Shadowscent

by P. M. Freestone

  A thud-scuff interrupts my thoughts.

  Nisai joins me on the balcony. His steps are slow and careful, but after several days’ rest he’s able to walk with the aid of two crutches. Who knows how long it will take for his atrophied legs to bear weight again. If they ever will.

  Kip stations herself by the door, arms folded. I catch the scent of leather armor, coconut hair oil, and nothing else, as if she’s scrubbed with grit soap. I can only imagine what it would be like to grow up with slurs about the sulfur stench of the Losian Wastes. Unpleasant smells are easier to wash away than cruel words.

  The Prince nods in greeting. “I was hoping I’d find you here.”

  I shrug. “Where else would I be?”

  “My pardon is valid outside the palace. You may go wherever you wish.”

  “So could you, technically.” He looks older, as if the starwheel has turned half a dozen times since he stepped into the Aphorain palace hall.

  I’m not surprised he’s aged. I can’t imagine how it would feel to know that someone wanted you dead so badly that they found a seemingly incurable poison, dredging up magic outlawed so long ago it should have been well beyond the edge of memory. Not only that, but they had enough power to blackmail one of his closest friends to deliver that poison.

  Shari handed Esarik’s letter to Nisai not long after he revived. No wonder I couldn’t make anything of the script, the first section was in Old Imperial, the second in a language they made up when they were younger to pass notes in their palace tutorials—if the message were intercepted, its contents wouldn’t be compromised.

  The letter admitted full guilt, though explained his blackmailers had told him to set the fire in the dahkai plantation to discredit the Scent Keeper. It was only when Ash and I visited had he deduced that the smoke he had released was to be the final ingredient, the trigger, in a series of poisonous substances the Prince had already been exposed to.

  It was more than politics.

  It was assassination.

  He begged Nisai’s forgiveness, telling him how he’d married Ami, the curator, in secret because his father would never let him shirk family duty for an aristocratic match. When she was taken hostage, he felt he had nobody to turn to.

  He had me. Nisai’s voice was full of sorrow as he closed the letter. I could have helped him. We could have found a way.

  But the letter revealed nothing to Nisai about who had taken Ami, who had put Esarik up to the poisoning, who still seeks the Prince’s death.

  And that only makes me think of Father, who lives with the knowledge that something is trying to take his life every day.

  “I have to leave the capital,” I tell Nisai. “Soon.”

  He inclines his head.

  I return the nod, as if it’s some kind of unofficial salute. To him? To a mission accomplished? Or to the memory of his closest companion, who spent the last day of his life underneath this mountain. Grief ignites to rage as I picture Ash’s unmoving body being dragged from the dungeons and shoved into an incinerator, his remains charred to dust without the honor of a fragrant wood pyre or the incense to honor his beliefs.

  Nisai sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose.

  It’s a reminder he shares my pain. I’m not completely alone.

  The image burns away.

  “Are you unwell?” I ask.

  “Only in my thoughts. I’m not sure who I can trust anymore. Other than my mother. Kip. And you.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “What makes you think you can trust me?”

  “You risked everything to save me.”

  “I didn’t have much choice.”

  “Ash trusted you.”

  I have nothing to say to that.

  Nisai clasps his hands in front of him, managing to look thoughtful and composed despite the situation. One day he’ll make a formidable statesman. An Emperor, I correct myself.

  “We always have a choice. Even if it is between seemingly impossible options.” He shields his eyes from the setting sun, squinting out toward the west, over the riverlands to the smudge of dust haze on the far horizon. “I’ve had word from my mother. Until we discover who is at the bottom of the assassination attempt, she thinks it’s best I make myself scarce. I’ll be coming with you.”

  “What? To Aph—”

  “Keep your voice down.”

  “Oh. Sorry. But do you think that’s wise? After the last trip …”

  “If there’s one thing my mother—Shari—is, it’s shrewd. You don’t get to her position on the Council being anything but. She knows my great-uncle, the Aphorain Eraz, has all the reason in the world to want to keep my head on my shoulders and my nose sharp. And it’s the last place almost anyone else would expect me to be. After the previous trip, as you say.”

