by Lori M. Lee
Lastly, and most pressingly, Saengo is sitting beside me in the grass, blinking at me with an expression of stunned amazement. I can’t imagine why my waking up is so shocking when she’s the one who’d died.
I lick my dry lips and, uncertain, look around at the trees. The sound of water rushing over rock pulls my gaze to a creek burbling nearby. My clothes and hair smell strongly of smoke, and my legs still ache, so I doubt it, but… “Are we dead?”
Saengo’s astonishment transforms into confusion. “I don’t think so. But your ey—”
I throw my arms around her shoulders, which seem suddenly small. Her breath against my neck grows thin, hitches once. The memory of the knife in her chest makes me wince. “What happened?”
She pulls back, clasping her hands tightly in her lap. “I wasn’t sure what to do when I woke up. You were lying there and … and Jonyah and the shaman.” A tremor runs through her. “I panicked. So I took you and ran.”
The entire evening rushes back in a single nauseating wave. Sisters, save us. We left Jonyah to die. I killed a shaman. And Saengo …
I push to my feet and stumble the few steps it takes to reach the pebbled sand at the bank of the creek. I drop to my knees. Stones jab my skin, but I barely feel them as I plunge my hands into the icy water. The shock of cold makes my breath catch, but the icy prickling quickly sets into numbness.
My distorted reflection stares up at me. My face is filthy with smoke and dust. But that’s not what stands out. At first, I don’t understand what I’m seeing.
My eyes, which should be gray, are an impossible crystalline amber.
I drag in short, stuttering breaths as my arms sink deeper into the chilly water, my sleeves soaking through. Those unfamiliar eyes remain, bearing the jewel-bright irises of a shaman. That’s not me. It can’t be. The sounds of the creek grow muffled. The world tilts.
Hands grip my shoulders and yank me away from the water’s edge. “Sirscha—”
“I’m fine,” I breathe, rolling onto my back. Frigid droplets spatter my face as I throw my arms over my head. Feeling returns to my fingers in near-painful tingles.
“Yeah,” she whispers. “I’m fine, too.”
We remain there for some time, me on the bank with pebbles stabbing my back and Saengo sitting beside me, boots burrowing into the loose sand. We don’t speak. My mind remains blank, refusing to process what’s happened. I listen to the water swirl and rush by. The leaves shake at me, green satin with shimmering silver undersides.
Finally, when I can’t bear the silence any longer, I reach out and touch Saengo’s wrist. She laces our fingers together.
Despair catapults into me, flung from the connection of our joined hands. I wrench my hand back and stare uncomprehendingly at my palm.
“Sirscha?” Saengo asks, looking first at her fingers and then at me. Had she felt it too?
Shaking my head, I can only repeat, “I’m … fine.”
I am, in fact, the opposite of fine, but I don’t know how to fix it.
“You were defending yourself,” she says.
I marvel that after what happened to her, she still thinks to comfort me. I trained with Kendara for four years. The Shadow is a spy and an assassin. I would have taken a life eventually. I know I should be more disturbed by how easily I killed that shaman, but how can I when Saengo was dead? She was dead, and now she’s not, and I don’t know what to do with that. Or with any of what’s happened.
“I’m sorry.” My throat still hurts from all the smoke. “I should have protected you better.”
Saengo shifts so that she’s on her knees, facing me with a fierce glint in her eyes. It’s a welcome alternative to the haunted way she was looking at me before.
“You reacted to the shamans’ threat exactly the way I expected you to,” she says. I frown, but she’s not done yet. “When you fight, you … you don’t hesitate. You react. Danger—it makes you deadly. Seeing you fight those shamans, and Jonyah—”
Her mention of Jonyah surprises me. She must have been watching through the flames when he attacked me.
“It made me realize what Kendara saw all those years ago when she took you on as her pupil.”
My capacity for violence? I want to ask.
“I’m not …” Her brows twitch together. “I’m not like that. For all my training, when those shamans meant to kill us, I froze. I should have been more help.”
“You’re alive. That’s all that matters.” I clear my throat, wincing at the soreness. “How, though?” My question is a whisper; I’m afraid anything louder will make it untrue again.
