by Claire Luana
“Enzo, save him!” she croaked, hoping the seishen had more sense than her brother.
The last image she saw before darkness overtook her was a seishen’s golden tail disappearing into the night.
RIKA AWOKE TO pain. Her head throbbed and her body felt wrung out and exhausted, as if she had just run up a mountain pass. She turned her head gingerly to take in her surroundings. She was lying on her back on a hard table, a tent of black fabric above her. The flap of the door was propped open, and she squinted into the sunlight beyond. It was daytime. She must have been unconscious for hours. She tried to sit up and found that she couldn’t. A stab of panic lanced through her. Was she paralyzed? She looked down at her body and saw that she was held down by thick leather straps—her wrists, ankles and chest affixed to the table. Fear clawed at her insides as she jerked her arms against the straps.
A shadow passed in front of the sunlight and she froze, craning her neck to make out who entered the tent. It was the black-haired man—the one who had helped the soul-eaters murder her father. “Don’t struggle,” he said in the deep honeyed tone she had heard yesterday. But something was different. His voice—it had inflection. Personality. His handsome face—rather than the blank featureless mask she had seen as he grabbed her by the ankle and dragged her across the tent—was now twisted with something that looked akin to regret. And… “Your eyes,” she said with surprise, her voice nothing more than a hoarse whisper. They no longer glowed with the soul-eater’s unnatural magic. They were still green, she realized, but a light, lovely hue like fresh-cut lemongrass.
He stepped in close and bent over her. She jerked away reflexively but was anchored in place by the leather bonds. “We have little time. They are coming. When your magic killed Twelve, it freed me from their compulsion.” His breath tickled her ear.
“Twelve?” she asked, curiosity overcoming her revulsion at the murderer’s closeness.
“They are called by numbers, not names. It is not important. No one has ever killed a soul-eater before. At least not that I have heard of. They are frightened of you—and intent on learning the secrets of your magic so they can rip it from the world. I am to torture you until you reveal it to us.” The words he spoke were clipped, his accent peppering her language with staccato rhythm.
“Torture?” She yelped.
Deep voices sounded outside the tent. Cold fear twisted her stomach in an iron grip.
“They are coming,” he said. “I need you to pretend I am hurting you.” He looked back at the tent flap, where tall black shadows hovered outside. “Do you understand?” he whispered.
She didn’t, but she nodded sharply as two of the soul-eaters entered, together with Master Tato, strange green eyes blazing. She narrowed her eyes at him. Traitorous coward.
“This puny creature killed Twelve?” one of the soul-eaters asked. She cringed at its grating voice.
The other one nodded, stepping closer to examine her. Still out of reach, she noticed with some small bit of satisfaction. It was the soul-eater with three fingers, the one that had killed her father. It now held the strange staff that had been in the hands of the other one last night. Perhaps it had taken it after the death of the other?
The soul-eater spoke again, without looking at Master Tato. “What can you tell us of her magic, historian?”
“Her magic is unknown in our world,” Tato said, his voice flat. “The primary form of magic is drawn from the sun and the moon. In women, the ability to burn the light of the moon manifests physically in the form of the hair turning silver. As you can see, her hair remains black. It appears that she did something new. Something unknown to me.”
“Something new,” the creature seemed to sneer. “You promised that you would be of use to us. Yet you know nothing.”
“There was a prophecy. It was foretold that she would confront a great shadow. It is believed that your armies are that shadow.”
The black-haired man shifted slightly at this, watching Master Tato with veiled interest. The mention of the prophecy had peaked his interest for some reason. Could she truly trust that this man was on her side? Someone who had offered himself to be a slave to these horrible monsters? Who had stood by as his own kind were turned to ash before his eyes? While her father…Rika’s mind stuttered over the thought as tears pricked at the corner of her eyes. With a silent apology, she shoved the thought away. She couldn’t fall apart now. She needed to be smart. Like her mother. What would Kai do? The most unlikely alliance is often the most effective. Her mother’s words, spoken in the midst of a torturously long lesson on foreign policy. She looked back at the black-haired man, his eyes fixed on the floor, his stubble-covered jaw working. No, she couldn’t trust him. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t use him.