  Then he squints slightly in appraisal. “I’m going to be in need of people with expertise in a particular set of areas. Scentlore, not least among them. Do you happen to know any suitable candidates?”

  “I might know someone. But that depends.”

  “Depends on what?”

  “On how much you’re paying. Seems like it’s dangerous work being anywhere in your vicinity.”

  He gives me a wry, lopsided smile. “I think appropriate compensation could be arranged. Starting with this. The temple administrator was reluctant to part with it, but lucky for me she wouldn’t deny the First Prince.” He reaches into the ample sleeve of his robe and hands me a tiny bottle made of pure quartz crystal. Carved with a pattern I’ve seen before but can’t quite place, it’s the most beautiful workmanship I’ve come across.

  Nisai nods. “Go on. Open it.”

  I work out the stopper.

  Dahkai.

  “Some of the last in any market of Aramtesh, I’d expect. It can’t give you or your father back what you’ve lost these past moons, and for that I’m sorry. But it should be more than enough to buy the best available treatment.”

  He hands me a small scroll sealed with imperial purple wax stamped with a winged lion. It’s a note of imperial provenance, legally assigning me owner in the eyes of the regulators.

  “Thank you.” Those two words sound so completely inadequate. I may have played a key role in saving his life, but there was nothing that forced him to pardon me, and what’s more, to trust me. Let alone turn over such a rich reward.

  But I don’t know how to put my immense gratitude into words. I reseal the bottle and dip into an awkward half bow. “Thank you, my Prince.”

  We leave that night.

  Once the temple priestesses saw the Prince, they calmed down about my impersonating a Losian initiate and drugging one of their own. The administrator I’d fooled scowled, but suggested the best way to get Nisai and me out of the imperial complex and then the capital would be as pilgrims.

  Kip insists on remaining in the Prince’s service, muttering something about the Rangers not being able to find a turd in a shitstorm, so why should she bother with them. I smile sadly at that, wishing Ash could have been here to hear it, knowing the turds she’s referring to were a pair of fugitives—us.

  We’re to join a flotilla of barges headed downriver, full of devout sorts who seek to pray at the five major temples of the Empire’s provinces. I’m skeptical as to whether we’ll be able to blend in.

  An imperial heir recovering from an assassination attempt.

  A Losian Ranger turned bodyguard.

  An Aphorain village girl turned Prince saver.

  But when we arrive at the docks, I realize devotion doesn’t discriminate. All ages and provinces are represented in the passengers. Some of them reek of weeks of unwash. Others must scrub with pumice stones until their skin is raw and they’re as scentless as a human can be. A few stick out with undeniably aristocratic perfumes that shout louder than anything a plain-spun smock can hide.

  Once we’re aboard, I turn back a last time, to where the palace and temple crest Ekasya Mountain. Braziers glow in the night, the whole city lit up so bright that I can�
��t see all the stars, the mix of smoke and incense and tallow and beeswax lost in the multitudes of scent. But the winged lion constellation shines through it all, flying toward the desert, toward home. Gazing up at it, I find myself saying my first ever prayer under my breath.

  “Asmudtag, if you’re out there, if there’s something after this life, please, guide Ash home, too.”

  The journey is long and uneventful.

  Another time I might have enjoyed the novelty of the river barge, but that only lasts a few days.

  Then it’s step by penitent step overland to Aphorai.

  Nisai and Kip recount how when they last passed this way, the delegation was attacked by a group of brigands. I guess a band of gray-robed pilgrims isn’t worth the effort, because we see nobody except the odd merchant caravan.

  Sometimes we trudge in silence, sometimes the pilgrims sing. I hate it when they do. It makes the grief at Ash’s loss well up inside me, blurring my vision. Lately things have looked watery enough. Like the edges of distant objects have become soft, less distinct.

  I shake my head. No doubt I’m getting a bit of sun brain out here.

  Which is probably why I don’t recognize the lone rider until he’s almost upon us.