Her smile becomes a grimace before wilting. Shrinking back into herself, she touches her chest, directly over her heart where the dagger struck her. I brush her fingers aside. There’s a tear in her shirt, the edges dark with dried blood. Slowly, I slide two fingers through the tear and touch the center of her chest. She’s whole. Nothing but the slight ridge of a scar, as if the wound were an old one.
I pull away and look down at my palm. I remember the blazing heat that tore through me before I passed out. And now my eyes … I couldn’t have done this. It’s not possible.
Years ago, we’d promised each other that when we died, we would sing the other’s lifestory to the Sisters. The song is how the Sisters know to open the gates to the spirit realm for those who’ve passed. I’d also made a promise to myself: that the day I sang Saengo’s lifestory would be a distant one. Last night, I’d nearly broken that promise.
My fist slams into the dirt. “The shaman who did this. He got away. We have to find him.”
“The magistrate will have sent a falcon to the Grand Offices by now,” Saengo says. She sounds much too reasonable for someone with every right to be raving at the sky. Or at me. Part of me wishes she would. “They’ll have sent soldiers to the teahouse. If they haven’t caught him already, they will soon.”
I dearly hope so, but if the authorities are focusing their search on a shaman, not two wayward wyverns, then we need to take advantage of that.
Saengo bites her bottom lip. “Did you know?”
I sit up, angling my face away to hide my eyes. Did I know that I’m … I can’t even think it. I don’t know anything about the people who left me at the orphanage, and the monks certainly couldn’t have known, either. They would have gladly given me up to the Valley of Cranes if they had.
How is any of this real? And why now, when I’m so close to achieving my goal? I half expect Kendara to appear and confess that the entire past day has been an elaborate hoax, an outrageous test to assess my mettle.
But while Kendara can perform feats unimaginable, she can’t make Saengo’s heart stop beating. Nothing will ever erase the memory of Saengo’s sightless eyes, her blood darkening her shirt, every excruciating detail seared into my consciousness.
If I can’t seek vengeance for Saengo, then I need to speak to Kendara. I have to explain what happened and tell her about the ambush. I have to fix this somehow.
But how can we return to Vos Talwyn? Queen Meilyr makes no secret of her hatred for shamans. The former king and queen, along with a dozen other Evewynians, died when a firewender lost control during a performance of his magic and burned down half the festival grounds. The firewender hadn’t survived, either, but that hadn’t been retribution enough for the new queen. She was barely seventeen when she took the throne. She outlawed all shamanborn, regardless of the fact they were innocent Evewynians. She also forbade Nuvali shamans from stepping foot in Evewyn, renewing old tensions with the Nuvalyn Empire.
Some shamanborn fled to the Empire or sought the help of the Spider King. But Ronin turned them away. He enforces the peace between the kingdoms; he does not interfere with how the kingdoms choose to rule their own.
My clearest memory of the shamanborn is also the one I try never to think about. There’s a town near the orphanage where the monks go to purchase supplies. I’d accompanied them that day along with the other kids bound for the capital and the Prince’s Company. The mon
ks claimed they wanted us to get used to busy streets, but that was far too considerate an excuse. Soon enough, their true purpose became clear.
An execution had been scheduled for that morning. Two shamanborn, a woman and her husband, stood on a hastily erected platform outside the town. I don’t remember their crime. Perhaps nothing. Perhaps resisting capture. The monks had forced us to watch.
That day, I had understood the finality of the queen’s power, and that I would never dare to cross it.
Returning to Vos Talwyn now would be dangerous. But I have to speak to Kendara. Not only to warn her of the attack but to seek her aid. As the heir to Falcons Ridge, Saengo has the protection of her House. I have no such protection. Kendara knows me better than anyone, aside from Saengo. Surely she’ll help me, or at the very least, vouch for me? She answers to no one but the queen, who values Kendara’s counsel. There is no better person to speak on my behalf.
I press my palms against my eyelids, but I can’t block out the image of my reflection in the water. For a moment, with my eyes closed, I feel almost like I’m falling. My pulse races, my stomach climbs up my rib cage, and the sheer unknown of what awaits me now that my entire world has been upended fills my mouth with the sour taste of fear.
