A Cast of Shadows: An Araneae Nation Story

by Hailey Edwards

  Shame flickered across his face, or perhaps I imagined it.

  “You weren’t trapped inside the city walls when the plague ravaged Cathis. You did not hold your wife as she died while praying your daughter wasn’t next. You did not see males you’ve known the whole of your life vanish without a trace. I knew males who disappeared. They were not cowards and would not have left their families.” The hunter sneered. “You and your wide, innocent eyes have never beheld desperation, let alone experienced it. You have not eaten the flesh of your clansmen in the hopes you survive long enough for aid to arrive.” He laughed bitterly. “You have no right to judge me.”

  “You’re right. I don’t.” The horrors he spoke of were beyond my comprehension.

  “Then you will understand why I must do this.” He held my gaze, compelling me to agree.

  I’m sure I would have lied to him and said yes in order to get close enough to disarm him. I still hoped, perhaps foolishly, that Brynmor would stride from the forest with a sword or a spear. Yet our previous encounters had taught me not to expect help where there was likely to be none.

  It was then, while I was distracted, that a blur caught the edge of my vision.

  Errol leapt onto the hunter’s back, his growls wet and gurgled.

  The hunter fisted Errol’s scruff and tugged, but the canis held on, sank his teeth into the side of the male’s neck and tore. The hunter grunted and reached for a knife on his belt. He’d dropped the sword when the canis latched on to him. His knife arced, split Errol’s ear and made him howl.

  Blade in hand, I advanced. There was no time to wait for an opening. I had to make my own.

  Incensed by pain, Errol lashed out at the hunter, whose blood-slicked hands caused him to drop the knife. His palms slid over Errol’s jaw, almost cradling it, as Errol’s teeth clamped shut over the hunter’s neck and flung his head from side to side.

  Before I reached the hunter, he sent Errol hurtling through the air. The canis hit a tree and crumpled at its base.

  The hunter dropped to his knees. I grasped his shoulders, but he was too heavy and he listed sideways. His body hit the dirt with a sickening thump. He didn’t move. He wasn’t breathing.

  The hunter was dead.

  “Daraja.” Brynmor’s voice carried as softly to my ears as leaves fluttered on the wind.

  I was ashamed by how relief made my knees tremble. “Brynmor?”

  I spun around in time to witness the broken canis expel a shuddering breath that might well be its last. But what made my blood run cold was the specter hovering menacingly over its body. It was Brynmor, but not. Instead of flesh and bone, it was wisp and fog, a fragile outline of the male I expected to see. His eyes, though, they burned. Red coals glimmered in a face carved from smoke. I stumbled back a step before those smoldering eyes locked with mine.

  “Daraja,” he said again, softer this time, as if words cost too much effort to form.

  “W-who are you?” I had no idea why it looked like Brynmor or how it knew my name.

  When it failed to answer, I steeled my nerves and turned my back on the apparition.

  Wind sighed over my shoulder. “Daraja.”

  I flinched and asked again, “Who—what—are you?”

  “You know,” it said. “You know.”

  When it knelt a hairsbreadth above the ground and caressed Errol’s matted fur with the same tenderness Brynmor had shown Karenna’s corpse, I fell to my knees and heaved until my gut emptied.

  He was right. I did know.

  “Brynmor,” I whispered, and the spirit inclined its head.

  Chapter Six

  The mental bond Brynmor shared with Errol stretched to a taut thread too thin for words. No matter how hard he strained for connection, there was none. His strokes down Errol’s side passed through his body. Brynmor was spiritual energy now, not flesh, and his caresses were little more than a wind ruffling Errol’s fur. He was trapped in the in-between, his soul present with no body.

  Ripping his gaze from Errol, he latched on to Daraja as their only hope.

  Her sun-kissed cheeks were drained of color. Her gray eyes were wide open and unblinking. She clutched her knife’s handle until her knuckles whitened. The lariat slapped against her thigh.

  Summoning the dregs of his energy, and Errol’s, Brynmor pleaded, “Help him.”