“Does this prophecy speak of others like her?”
“No,” Master Tato said. “I believe she is the only one.”
“So we kill her and our problem is solved,” the soul-eater said. Rika glared at it, struggling against her bonds.
“I believe so,” Master Tato.
“Unless this fool is wrong,” the three-fingered soul-eater said, its green eyes glittering with malice.
The black-haired man inclined his head in a respectful bow. “Seven, the girl might know of her own power. Know if there are others. Let me question her. If I learn nothing, I will end her.”
The two soul-eaters looked at each other and conversed in their hissing, clicking language. The one the man had called “Seven” made the decision. “Do it. If you learn nothing by nightfall, she dies.”
Some of Rika’s tension melted at the sudden reprieve. Her life was now in this strange man’s hands.
“You.” The other soul-eater pointed to Master Tato, who straightened at the word. “Stay with them and observe.”
No! Rika thought. With Master Tato watching, reporting back to the soul-eaters…the black-haired man would actually have to torture her. Her stomach flipped.
Master Tato inclined his head in agreement and the two soul-eaters swept from the tent.
“You—Tato is your name?” the black-haired man said. “Fetch me a bucket of cold water and a brazier to heat the coals.”
“I’m supposed to observe.”
“You can at least be of use!” the man snapped, and Master Tato jumped, shuffling out of the tent.
The man must have seen the fear in Rika’s eyes because he leaned over her. “I have an idea. It’s going to be all right. But when I signal, you’ll need to scream like you’re in the worst pain of your life. Do you understand?”
She nodded, swallowing the lump in her throat.
“We make it through this day, and tonight we escape. Understood?”
“Escape?” she asked, hope blooming like a cherry blossom in her chest.
He nodded, his green eyes blazing with intensity. “You can kill soul-eaters. That makes you the most precious treasure in the world. I will not let them kill you.”
“Okay.”
“Be still,” he said, squeezing her hand. His hand was warm, his palm calloused. “I will return.”
“Not like I could go anywhere,” she grumbled, fluttering her arms uselessly in the leather straps.
When he returned, the black-haired man—she needed a better name for him—filled the tent with horrors. He heated a brazier until the coals were red-hot and placed two pokers in the fire to heat. He rolled out a little leather case with wicked-looking metal implements, whose purpose Rika could hardly even guess. Rika’s heart thundered in her chest as she tried to stay calm. Even knowing that he said he was going to go easy on her, she broke out in a cold sweat at the sight of the torture implements. There were so many ways to hurt a person. She hadn’t known. Her mind spun in panicked circles, cursing her idiotic decision to come here. What a fool she’d been. To think that she could defeat something so evil, an armada of ships bearing monsters that she couldn’t have imagined in her deepest nightmares. To think that she could fight something that not even he
r father, a seasoned warrior, could stand against. She squeezed her eyes closed, her heart wrenching at the thought of Hiro. The raw ache inside at his absence felt real—physical. She wished he were here now. She would run into his arms, wrapping herself in his embrace of mint and leather. She would bury her face in Ryu’s thick mane, crying until her tears were spent. But those were comforts that were gone from this world. Even if she survived this, she’d never feel them again. What kind of world was it without her father? A dark one indeed.
The black-haired man pulled a poker from the fire, drawing Rika’s attention. The glowing end of the iron filled her vision as he stepped beside her and a sob escaped her lips. She squirmed, fighting the leather straps. Whatever the man did here, it would hurt…there was no going easy, there was no pretending. He stepped right next to her, so his bulk blocked Master Tato’s sight, and from a pouch on his belt, he pulled a piece of raw meat. He looked at her intently before plunging the poker into the meat. She was so surprised she almost forgot her part in the theatrics, but a wide-eyed look from the man was enough to remind her. She let out a blood-curdling scream, arching her back, thrashing against her restraints. The smell of burning flesh filled the air, making her gag, and she screamed even louder, almost able to believe that the burning flesh was her own.