  “Rakel!” he calls, sliding down from his camel while still awkwardly holding the reins of a horse. The mare is blacker than the night sky, her ears laid back and teeth bared as she repeatedly attempts to nip the hand holding her bridle.

  My throat constricts with emotion—gratitude and relief and amazement. “How did you find us?”

  Barden taps his nose cunningly. “I knew the Prince had been saved once the smoke went up from the temple. And I knew if you’d succeeded, you’d be heading home as soon as you could. So I asked around at the docks, getting an idea of which barges left recently. Figured there was a good a chance as any you’d be stowed away among the pilgrims. Then I bribed the guards at the palace barracks stables, dropped the rest of my wages on a camel and passage on a merchant barge, and struck out after you. I always know how to follow you.”

  I fling myself half at Barden, half at Lil, so one arm ends up hugging mane, the other, man.

  Man?

  I step back and look up at my oldest friend, realizing we know very little of what each other has gone through these past moons. Part of me aches at the thought of what we’ve lost. I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to reconcile the Barden who betrayed me, no matter his reasons, with the Barden who stands before me. But his journey must have come with its own demands, its own threats, and I can only guess at them.

  Good thing the road to our village is long.

  I smell home before I see it.

  Cooking fires.

  Desert roses whose perfume will dissipate when the sun rises.

  The first water for miles.

  We crest the last dune and look down on the oasis I’d begun to believe I’d never see again. The village is just beginning to stir in the predawn light.

  Father stands outside our house, crutch under his arm for balance, watching the eastern horizon. Whether he waits for the coming dawn, or somehow for us, I don’t know.

  And right now, I don’t care.

  I slide down from Lil’s saddle and break into a run, skidding down the dune, kicking up sand as I go.

  All the questions, all the grudges, all the accusations vanish as he wraps his arms around me—mint soap, old leather armor, rosemary beard oil.

  But something’s missing. There’s no bergamot to mask the stench of rotting flesh.

  I barely even catch a hint of rotting flesh.

  I step back to see Kip and Nisai making their way toward us, Barden carrying one of the Prince’s crutches and supporting him with the other arm as they descend the dune.

  Nisai. First Prince of Aramtesh. Here in my village.

  “Father, you might want to sit down.” How do I even begin to explain I’ve brought the heir of the Empire home with me?

  “I’m fine, really,” he says, one arm still around my shoulders, his chin pressed to my hair. “Now that you’re home.”

  “This may be hard to believe.” I swallow, suddenly feeling inadequate to the task before me. “May I present First Prince Nisai?”

  Father doesn’t seem the least bit surprised, stooping into a bow that is surprisingly graceful considering the bandages around what’s left of his leg.

  I frown. “Father, I’m not joking.”

  “I realize that. I had advance word.”

  “Advance word?”

  A figure emerges from the doorway behind him. The loose robe and long sleeves say traveler. The leather vest and kilt strapped over it, scaled with bronze discs, say something more. A knife for hire. Is this the caravan guard Barden mentioned?

  I peer closer. Dark hair cropped to chin length. Paler skin than any caravan guard has the right to possess. And deep, deep blue eyes.

  The traveler watches me with an amused smirk, then turns to Nisai. “My Prince. I must say, it’s such a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance. Luz Zakkurus, at your service.”

  Luz Zakkurus.

  Luz. The beautiful servant girl who broke me out of the Aphorain dungeons.

  Zakkurus. The youngest Aphorain chief perfumer in history, who rigged the perfume trials against me and sold my indenture contract to Sephine. In a way, the person who started this whole thing off.

  My nostrils flare.

  Violets.

  Both Zakkurus and Luz smelled of the most exquisitely delicate violet water. My eyes may have been deceived, but my nose told me they were one and the same long before now.

  I plant my hands on my hips. “What in the sixth hell is going on here?”

  But I don’t get an answer. Instead Luz, or Zakkurus, no both, steps closer, taking my chin in hand, turning it to either side, staring into one eye and then the next. “You survived the first imbibing, then.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Sweet clove breath. Long, elegant fingers cool against my skin. “You took Sephine’s elixir. You haven’t noticed anything different? Any cloudiness to your vision?”