Saengo touches my shoulder. Emotions simmer through me at the contact, none strong enough for me to name. All too aware of her watching, I take several deep breaths, grounding myself with reason and strategy. Lying here feeling sorry for ourselves isn’t going to change anything. We need to keep moving before we’re discovered.
I stand and look around, trying to gauge where we might be. Tied to some low branches nearby are our drakes. Yandor is asleep.
“Yellow means lightwender,” Saengo murmurs.
I wring out the water in my sleeves. “What?”
“Your eyes,” she clarifies, dusting sand off her fingers as she stands.
I frown, because I don’t know what she wants me to say to that.
There are five Shamanic Callings: fire, water, earth, wind, and light. Within each Calling, a shaman can possess one of three possible crafts. The firewender who attacked us was a burner, a fire summoner. But firewenders can also be flame eaters, who can transform themselves into smoke and flame, or wyrmin, who can raise the temperature of objects or liquids. Powerful wyrmin can kill their opponents by making their blood boil or disarm them by melting their iron-forged weapons. I doubt we would have fared so well against one of those.
I’m unfamiliar with the three crafts within the Calling of Light. What knowledge I possess beyond the Company lessons was gained from Kendara’s books, and very few of them are about magic.
My satchel hangs from Yandor’s saddle, and I yank it open. I have only a second set of Company uniforms to change into, but it’ll do. Smoke-stained clothing with not a few scorch marks would make anyone we happen across immediately suspicious. Aside from her clothes, Saengo looks relatively clean. She must have washed while I was still out.
“Where are we?” I toss my ruined clothes into the grass, glad to be rid of them and the stink of fire. I want to wash the grit off my face, but I can’t bear seeing my eyes again in the water.
She points downstream. “If we continue that way for a few hours, we’ll reach the Stone Serpent.”
The Stone Serpent, a slender bridge connecting opposite sides of a gorge called the Hollow Sea, is a half day’s ride southwest of the teahouse. We must have ridden all night.
I tell her that we need to return to Vos Talwyn so that I can speak to Kendara. Saengo warily concedes that if anyone can help us, it’s her. It’s probably a terrible plan, but I don’t know what else to do. If we had more time, maybe I could think of a better one. Maybe I could stop feeling like I’ve been taken apart at the seams and put together again into something unrecognizable.
As I’m securing my bedroll to Yandor’s saddle, the sound of trampling feet breaks through the forest. Saengo and I dive for cover behind the trees.
Tipping my head, I close my eyes and listen. Judging by the pacing of their footfalls, there are three of them, and their noisy arrival means they want to be heard. My lip curls as I glance around the trunk and take quick stock of our opponents.
Three Evewynian soldiers have emerged from the forest. They spread out wide to close us off. Two look barely out of the Queen’s Company, but the third is older.
“Come out, come out,” the older one calls, caressing the hilt of his sword.
I have no idea where my dagger is, but I’ve no stomach to use it after seeing it embedded in Saengo’s chest. Behind a nearby tree, Saengo gives a slight nod, having come to the same understanding: if we’re to escape, we’ll have to deal with them first.
Only a day ago, I wouldn’t have raised my voice to a soldier. Now I will have to raise a weapon. Kendara will understand—I must do what’s necessary. In fact, as my fingers attempt to gouge the smooth tree bark, I find I’m all too eager.
I step into the open. Saengo follows my lead. At the sight of us, the two younger soldiers lift their swords. The third one cocks his head.
“What’s this?” he says. Black tattoos that resemble lightning bolts stretch from the outer ends of his eyebrows across his temples and into his hairline. “I thought we were looking for a pair of deserters, but it seems we have us a shaman!”
“Maybe we should wait,” says one of his companions, his earlier keenness flagging. The third soldier nods. “We weren’t supposed to find—”
“Don’t be such a coward,” Eyebrow Tattoos spits out.
If they’re looking for us, they must have found the shaman already. Why waste time on two wyverns when there’s a Nuvali assassin on the loose?
