perfect aim, yet she spun away from several.

  The Sythians no longer toyed with the girl. Now they wanted her dead.

  “Aldric!” he growled, “Something has changed. Look to the queen. And ready your fire.”

  Even Gregorr now appeared concerned.

  “Can you ward her from this distance?” Otieno nervously asked the mage.

  His long face sallow, Aldric told him, “I fear to try for she might stumble or become distracted. Any ward would slow her now.”

  Otieno stepped away, toward the grassland before Gregorr reached for him, the small man’s greenish fingers pulling at him.

  “You would not reach her in time. And Aldric is right to be worried. Any attempts to intervene would cause untold consequences.”

  “I will not let her die here!” he spit, fury moistening his words.

  “She cannot die,” Gregorr half-hummed, his words filled with pine and snow.

  Throwing the fennidi’s arm from him, Otieno grabbed his scimitar.

  “She cannot die here,” Gregorr repeated.

  As Otieno yanked the sword from a blood-stained sheath, he heard Gregorr say, “She will not die here. Let her finish.”

  His words were distant, laced with mist and ice, as if they had come from the sky. Mage-sight or something more perhaps.

  The diauxie paused long enough to watch Syrsha roll onto the ground, wooden arrows falling around her. When she next stood, the eleventh flag rippled behind her. In his anger, he had not witnessed how she had avoided the strikes.

  Before he could next breathe, more arrows came. One ripped through the newly placed rectangular flag, tearing it into tattered halves that flittered in pieces against the rising wind.

  Syrsha did not hesitate, sensing the final post was near. The grassland between her and the twelfth flag rolled with small mounds, but was empty of bush and cover. Her only hope was to outrun the flying arrows and dodge what she could not escape. Leaping across the field, a steak of black against the colorless grass, she sped as if she had four legs not two. Her hair loosened, the plait unbound as dark tresses chased behind her. Half expecting fur and tail, Otieno gasped.

  She had never moved so fast. Still as stone, he watched her as if he had not known her since her birth. This girl, long and lean, blood streaks curving like rivers down her arm, wore a mortal face and bled as if that face was a true one. Now, however, he who had swallowed shadow for half his life eyed her anew.

  Perhaps I have never known her at all.

  His hand slipped from the scimitar. Behind him, Sharron sobbed, her muffled cries reflecting what they all felt.

  She will not die here.

  *****

  8

  The smell of blood livened her, reminding Syrsha of the gash across her shoulder. When the arrow first crossed her skin, it had stung, which she had expected, just as she expected Liang’s arrow. It would be the only one she took.

  Hidden beneath shining hair, Syrsha’s ears twitched as she listened to the hum of the air around her. Her eyes burned, as if aflame, yet she could see the field clearly without the haze of rusty shadows across it. Ahead lay the final flag, stained with brown and red.
Jumping over an arrow soaring toward her legs, Syrsha neared the last post. More arrows followed, and she hurriedly dodged them, rolling onto her side.

  Just as with the others the flag was tied to a smoothly carved post, and she reached for it. Three more arrows came toward her, and she used the wooden handle to swat them away. While the archers nocked new arrows, Syrsha thrust the post into the ground. The final flag flickered in defiance.

  More arrows were loosed.

  With another roll Syrsha was on her feet and hurrying away from the flag. A line of stone blocks, piled into a half-wall, marked the finish line, and she knew that the archers would not cease until she crossed. Beneath Syrsha’s tunic, her life pulse thumped hard and fast, yet she did not slow.

  Her legs strode long as she ran. Beside her cheek an arrow whirred, and its notched feathers tickled her lips. Another one skittered off the grass in front of her, bouncing against her boot. It mattered naught.

  Syrsha leapt over the line of stones and smiled. With a mocking bow to those who watched, she rose.

  After a slight nod to Makeena, she ripped the torn sleeve off her tunic. As she began to examine her shoulder, a creak of wood caused her to drop the cloth. A serpent’s hiss filled her ears as an arrow buzzed toward her.

  When a second one came, Syrsha knew that she had been betrayed.

  Behind her, she could hear Otieno’s cries of warning. But she heard nothing else as she ran toward the wild-haired woman who had unleashed the arrows. Beside her stood Makeena.

  The queen made no attempt to intervene.

  Through a haze of red, she rushed, reaching for her short sword as she neared. As her hand gripped the hilt, another arrow struck, lodging into the side of her leather cuirass, yet she did not feel the metal tip against her skin. One archer. One arrow. The other Sythians had held their hands.

  While another arrow was nocked, Syrsha pulled her sword from her hip. With one final step she was upon the wooden tower. In the next, she hacked at it with a sideways strike of her sword. The second swing sheared the wood in half, but the perch still stood. Around her voices were raised, but she did not hear their calls as she hacked at another of the wooden supports. In her fury, only one strike was needed as the small tower shook. Snapping wooden beams echoed like slashes of lightning between her ears.