Forest of Souls

by Lori M. Lee

  With a glance, I count eight guards in the immediate vicinity, not including Prince Meilek’s two Blades. The nearest weapon is at the waist of the guard to my left, which I could obtain in seconds if necessary. If Eyebrow Tattoos and his friends were an example of what I might expect from the soldiers here, I could tear through them in less than a minute. The Blades would present more of a challenge, but with only two, Saengo and I should be able to handle them.

  Prince Meilek, however, is an unknown. At only nineteen, he isn’t captain of the Queen’s Guard without reason. And it’s entirely possible that if I raise my sword to the prince of Evewyn, then it won’t matter what information I bring back to the queen. It would be seen as treason.

  Saengo seems to sense my dilemma. When I catch her eye, she looks meaningfully across the courtyard. A bow and quiver rest carelessly alongside a rack of swords. The soldiers must use the courtyard to spar. They’re out of reach of prisoners, but if I create enough of a diversion, Saengo could likely reach the bow.

  I don’t know what I did to deserve a friend who would commit treason with me at a moment’s notice. But still, I give a slight shake of my head. Not yet. Not until I know what’s happening.

  “I’d barely reached Keistra’s Flight when a messenger from the queen intercepted me,” the prince says. He approaches his dragule and tests the straps on the saddle. “Early this morning, she received a falcon from Ronin of the Dead Wood.”

  For an excruciating second, all thoughts of escape are shoved from my mind. The implication of his words pulls me off-kilter. Just to be sure I heard right, I say, “What?”

  “Ronin has summoned you to Spinner’s End.” His gaze flicks to Saengo. “Both of you.”

  Ronin has a permanent encampment called Sab Hlee at the western border of the Dead Wood, where we’ll begin our journey. Spinner’s End, Ronin’s home, resides a half day’s walk through the woods.

  Prince Meilek explains that, as peacekeeper between the kingdoms, Ronin wants a first-person account of what happened at the teahouse. I find it curious, though, that he’s already aware of the attack. For a falcon to have arrived in Vos Talwyn that morning, Ronin would’ve had to have sent the summons immediately after the attack occurred. Is he a seer?

  As we travel, I consider that Ronin is the perfect person to help me uncover the shamans’ motives. His summons drastically improves my chances of accomplishing what had seemed an impossible goal mere hours ago. If anyone can help me uncover the truth of the attack and win back my place with Kendara, it’s Ronin. As intermediary between the three kingdoms, he must be the most well-informed person on Thiy. Still, I berate myself for the way my hands tremble.

  Saengo shares my apprehension. The Blades don’t allow us any time to speak, herding us along like cattle. But I sense her there, her fear a chill against the back of my neck. Although I’d planned to keep secret what happened to her, few people are given the opportunity to speak with the Spider King. I’d be a fool not to ask his advice.

  The only craft I know of that can raise the dead is necromancy, which isn’t a shamanic craft. Kendara has a book in her workroom about the Calling of Shadow, the magic of the shadowblessed, the peoples of Kazahyn. It’s a slim volume, information about shadow crafts being so limited. But I’ve read about how, in the past, the shadowblessed raised the bodies of fallen foes to intimidate and demoralize their enemies. The bodies were nothing more than animated corpses controlled by the necromancer.

  Saengo is no corpse, and I am not shadowblessed. I felt her heart beating against my palm and the warm aliveness of her skin.

  But if anyone can explain what happened, it’s Ronin. According to history books, he originally hails from the far north, where the Great Spinners build webs that span mountainsides. Not much else of his past is known, but one fact has never been disputed: he is one of the most powerful shamans in Thiy.

  Some centuries ago, a shaman who would become known as the Soulless rose against the kingdoms. He had the power to kill by ripping out the souls of his enemies. The history books are always vague about what exactly happened, but not even the armies of Thiy could subdue him. He merely claimed their souls for himself, strengthening his power and his madness.

  Then Ronin descended from the north with a massive spider as his familiar, one of the Spinners of his homeland. No shaman had ever possessed a Spinner as a familiar before. Only the union of two such powerful beings could defeat the Soulless.

  After the Soulless’s death, the souls he’d claimed scattered, taking root in the trees. Over time, the forest died and became a dangerous place for travelers. For whatever reason, Ronin made his home within the woods, using spidersilk spun from the bond with his Spinner to cloak the restless spirits. Not only that, but he convinced the kingdoms to sign the first and only peace treaty of its kind, one that would ensure peace for centuries to come.

  And now, after all this time, the Dead Wood has begun to expand far more quickly than in the past, casting Ronin’s power into doubt.

  “Have you ever seen the Dead Wood?” Prince Meilek asks, breaking the silence.

  “Only from a distance. Even Kendara didn’t want me getting close to that place.” That’s saying something, considering all the ways I nearly died under her care. “She sent me mostly on tasks in the west, like in the mountains or to port cities like Byrth.”