  My jaw drops. I’d told nobody about the headaches, about the feeling that distant objects had lost their sharpness. I thought it merely lingering exhaustion since healing Nisai, that it would pass. “How did you know?”

  “Asmudtag is all. Light and dark. Do calm down, petal. And come inside. You, too, my Prince. We wouldn’t want the neighbors getting fragrant ideas. There’s much to discuss. And, as ever, time is of the essence.”

  The last is said over a mailed shoulder: “Oh, and your mother asked me to pass on a message.”

  My mother?

  “Welcome to the Order of Asmudtag.”

  Wahey … do I smell a cliffhanger?

  If that’s not the most pleasing of aromas to you, feel free to curse every stench under the starwheel. I’ll wait. But when you’re done, rest assured that Rakel, Ash, and many of their friends (and frenemies, and enemies) will return. I hope you will, too.

  In the meantime, please know that I’m so incredibly grateful to you, dear reader. Without you—and the amazing booksellers, librarians, and reviewers who may have led you here—I would not have had the opportunity to spend as much time in Aramtesh. Your support is worth more to me than dahkai.

  Every book is like a complex perfume—with so many ingredients contributing to the bouquet. This one is no different. On that note, thanks go to:

  My agent, Josh Adams, the most awesome ally and advocate—I couldn’t have dreamed of a better champion for me and my books. Thank you for believing! I’m also incredibly grateful for Caroline Walsh’s wonderful support and guidance in the UK. Josh, Tracey, Cathy, Caroline and Christabel—I thank my lucky scents you’re all in my corner!

  Editors extraordinaire Linas Alsenas and Mallory Kass—what can I say? From our first conversation, I knew Rakel and Ash were in safe hands. Thank you for giving this left-of-center book a home, for your engagement and patience i
n what’s been a truly rewarding and collaborative editorial process, and for challenging me to dig deeper to make Shadowscent the best possible version of itself.

  The wider team at Scholastic UK, with special notes to: Lauren Fortune, Pete Matthews, Lorraine Keating, Emma Jobling, Antonia Pelari, and Tina Miller. Liam Drane—thank you for the shiniest cover, incorporating so many intricacies of the story and world. And Chie Nakano and Tanya Harris-Brown—I’m so grateful for your tireless work to send Ash and Rakel adventuring in other languages!

  Shadowscent takes place in a secondary fantasy world. While it is impossible to escape all influences from our own world, Aramtesh is not an analog of any one location, culture, or historical era, and was instead built from the ground up to have its own internal logic. For this, I relied on so many smart and generous people. Linguist Dr. Lauren Gawne created Old Aramteskan, a new language specifically for a society in which daily life revolves around scent. Experts shared knowledge on everything from chemistry to moon-orbit calculations to lion behavior to neurotoxins. Sensitivity readers (both known and anonymous to me) gave time and energy to examine Aramtesh’s intersections of representation. That said, any shortcomings remain my own.

  My mentors, critique partners, early readers, and sounding boards—Amie Kaufman (you never gave up on your Baltimore Keith!), Laura Lam, Pam Macintyre, Kat Kennedy, Sophie Meeks, Serena Lawless, Katherine Firth, Mark Philps, Chris Stabback, Jasmine Stairs, Liz Barr, Kirsty Williams, Nicole and Shane Rosenberg, Claire Gawne, Amber Lough, Eliza Tiernan, and Mel Valente. You’re indelible. I couldn’t have done this without you.

  SCBWI British Isles (with special shout-outs to The Saras and the Undiscovered Voices team, and to Southeast Scotland local network organizers past and present), Book Bound UK (especially Karen Ball who encouraged me to keep going with this after reading the, ahem, rough first chapter), and Scottish Book Trust for my New Writers Award and all the assistance and opportunities since.

  My support networks: House of Progress and the Aus retreat gang, Clan #becpub, Ladies of Literary License, Clarion Narwolves, Plot Bunnies, and the We’ve Got This crew.