Eyebrow Tattoos’s companions exchange a look, their hands flexing around their swords. They’ve never fought a shaman, I realize. Well, they’re in for a surprise, because they’re about to learn what it’s like to fight me.
Saengo sounds offended as she says, “We’re not deserters. I’m Saen—”
Eyebrow Tattoos charges me at the same time one of the others swings at Saengo.
I duck the swipe of his sword before delivering a kick to his side. My thigh stings at the impact, but the pain only helps to focus me. He groans and shuffles back, surprised. My teeth flash in a smile. His brows narrow, making his tattoos look like bizarre horns, and he comes at me again. Although I have nothing to defend with, I trust my feet and the speed of my own body to avoid the bite of his sword. My knuckles easily find his flesh, every blow building my frustration rather than alleviating it.
The relief I’d felt in the teahouse when I learned Kendara hadn’t yet named an apprentice is impossible to recover. I’ve more than enough standing in my way without these soldiers adding to my troubles.
My opponent grunts as I land a vicious kick to his ribs. It’s not the soldiers I’m furious with; they’re just unlucky enough to be here. My fist connects with a meaty gut, my elbow with his jaw, a flurry of attacks the opposite of the battle calm, all rage and fear and resentment.
If I don’t prove to Kendara that I still deserve a place with her, then I not only lose my future as Shadow, I also lose Kendara. I lose Saengo. I lose Evewyn, my home.
I sidestep his thrusting sword, clap my hands around his wrist, and twist his arm back. With a shout, he drops the sword. His other hand immediately seizes the dagger sheathed at his waist.
Locking his arm behind him, I press my thumb against his middle finger, bending it back against the knuckle until he cries out again.
“Drop the knife,” I demand with a quick glance at Saengo to see how she’s faring. She’s found a sizable branch and is deftly applying it to her attacker’s ribs. I don’t see the third soldier.
“You’re dead, shaman,” Eyebrow Tattoos growls. His lip is bleeding, and half his face has already begun to swell.
Part of me recognizes that I was unnecessarily brutal, but most of me doesn’t care. Not anymore.
“I’ll tear those disgusting eyes out! I’
ll cut your—”
I bend his finger a bit farther. His threats dissolve into mindless shouts and curses.
“Drop it,” I say again. My voice somehow sounds calm. It’s a lie.
Instead, he stabs blindly at me. The bone of his middle finger snaps. Screaming, he drops the dagger.
“Agree to let us go, and I’ll let you keep your other fingers intact,” I say, twisting his arm enough to get his attention again. Naming Saengo’s House might persuade them, but the Company might yet find a way to shield House Phang from disgrace, and I’d hate to risk exposing Saengo’s involvement if I can help it.
“Release him, shaman!”
I look up. The third soldier must have fled to retrieve a bow, because he has an arrow nocked and fixed on Saengo. Saengo, about to deliver a kick to the other soldier’s face, freezes. The archer’s cheek is mottled and bleeding, cut open where Saengo must have struck him with the branch. The other soldier stands, panting and red-faced, favoring her right leg. Her arm shakes as she points her sword at Saengo.
If they hurt her, I decide, then Evewynian soldiers or not, I’ll kill them.
Saengo’s eyes fix on the archer’s weapon. She could disable all three within seconds if she had his bow. But she doesn’t, so I release Eyebrow Tattoos with a shove. He trips away, cradling his broken finger to his chest. Then he snarls and rounds on me.
“Tie her up!”
The archer keeps his arrow trained on Saengo as the other soldier disappears into the trees. Their drakes must not be far off, because she returns before long with a length of rope. I sneer as she approaches me, taking satisfaction in the way she hesitates, but I allow her to yank my arms behind my back and bind my wrists together. The rope pinches my skin, and the troll bone digs into my forearm.
Nearby, Yandor stomps and snarls. His clawed feet rake the dirt, tearing up earth as he tries to break free from where Saengo tied him. I hope the reins hold. While drakes are as vicious in battle as their riders, that archer could easily shift targets. I couldn’t bear it if Yandor were shot.
“You’re going to regret this,” I say lightly, at odds with the way my heart wants to fling itself against my ribs.
