Between the Shade and the Shadow

by Coleman Alexander

  Soon, a sheet of the wall as wide as she was tall and twice that again was hers. It itched to move.

  “Here we go,” she said, standing up, ready to spring into the canopy once she was outside. “Open.”

  The branches peeled back, forming an escape from the Makers. In places beyond her control, the wall coiled and lunged at her, but a wide swath of it lay motionless, held still at the tip of her mind. The woods of Angolor spread beyond, dark and deep and undoubtedly guarded.

  Ahraia took a step, her mind full of worries. Would the closure hold? Would the wall let her back in? Were wards hiding in the forest beyond? She took another step into the wall’s shadow. The binding felt firm. She hesitated and then scampered forward. Half-way beneath, however, the enchantment soured. The branches, overly eager, sang her praise too easily.

  A step too late, she stopped.

  The closure snapped shut. Vines shot down like arrows from above. Branches swung inward like the arms of the Shad-Mon and a large serapin root slithered towards her. Ahraia leapt back but not before a thick branch crashed over her, jarring her to the ground. She scrambled up and darted towards the hillside as a tendril of the wall snaked around her ankle, jerking her to a stop.

  In an instant, her drain was out, slashing downward, cutting deeply across the vine. It withdrew angrily, but a dozen more struck forward, slamming her to the ground. She covered her face as the wall battered her, striking painfully over her chest and shoulders and head. She rolled away with blood in her mouth and her arms stinging from the bruising blows.

  A sinuous root seized her—the serapin tree. The branch constricted about her leg, dragging her effortlessly towards the awaiting trunk. She clawed at the dirt, her nails scraping across leaves and mud and stone. A smaller branch from the same tree slithered forward. Its stinger emerged from a narrow tip. Desperate, Ahraia sliced across the root holding her. The tree writhed in pain; black sap oozed like blood to the ground. The serapin’s grip loosened and she fell back, but the stinger darted towards her. It landed across her chest, the tip inches from her face. She sliced at it in a panic, rolling away while trying to disentangle herself from the still wiggling branch. Suddenly, a searing pain shot through her hand.

  “Aghh!” she screamed. She flung the branch away, looking to her palm where a long red sliver stuck outward. Her fingers immediately tingled with fiery pain; her hand shook violently. She used her teeth to pull the stinger out, spitting it away. At once, her lips started to burn with numbness.

  Not that deep. It’s not going to hurt me. I need my bow. She sucked the blood from the palm of her hand, spitting it out. The taste was foul—blood mixed with sour sickness.

  The venom was spreading, as though the tree’s roots slithered inside her. She felt a stabbing pain in her elbow. Then beneath her shoulder. She needed bitterroot. Or Charberries. She glanced about for either. She blinked, her vision blurred. Her breaths were growing faster. She stood up and nearly stumbled.

  The whole woods seemed to be caught in a windstorm she couldn’t hear or feel. Trunks bent in ways no binding could manage. Leaves tumbled about her without falling. Her breath wasn’t enough to feed her.

  She started back up the hill, panic suddenly settling like a knife inside her heart. A stabbing ache pulsed from her elbow through her whole body. She staggered, scraping her leg heavily against some log she hadn’t seen.

  “Losna,” she said, well aware her wits were unravelling.

  She crawled towards what felt like upwards, though she tipped onto her face, smelling dirt and moss, and dried branches. She searched across the roots. Bitterroot was everywhere. So were charberries. Why couldn’t she find them? They were as common as maple and fir.

  Her face was suddenly resting on the ground. She didn’t remember falling. Before her, she saw gray bark speckled with black. Is it bitterroot?

  She looked up at the tree in a daze. Looking up was a mistake. Her head spun. The trees above her turned, their branches like a falling maple seed, spinning in a steady circle.

  She fumbled with the knife. Her hands shook violently. She cut through the thin root, roughly pulling the dirt and mud from it. She peeled a thin piece of bark with her teeth. She shoved it in her mouth, unable to taste it.

  Bitter. It’s supposed to be bitter.

  She shaved another piece away, larger than the last. She worked her jaw but her teeth wouldn’t seem to meet. Her mouth and face were tingling with numbness. Nothing changed. Her vision was blurring. She crawled away.