He pulled the poker from the beef and slipped the meat back in his pouch before turning to place the poker back in the fire.
Thus, they commenced what could perhaps be described as the most elaborate ruse ever concocted. Master Tato, who had been squeamish and soft as a historian, had not had his disposition improved by enslavement to an evil soul-sucking race. He sat in the corner, his skin pale and sweaty, trying to avoid looking at what the black-haired man did.
Rika, for her part, almost started to enjoy herself, screaming out her anger and fear and sorrow while the man pretended to stick needles under her fingernails or pour water over a cloth covering her face. Never did he truly hurt her, and as the hours ticked by, she began to feel a true appreciation for the black-haired man. Whatever he had been when his eyes had glowed green, now, he was her savior.
As the sun began to set, the man wiped his brow, sitting down heavily in a chair beside Master Tato. Rika watched him, though she pretended to moan and twist with the pain. He took a swig from a flask that he pulled from his belt and offered it to Master Tato, who took it gratefully, taking a large gulp.
The man clapped Master Tato on the back. “It’s not for everyone,” he said. “No shame in it.”
Master Tato nodded, and the man stood, stretching. His back popped. Master Tato swayed in his chair, his eyes fluttering. Rika watched with interest as his chin drooped onto his chest. He was out.
“What…” She cleared her throat. Her voice was croaky from screaming. “What did you give him?”
“Sedative,” the man said. “He should sleep for a few hours, but be none the wiser. Enough time for us to get out of here.”
He crossed the room and began to unbuckle the straps holding her to the table. “What’s your name?” she asked.
“Vikal,” he said.
“I’m Rika.”
“Nice to meet you, Rika,” he said, unbuckling the last strap around her chest. He offered her his hand, and she took it, using his strength to pull herself up. Her body groaned in protest from the hours it had been held down on the hard surface. “Are you ready to get the hell out of here?”
She nodded, adrenaline singing through her veins. Her father’s sword leaned against the chair Tato slumped in, its hilt decorated with a golden dragon with red ruby eyes. Tato must have removed it from the other tent. She grabbed it, buckling the scabbard securely around her narrow waist. “Now I’m ready. Lead the way.”
THE SOUTHERN SKY was painted with the navy and gold of a dying sunset—the low light turning the sea of black tents and ebony-lacquered ships burnished bronze. Rika stood outside the corner of the tent, flighty as a wild thing. She was too exposed. Vikal bent down and retrieved a black bundle from beneath the corner of the tent before shaking it out and wrapping it around her. A cloak. He fastened the garment beneath her chin and pulled up the hood, as if she were a child unable to dress herself. Though if she were being honest with herself, she wasn’t sure her hands wouldn’t shake too much to fasten the clasp on her own.
He looked down at her and her breath caught at the nearness of him. Who was this man? “Stay close behind me. Let me do the talking if we encounter anyone. Any…thing.”
She nodded. “Did my brother escape?”
“Yes,” he said. “His steed was fast as the wind. My… The soul-eater’s scouts could not catch him.”
Some small bit of tension uncoiled from her spine. Thank the gods. Koji had escaped. Which meant that he would warn their mother about the creatures. Give her time to prepare for war.
“Can you swim?” he asked.
Another nod.
“Good. We are stealing a boat.”
She opened her mouth to question him further, but he was already striding across the grass-covered dunes towards the ocean. She hurried after him, falling into step behind him like a shadow. The camp was strangely silent. There were men who wore the same black leather as Vikal, who walked about the camp on business for the soul-eaters, but the creatures themselves were nowhere to be seen. The number of ships was staggering, however. Even if there were only a few men and soul-eaters per ship, the invading force had to be in the thousands. Her parents…no, she thought with a choking correction, her mother had perhaps one hundred sun and moonburners, if you included those in training. Only a dozen of those had seishen. The gift of burning was rare, after all. Perhaps five thousand soldiers, if the reserves were called up. After twenty years of peace, much of their military apparatus had been dismantled. There was simply no way Kitina could withstand this force if it was brought to bear.