  Daraja was shaking her head before he finished. “I don’t understand. What does this mean?” Her voice broke. “How are you here if you’re…?” She covered her mouth to stop her question.

  Dead. He was long gone from this world, but her horror over his passing was evident.

  “A spirit,” he said, trying to soften the blow.

  “Gods above and below, have mercy.” Her eyes shone with unshed tears. “The hunters…?”

  “No.” His voice gentled. “I’ve been this way for a long time, since before we met.”

  “Dead?” She found her voice. “You were dead this whole time? No. No. You were alive.”

  “I deceived you.” There had been no other way to protect himself and Errol.

  “You kissed me.” She touched her lips.

  “I did.” He refrained from admitting, given the opportunity, he would again.

  “Your skin was warm against mine.” Her hand fell into her lap. “How is that possible?”

  “It’s complicated.”

  Her laughter was unexpected, tight as the skin Brynmor no longer wore.

  If she wanted him to confess his crimes, he would, gladly, but not now. “If Errol dies…”

  “You die too?” The stubborn set of her jaw told him what a mess he had made of things. “I don’t believe you. How can I? You just admitted you’re dead. Dead. There is no end more final.”

  He grimaced. “That’s where you’re wrong.”

  Daraja’s lips tightened over what was no doubt a biting retort. “Tell me the truth. All of it.”

  A low whine drew their attention back to Errol.

  “There’s no time.” He knew it wasn’t enough, yet knew he couldn’t risk more.

  “It’s a fatal blow.” She spoke his deepest fear. “Even if you told me the truth, and I can see from your expression you don’t intend to, I can’t save him.” Her voice lowered. “No one could.”

  “Our souls are intertwined.” He forced out the words. “If he dies, I will cease to exist in any recognizable form. I will be trapped in the in-between, never to touch or taste or speak again.”

  A shudder worked through Daraja, and she glanced at Errol. “And him?”

  “He will die and go wherever canis go, and it will have been my fault. His pack was in these woods because I promised them protection. I failed them, failed him. If I could give him back the life he shared with me these past few weeks, I would.” Brynmor stared at his useless hands. “Our bond anchors his spirit to this world because our souls have mingled and mine is grounded in this plane of existence. It may not be enough to save him, but please, for Errol’s sake, you must try.”

  Muttering about gratitude washing upon her shores, Daraja crept closer. “Move away from him.”

  With a nod, Brynmor did as she asked, giving her room to examine Errol with light hands.

  “The sword missed his heart,” she said, “but not by much.”

  A faint growl sent her scrabbling back, but the rise of Errol’s chest was his only movement.

  “Jana.” Daraja twisted to face Gwallter and hesitated. “He is dead, isn’t he?”

  Brynmor nodded.

  She flipped the body on its side and freed the bag caught beneath his hip. A quick slice from her knife cut open the bag, and Jana tumbled free. She shook out her fur and staggered drunkenly.

  “Shh.” She cuddled the pup against her chest. “It’s all right, little one.”

  “Daraja.” Brynmor called her attention back to Errol.

  “I can’t help Errol.” She rocked back on her heels. “The best I can do for him is to clean his wound, bandage it and pray the gods gran
t him the second chance they seem to have given you.”

  “You have my gratitude.” The words came odd and formal to his tongue after what they had shared. Recalling Daraja’s wonder when he presented her with a necklace, he hoped to make further amends. “For your help, I will grant you the choice of any treasure from my cache.”

  “Don’t throw your gold at me.” Her lip curled. “You’re worse than the Araneidae, thinking a scrap of jewelry or handful of coins can buy your way through life. Friendship can’t be bought. I came to help you. Not to be insulted with bribery. I may crave wealth, but I am not for sale.”

  He meant to protest but realized she was right. As paladin, he was used to getting his way, through blood or gold, threats or promises. Never did he ask for favors. He bought or stole them.

  “I shouldn’t have said…” He rubbed his face. “As your friend, I am deeply sorry.”

  “You really care for him, don’t you?” She kept her distance. “This isn’t just a trick so I help you.”

  Brynmor’s throat tightened. “He’s my brother.”