  Losna, she thought hopelessly. She thought she heard howling, but she wasn’t sure. It could have been inside her head. The forest blurred. She felt something squish beneath her hands. Berries. She couldn’t see their shape. It might have been blue. It might have been black.

  She swept a handful into her mouth, unsure if they even made it in. Everything was fading. The Masai was going to skin Losna. The light would consume her. Ahraia tried to crawl, but fell and couldn’t get up.

  Her breaths came shorter. And night, deeper than any she had ever known, settled about her.

  A howl, lonely and harrowing, echoed through the woods.

  Light pierced the forest, stabbing down at Ahraia, stabbing right through her cloak and burning at her side. She rolled over, eyes still closed and skin stretched dry. Her mouth overflowed with a bitter and sour something. Bark was stuck beside her teeth and she spat out dark ashen mush. Berries. Charberries. She opened her eyes, feeling as though she had been beaten.

  The memory of the serapin tree came back to her. She had been beaten. She lay under a char bush. Black juice stained Hayvon’s veil and crusted about her lips. Sleep tingled through her left arm and when she moved, stabbing pains followed her nerves right to her fingertips.

  The light lay dangerously close and fog wove between her thoughts. She looked up, trying to determine the time of day.

  It was still day. That was all she could tell.

  Losna. The chain. My bow . . .

  Her failure spread over her as though she had been doused in true light. The night hadn’t come yet, but she had no way of breaking the chain. She thrust herself to her knees. Her head spun and pain seared through her arm. Trampled berries and bushes showed the aftermath of her sting.

  She took another handful of charberries and put them in her mouth. Ashen juice stilled the little saliva she had, but her vision seemed to sharpen. She spit them out and pulled herself to her feet.

  She climbed towards the hilltop, startled to see it was late afternoon. Her lungs burned but she pulled herself onward, knowing she couldn’t break the chain. She wondered if somehow—some way—she could jam something small enough to unhook the lock. She doubted it. The Masai’s voice had been devious in her delight with the lock, as though nothing more perfect could exist to hold a shadow.

  When Ahraia reached the top of the hill, sweat dripped along the line of her jaw and her side burned. Losna stood at the very edge of her chain, already in shadow.

  Where have you been? It’s almost dusk. Her ears stood on end. Her tail lay low and stiff. Where’s your bow?

  Ahraia stumbled from the woods, the inevitability of what was coming suddenly striking her like the serapin tree had. Tears welled in her eyes and she wanted to scream with helplessness. She staggered to Losna’s side.

  “I couldn’t do it . . . I didn’t even get beyond the wall. I got stung by a serapin.”

  A serapin tree? Losna whined. Was it a big one? Are you hurt? Losna froze, staring at Ahraia’s side. What’s that light? Losna sniffed at Ahraia’s cloak, where a burning pain lingered. Ahraia hadn’t noticed, but a dim shining emerged from beneath her cloak. She flinched.

  “What is that?” She shook her cloak, and the orb tumbled out, burning hot. “Get it off of me.” She kicked it across the ground, cowering away. Losna quickly took it and hid it in the den she had dug, where its white light glowed outward.

  “It must not have been broken,” Ahraia said, brushing at her side, feeling burnt sk
in where light hardly ever shone. She looked up, and found Losna staring at her.

  We can’t do anything about the chain, can we?

  Guilt, heavier than any emotion Ahraia had ever known, crashed down on her. She felt tears welling up in her eyes. “I thought . . . I can’t . . .”

  Losna lowered her head, resigned to her fate. Her tail tucked below her. Ahraia rushed to her, embracing her. The touch was painful. Ahraia’s failure burnt into her worse than any light ever could. She broke down—angry at herself for failing, angry that she had come so far only to be defeated by a vine of metal.

  “I thought maybe something—maybe we could find something small enough to trick the lock.” Her words tumbled out. She searched the ground, but tears flooded her eyes, blinding her. Her hand shook violently as she tried to bring a twig to the keyhole. It broke halfway in and only managed to clog the fissure. Panicked, she blew at it, terrified that she had just sealed their fate.