  “Byrth,” he says with a sudden smile. “Once, when we were children visiting with our parents, Mei and I sneaked off to watch a drake race, and I bribed the drake master to let me enter.”

  How strange to think of him and Queen Meilyr as children, misbehaving as children do. “Did you win?”

  He shakes his head. “I fell off short of the finish line. Half my face was bruised for the rest of our trip. My parents were outraged. But Byrth’s market was a wonder. Father bought us candied plum blossoms.”

  “Candied plum blossoms?” I’ve never heard of such a thing.

  “They don’t sell them in Vos Talwyn.”

  I look down at my hands clasped around Yandor’s reins. I miss the busy streets, the statues of the Sisters, and the sense of history on every corner. Would I ever see Vos Talwyn again?

  Reading my expression, he says, “You needn’t worry. Ronin has granted you both safe passage.”

  “Can … can such a thing be guaranteed?”

  “I know it seems unlikely, given how persistent the trees have become in recent years. The woods have always spread, just very slowly. Ronin’s control isn’t absolute, but it’s always been enough to ensure the safety of his guests.”

  “Don’t you think it’s odd? After nearly three centuries, what’s changed that he’s only now …” I don’t finish the suggestion that Ronin is losing control. It’s a dangerous thing to voice.

  Prince Meilek opens his mouth but then pauses. I wait, wondering what else he knows that I don’t. The prince of Evewyn is obviously far better informed about foreign leaders than I am. To my disappointment, he doesn’t speak. Instead, he calls for one of his Blades to feed us, and we eat as we travel.

  We’ve only a few hours of daylight left when the Dead Wood at last appears as a dreary bramble beyond the next farm. Fear rises within me, heightened by Saengo’s alarm that presses, insistent, against my back.

  Prince Meilek pulls ahead of me. Sab Hlee is little more than a smattering of tents and a few collapsible buildings. The Dead Wood lies beyond, crouched against the sky like a resting spider.

  We pass through a brace of torches and guards. They bow to Prince Meilek before leading us through the center of the encampment. More soldiers appear to watch our arrival, curious. They wear simple leather armor with little adornment, other than a gray sash secured over a belt and sword.

  Ronin’s standard flies from the peaks of the largest tents: a skeletal tree, stooped and malformed. Its silhouette resembles that of a spider. Deliberate, I’m sure.

  Prince Meilek pauses just long enough to speak quietly with two people. Their armor and the knots of
their gray sashes indicate they’re Ronin’s officits. One is a shaman. The other has dark gray skin, and although he looks young and lean, his hair is completely white.

  Shadowblessed, I realize. I know very little about them, even what they look like. I’ve heard that some shadowblessed live in Evewyn’s port cities, but the clans rarely venture beyond Kazahyn’s mountains.

  I glance back at Saengo. Her gaze is fixed on the Dead Wood. She looks ill. I wish I’d had time to explain why going to see Ronin is, in fact, a good thing. But I’m not sure it would help much.

  The Dead Wood terrifies me as well, because I cannot battle trees. I cannot win with fighting skills and weaponry. Ronin’s assurance and our wits will be all that stand between us and the spirits’ malice.

  But if the Dead Wood is our only path to Ronin, then we’d best be about it quickly. We’ll be out of daylight soon. Even after everything I have done under Kendara’s tutelage, walking into those trees of my own will in the dead of night might take more courage than I possess.

  SEVEN

  We continue through the encampment. I spot a human, two shamans, and a shadowblessed sharing a wineskin around a cooking fire, all dressed in the light armor of Ronin’s soldiers. It’s bizarre seeing all three races gathered together like old friends. Before Queen Meilyr, such a sight might not have been so unusual in Evewyn.

  We soon leave the encampment behind, my heart hammering against my rib cage. But as we near the tree line, the bare branches and the crooked trunks look less sinister and more forlorn. Perhaps my expectations colored my judgment, lending malevolence to the mundane. Perhaps the stories were exaggerated, tales to instill fear in children and travelers who might dare to venture into the Spider King’s domain.

  Saengo doesn’t share the sentiment. Her fear is a knife lodged between my shoulder blades. I slow Yandor so that I fall into line with her drake. The Blades close ranks around us, as if they think we’ll try to run with Ronin’s camp behind us and the Dead Wood before us.

  I take Saengo’s hand, only flinching a little when her fear hurls through me. “We’ll do this together.”

  She squeezes my hand, her fingers like ice. It’s only through our connection that I can even tell she’s afraid. Her expression is unreadable as she tilts her head back to survey the woods before us.

  The trees are much taller than I expected, many nearly the height of Kendara’s tower. The forest must have been old even before the souls took root here. A dusty, unmarked path leads into the trees, one I don’t notice until we’re standing on it. The path begins as a few cobblestones set into the dirt but quickly disappears into the gloom. There are no leaves, nor anything green at all. The branches twine and crowd into such a thicket that very little sunlight reaches the ground.

  I draw a deep breath, rallying my courage. Then I release Saengo’s hand and climb down from the saddle. Yandor grunts unhappily. He turns his head and nudges my arm until I wrap it around his neck.