  She toed the second hunter’s corpse. “Was that necessary?”

  “The paladin would have ordered their deaths for their crimes. That they met their ends here, at Errol’s jaws, was the greatest justice they could have been served. They were fitting deaths.”

  Though now Brynmor had two bodies to dispose of and no means to do so.

  “The paladin he says.” She scoffed. “Don’t you mean your beloved son? You aren’t named after Brynmor, you are Brynmor.” Daraja’s lips pursed as if tasting a conclusion she hadn’t realized she’d reached.

  The pup chose that moment to rear up and scratch Daraja’s calf before she pounced on Errol, nipping his ear in clear invitation to play. She whined when he didn’t grumble as he usually did.

  “Let’s not antagonize him, shall we?” Daraja lifted Jana. As if noticing how still it had become, she glanced around. “Where is the rest of the pack?”

  “Errol sent the pack to the upper den, on the other side of the river, for their own safety. It’s not Errol’s way to leave them to fend for themselves. With Scipio gone, they’ll know something is wrong when Errol doesn’t arrive at the den tonight. We don’t have much time for him to heal.”

  “While I admire your enthusiasm, why are you concerned—? Oh.” She stroked Jana’s head. “If they find Errol in this condition, one of his dominant pack mates might kill him for his title.”

  “More than status, they’ll see it as a mercy killing.” Perhaps it was. Perhaps Brynmor ought to beg Daraja to end Errol’s life rather than prolong his suffering in the hope that he may survive.

  “I would prefer not to be caught at the center of a dominance fight.” Daraja looped her lariat around Errol’s front paws. “Let’s drag him inside the den.” She tugged. “It’s defensible at least.”

  Once she had the rope tight, she passed the length of braided silk to Brynmor, or she tried to. It fell through his hands to the ground. “Errol is too weak for me to manifest in the flesh. He has no energy for me to consume. I can barely hold this form, and that risks him more than I should.”

  “I knew that,” she said on a sharp exhale, chastising herself for forgetting. “Here goes.”

  After winding the lariat’s rope once around her waist, she gripped the end and walked toward the den, throwing her weight into pulling Errol to safety. Sweat poured down her face. Pained grunts rose when the rope dug into her flesh. Even when Brynmor’s nose caught the scent of fresh blood on her hands, her sides, she continued her slow advance toward the den with fierce determination.

  Watching Daraja’s struggle filled Brynmor with shame. She was attending his duties.

  He was the one who had failed Errol.

  Moments after Brynmor and Daraja first spotted the light in the forest, Errol had summoned him through their bond. Brynmor had appeared behind the hunters, close to the alpha. They were stronger together, so Brynmor let his spirit inhabit Errol’s body for the attack. It happened too fast. Errol charged the hunter before Brynmor had become accustomed to their four-legged form.

  He had been a passenger, and witnessed the sequence of events as if far removed from them.

  By the time Brynmor had gained a small measure of control over Errol, it was too late.

  The hunter’s blade had sheathed itself in their chest.

  “The least you can do—” Daraja grunted, “—is entertain me.”

  Brynmor circled them, willing Errol to rouse. “What would you like me to do?”

  “Tell me why you aren’t in the spiritlands.” She paused, chest heaving. “Well?”

  Though reluctant to distract her with stories she might repeat one day, he cleared his throat. “I died in battle some years ago. I’m not sure how many. Time is fluid in the in-between. It doesn’t move the same way there as it does here among the living.” He rubbed his face again. “It’s true what they say about the light you see at the end. Brighter than the sun, it descended upon me and called me toward its warmth. But I turned my head aside, and when I did, I glimpsed my son and my wife still engaged in the fight that had cost me my life. I couldn’t abandon them, so I stayed.”

  “That’s all?” She sounded incredulous. “You decided to stay and the gods allowed it?”

  He nodded that it was so.

  Seeming to accept such decisions were whims of fate, she asked, “What about your family?”