  She’s going to kill us at sundown. Losna’s whole body quivered. Ahraia knelt in the dirt, weeping freely. She saw the image in her mind of the Masai wearing a blood-drenched coat of fur. She would rather die than live to see her shadow suffer that.

  Losna was looking at her. She nuzzled under Ahraia’s chin, bringing her eyes up.

  You’re going to have to do it, she thought. There is no breaking this chain. And when they come, I’d rather be dead than skinned alive.

  Tears of frustration streamed down Ahraia’s face. Losna knew what would happen if night fell and they hadn’t broken the chain. She knew how gruesome and terrible it would be. Ahraia held onto her shadow, burying her face in her fur.

  This is your shadow test, Losna thought. You’ll become a sprite. It’s the way it’s supposed to be. You can still flee, Ahraia.

  Ahraia sat with bloody knuckles and light-burnt eyes. She held her shadow for a long time, knowing that neither of them could suffer the fate that was coming. Losna didn’t have a choice. She was trapped. But Ahraia did. She could spare her shadow. She could spare herself having to watch the Masai torture Losna. It was the only choice. The alternative would be unbearable.

  She held on to Losna, not daring to let go. How much time passed, she didn’t know, but when Losna licked at her face, nuzzling her again, the Dae-Mon was sinking in the west. The shadows stretched to the foot of the eastern trees, slowly climbing onto their trunks. Dusk was coming. Losna butted her forehead against Ahraia, the hard bone nearly pushing Ahraia’s hood back.

  There is no more time. You’ll be a sprite.

  “I won’t,” Ahraia said.

  Losna nipped at her. That is what this place is. A place where shadows pass and sprites emerge.

  Ahraia shook her head, her teeth digging into her lip. Losna nuzzled her.

  My shade . . . there’s no other choice. You have to finish this.

  The late afternoon had passed and the Masai would come on the heels of dusk.

  Losna was resigned. Ahraia couldn’t believe it had come to this. She was going to have to put Losna down—for her shadow’s sake. She cried bitterly, her whole body shaking with sobs she couldn’t control. She buried her face in Losna’s coat, wanting to die rather than go through with what Losna was asking her to do.

  Ahraia, I don’t want to be skinned.

  Ahraia pulled herself away, still sobbing. Her eyes burned with light and tears. She would do it, but she wouldn’t flee. She wasn’t going on without Losna. When it was finished, she would wait for the Masai and if the Masai wanted to kill her, so be it. Her breaths were hollow. She didn’t care that her skin and eyes burned.

  “How has it come to this? How can shades cut their shadows from themselves?” she said, staring at the glowing sky. The wind set the trees swaying and the cold light of the Dae-Mon danced about her. It was a lifeless dance. A hopeless one.

  They were dead.

  The night was coming.

  Ahraia reached into her cloak and pulled forth the metal drain. Losna lay her head down and readied herself.

  Do it.

  The drain felt poisonous and wretched in Ahraia’s hand. Tears came harder and faster than before. Her jaw was quivering and she couldn’t stop it. She couldn’t believe that it had come to this, after everything they had been through. A thousand nights spent running together melded with a thousand nights of laughter and joy. She couldn’t do this. She felt a howling inside her heart.

  But it was her only choice for Losna.

  She raised the drain over her head. The warmth of Losna radiated up, through the air and through the bond. They were one and the same. She was killing herself. Ahraia sobbed. Tears filled her eyes so thick that she couldn’t see. Losna lay with her head down.

  Do it. Now. Please, Ahraia. I don’t want to be skinned . . .

  Ahraia steeled herself. Losna’s breaths rattled in her chest. A single golden eye stared up at Ahraia.

  Become a sprite, my shade.

  I’ll avenge you. I swear it. Ahraia gritted her teeth together furiously. “I swear it. To the Moons and the Stars.”

  Losna’s eyes closed.

  She took her last breath.

  Ahraia’s whole being cried out in terror as her hands plunged downward. Her mind recoiled, and a howl erupted from her mouth. She slammed the drain down, screaming as she did.

  32

  Digging Graves

  The drain plunged into the shadow-drenched earth, an inch from Losna’s throat. An inch from her own.