A man in leather was approaching them, walking up from the undulating line of surf. Rika tensed. “Bak!” Vikal called, raising a hand. He repeated the word, and then began conversing with the man in a foreign tongue. It was not the clicking, scratching language of the soul-eaters; it was melodious and lilting, almost like song. In the low twilight, the other man’s green eyes glowed like twin campfires. Did he see that Vikal’s eyes no longer glowed? Would he notice? The moment stretched on for what felt like an eternity, and Rika was forced to take a shuddering breath, able to hold it no longer. Finally, Vikal grunted an affirmation and the man nodded in deference, trudging on through the soft sand.
“What language is that?” she whispered.
“Later,” he hissed.
She bristled at the reprimand but fell silent, following along behind him, quiet as a ghost.
They reached the water’s edge and he removed his boots, tucking them securely in his belt. He began wading into the water. “What are you doing?”
“You said you could swim.”
“I can, but that doesn’t mean I want to.”
“We are taking that boat,” he said, pointing to one bobbing a few hundred yards out to sea, a glowing green light at its prow. “Taking one of the rowboats off the beach would be too obvious though. So we swim. Or you can stay here.”
Rika glanced over her shoulder at the city of black that polluted Kitina’s sugary sand. No way in hell she was staying. She sighed and waded in after him, her skin goose pebbling at the cold of the water. It wasn’t frigid, but it certainly wasn’t bathwater. She tried to judge the distance to the boat, shoving down her trepidation. She didn’t think she had ever swum so far. She looked back at the beach and caught sight of an armor-plated soul-eater moving in the distance. Determination flared in her. She would swim halfway around the world to get away from those things.
She slipped into the water and began stroking her way towards the boat in smooth, easy motions. She paused for a moment to unbuckle the cloak at her throat, letting the water bear its heavy weight away. The clothes she wore were heavy, but the sword scabbard was the real weight, pulling
at her middle, arresting her progress. She didn’t care. It was all she had of her father now. She would drown before she abandoned it to the depths of the sea. At that moment, a bit of brackish seawater slopped into her mouth, making her cough and splutter. Perhaps it would come to that.
Vikal’s lungs burned like fire and his muscles felt like lead weights when he finally reached the boat. He had been too long in the soul-eaters’ captivity, standing about like a mute automaton. Who was he kidding? One moment enslaved to those leeches was too long. But now he was free. Thanks to that tiny girl.
He ruffled his hand through his thick hair, shaking out the water. She was approaching the stern of the vessel, paddling slowly, struggling to keep her head above water. There was a ladder on the back, and she hung on the bottom rung for a moment, heaving in a breath. He watched all this from the corner of his eye as he began to unfurl the sails. He had looked back at her a hundred times during their swim, making sure she wasn’t struggling too much. Though he didn’t want to coddle her, he couldn’t risk losing her. He had meant what he said. She was precious.
He unwrapped the mainsail as with a little sob of effort, the girl rallied her strength and heaved herself over the rail. She collapsed in a puddle of seawater on the deck.
“You brought that sword?” Vikal asked, pausing. “Foolish girl. It is a miracle you did not drown.” What had she been thinking? There was no room for sentiment here.
“I’m not”—Rika gasped—”a foolish girl. I saved your sorry self from being enslaved to those monsters. And this is my father’s sword. It’s all that’s left of him, besides ash and memories. I wasn’t going to leave it behind.”
Rika’s eyes gleamed in the moonlight as they stared each other down.
“Very well,” he said. She had made it. It wasn’t worth fighting about now. He caught sight of a wisp of a form floating against the starboard rail. When he turned his head to look at it, it was gone. Ever since he had been freed yesterday, he could swear he was seeing things. Seeing Sarya. A side effect of the compulsion perhaps. Creeping madness.