  “Isolde, my wife, was in the prime of her life when I passed. She was a prideful woman and our marriage had made her bitter. Our son, Vaughn, was consumed with guilt over his role in the death of his brother’s father, though I had killed the male, not him. I feared my son would follow in Isolde’s footsteps.” He admitted, “I wanted better for him. I wanted Vaughn to have with his wife what I lacked with his mother. I thought I could intervene, that I’d guide his life after my death.”

  “And did you?” she asked.

  The strands of his thoughts came unraveled. “Did I what?”

  “Intervene.”

  “Once the light left me behind on the battlefield, I was too weak to move. I lay on the grass and watched as my wife’s eyes lit with joy the moment she realized she was finally free of me. I watched my son mourn while his bastard brother comforted him. I watched my body carted away to begin purification for burial. I understood then, I had been left behind.” He frowned. “Not them.”

  Strength left her, and Daraja collapsed. “The dead have no cause to walk among the living.”

  Brynmor winced. It hurt to know she would vanquish his existence so easily.

  “I can’t say why the gods left me here,” he said at last, “but I don’t protest their generosity.”

  “Perhaps they have a task in store for you.” She lifted her shirt to wipe sweat from her eyes, exposing the lush curve of her hip and stomach. The undersides of her breasts peeked out at him.

  “Or perhaps,” he said softly, “they mean to torment me with that which I cannot have.”

  The way Brynmor watched me with such stark hunger reminded me of the canis whose company he kept. Though I doubt he meant for me to catch his last remark, I heard him. Let him have me? To what end? He was dead. The hateful word echoed through my mind and made my gut churn.

  The male I brought home to my family required a heartbeat. Assuming I chose one at all.

  I wasn’t as sure as I was only yesterday that marriage should be my highest aspiration.

  Annoyed with myself, and with him, I snapped, “You’re staring.”

  The way he looked at me hurt. The desire in his eyes made my chest tender.

  Rather than answer, he stalked into the woods. I think he meant to secure the area around the den. He paused, glanced over his shoulder. “I would hand you fabric to bind his wounds but…”

  I waved him on. “I’ll get it myself.”

  After hearing Brynmor’s story, I understood what it had cost him to remain close to his family. He gave up the spiritlands to gu
ard his loved ones from afar. He was so entrenched in his role in life that he feared losing his identity in death. He was simply Brynmor, not a father or a husband.

  Well, I wanted to be simply Daraja, not a wife or a dutiful daughter. I wanted to be me.

  I could contribute to my family in ways besides adding to our clan’s numbers, and I would.

  Perhaps I had chosen wisely in following the river after all. It had led me to Brynmor, and his story changed how I wanted to be remembered. Perhaps I wanted songs written about me instead of singing them about others. I didn’t want to become Brynmor, trapped in the city of my birth, a slave to the passage of time. I wanted to explore the Second World before returning to my home.

  With a pained groan, I forced my legs to bear my weight. I had rested for as long as I dared.

  I lumbered to my camp, sorted through my supplies until I found a sheet I could bear to part with and a flask of fresh water. When I returned to Errol, I avoided his head as best I could while pouring water over his wound. I had no herbs to speed his healing. I had lost mine during a storm days earlier and had no chance to purchase more. I draped the sheet over his wound, not much of a bandage, but it was the best I could do with him so eager to gnaw off my hands.

  With his wounds tended, I wound the lariat around my waist. It fit in familiar grooves made bloody by my efforts. The den was a gaping hole in the ground, and I stood so close to its mouth, I could brush the fringe of roots decorating its opening with my fingertips. While I gathered my strength to lug Errol that final stretch to safety, Jana darted past me and lost herself in the tunnel.

  While Brynmor prowled the woods, I heaved Errol deeper into the den. Once he was hidden, I found myself facing a dilemma. I was so intent on getting him in the hole I hadn’t realized that by dragging him behind me, I had blocked my only means of escape. If he woke, I didn’t care for my chances of escape without me stabbing him or him biting me. Either option hurt one of us.

  Too tired to do more than slump against the dirt wall at my back, I shut my eyes.

  “The forest is clear.” Brynmor’s voice rumbled near my ear.