  “I can’t! I can’t do it,” Ahraia screamed. She pulled the knife from the ground and flung it away, disgusted she had even raised her hand.

  Losna opened her eye hesitantly.

  Ahraia, you have to. She’ll torture us both.

  “I can’t,” Ahraia sobbed. “I’d rather scorch beneath the Dae-Mon. I’d rather face the Shad-Mon again. I’d rather bond another shadow and burn by fire . . .” she trailed off, her thoughts crashing together like a radiant burst of light.

  Losna lifted her head, feeling hope in the bond. What is it?

  Ahraia leapt up, realizing what she should have done right away.

  That’s it. “Losna. That’s it!”

  The sky burned with a thousand colors, bursting like Ahraia’s hope. But night was almost upon them—they were out of time.

  Losna was looking up at her, expectant.

  “We need a hiding place,” Ahraia said. “One where the Masai can’t find us. Can you make that den big enough for both of us by nightfall?”

  I can. But what about the chain?

  “You worry about the den, I’ll worry about the chain.” Ahraia stood up, her body tingling with every thin hope she had ever felt. Their minds melded, and Ahraia showed her shadow exactly what she was thinking.

  “Keep the opening small, we’re going to have to keep it hidden,” she said. “And find a place to hide that orb!”

  Losna turned back to the den and began to dig with her foreclaws, spinning loose dirt onto the ground about her. Ahraia sprinted from the hillside. She leapt over logs wreathed in moss and dusk, her feet crunching over molten-yellow and orange leaves. She dashed between trunks that were crossed dangerously by tapering shadows; the treetops blossomed in fiery red, burning hot like her heart.

  “Where are you?” she said, seeking out with her mind for one particular shadow—one she had already seen. Worry simmered within her. What if every subject of the woods was as loyal to the Masai as the wall had been?

  “Some creatures have more honor than that,” she said aloud, hoping her voice carried.

  Her mind scanned all about, but the woods were empty. She felt three smaller sparrows, and a single squirrel, but nothing that would be adequate to retrieve her bow. The Dae-Mon was sinking too quickly. Ahraia never thought a day would come that she needed more light.

  “Come on, where did you get to?” She reached the wall of the Makers where she had first entered. The malice of the palisade hung in the air, and she felt the brush of a dae-ward’s mind beyond. She slowe
d, walking about the hill, following the wall, conveying loosely all the while.

  Help me. Please, she conveyed outwardly. I know you’re out there.

  Something flitted through the canopy. She sensed watchful eyes, familiar and yet wary.

  Is that you? she conveyed again.

  Movement swept behind her. Ahraia spun about, the hairs on her neck standing on end. A single leaf fell to the ground, crackling against the silence.

  “Will you help me?”

  She held her breath, hoping—hoping that at least one fragment of these woods had honor.

  She sensed a branch move. She turned and flinched. Noiselessly, an enormous owl leapt from the shadows, spreading its wings wide. It hurtled through the dusky canopy and in the span of a breath, its talons uncurled, sharp and broad, and its wings billowed out, slowing it. It landed just before her, on a branch as big as her thigh. The branch bowed under its weight.

  The owl watched her with perfectly indifferent eyes. It was the same owl she had startled when she had entered that morning. It seemed a lifetime had passed since then.

  Ahraia swallowed. I need your help. I need you to retrieve something for me. Her desperation bled through her thoughts. Owls were a proud type. The type that didn’t like to be controlled, not even as shadows. And this was an eagle owl, like Flit had been. The proudest of all.

  The owl shuffled its feet with its arms tucked behind its back. It twisted its neck, looking first left and then right.

  You’re one of them. The thoughts were half-formed, but Ahraia knew it was thinking of sprites.

  “I don’t want to be. I want to run from this place.”

  I don’t like the howling. I want it to stop.

  “I can make it stop. If you just help me . . .” I came to you, because you’re the only one who can help me—the only one strong enough. And honorable enough. Ahraia’s earnestness melded with every word. The owl puffed out its chest, its breast feathers ruffling proudly. It turned its neck about again, then ducked forward in acceptance.