  “It’ll be okay, my friend.” I close my eyes and rest my forehead against his warm scales. “We’ll see each other again.” When I lean back, his tongue flicks out, licking my cheek.

  Prince Meilek pulls up beside me, his mouth set into a frown. “Are you ready?”

  “Yes,” I say before I can give the question much thought. Saengo murmurs her agreement, chin held high—ever the reiwyn lady, even now. “What will happen to us after we’ve spoken to Ronin?”

  He looks troubled as he says, “I’m afraid I don’t know. It depends on Ronin.”

  One of Ronin’s soldiers withdraws a white cloak that seems to absorb the sunlight from a leather bag. He hands it to me. “Spidersilk. Sturdy and difficult to penetrate. It carries an echo of Ronin’s power. It will help to deter the trees.”

  My fingers brush over the fabric, slick and light as air, the softest I’ve ever touched. I drape the cloak around my shoulders. It’s like wearing clouds. I fasten the cloak at my throat and say, “Spidersilk is quite rare. Has he an army of Spinners at his command?”

  Predictably, the soldier doesn’t reply. He turns to Saengo to present her with her own cloak.

  “You’ve traveled the path before?” Saengo asks him. “I didn’t know there were any paths left.”

  “This is all that remains of the watchtower that once guarded Evewyn’s eastern border. The Dead Wood claimed it some time ago. We’ve traveled the path before but not often.”

  If even Ronin’s own soldiers are wary about traveling the woods alone, then that certainly doesn’t bode well for us. Still, there’s nothing to do but trust in his protection. I somehow doubt he extends such protection to just anyone.

  I remove my satchel from Yandor’s saddle and sling it over my shoulder, the strap resting across my chest. The troll-bone talisman bumps against my wrist. It helps if I approach this as one of Kendara’s tests, many of which would have raised the brows of even the most hardened sellswords. We will survive the Dead Wood, because as with Kendara’s training, failure is unacceptable.

  “Keep your wits about you. Stay on the path.” The soldier leans forward, expression grave. “Walk fast.”

  Prince Meilek swings down from his dragule’s back. He reaches into his own saddlebag and then presents me with a shoulder belt bearing two short swords sheathed in leather scabbards.

  “Your Highness?” I say, uncertain. Despite the unusual circumstances, I’m still a prisoner. Does he really mean to arm me? I could cut down all three of them and escape right now.

  Then I really would be a traitor.

  “What we spoke about earlier. Just in case,” he says.

  I dampen my lips. Just in case Ronin’s assurance of safe passage is no longer a guarantee.

  I accept the swords. Strapping on the shoulder belt, I already feel more in control, even though it’s a false security. The prince nods to one of his Blades, who removes a plain sword and leather scabbard from his saddle. He hands them to Saengo. She wordlessly attaches the weapon to her belt.

  “Weapons will not help you in there,” the soldier says.

  “Perhaps not,” I say. “But better than nothing.”

  Prince Meilek nods his agreement. “May the Falcon Warrior protect you on your journey.”

  Saengo and I bow deeply in goodbye. When I straighten, I roll my shoulders, the swords resting comfortably against my back. My hand finds the talisman again. I look at Saengo.

  She smiles back, betraying only the slightest tremor of her lips. “Together.”

  We face the Dead Wood, and together, we march forward.

  A gloom descends with unnatural swiftness. The trees stand so close that we can’t walk more than two steps without our shoulders brushing gnarled bark. The trees look stooped and frail, as if, rather than withering to dust when the shadows fell across the forest, they simply … grew old. The path we tread, our only guide, is hardly a path at all. The cobblestones are sunken, overrun with thick roots, devoured by the trees like everything else in this place.

  Since the Dead Wood has born no leaves for so long, there is only dirt underfoot. Just as the branches shut out the sky, the roots overtake the earth. Some form strange jointed shapes, like deformed legs and severed arms. Only slivers of light penetrate the canopy. Dust motes dance in the tiny sunbeams and make those odd-shaped roots, muddy green-gray like the color of dead flesh, appear to tremble and strain away from the light.

  Saengo glances over her shoulder. Prince Meilek and the soldiers have long since disappeared.

  “Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer to just escape now?” she asks in a whisper. There’s no one to hear us but the trees, and yet … I can’t deny it feels as though they are listening.

  I shudder and adjust the shoulder belt, glad for the comfort of the swords’ weight. Quickly, I explain my plan to her—that in order to prevent war and win back my place in Evewyn, our best choice is to secure Ronin’s help in uncovering the purpose of the attack.

  Saengo tugs the cloak tighter around herself. “I’d thought
about that, actually. Almost every family at Falcons Ridge has a soldier in the army, and most of those families have been under the care of my House for generations. If we go to war with the Nuvalyn Empire, all those families could be torn apart.”

  “Not just the families. Falcons Ridge is too close to the northern border. Your lands would be devastated.” I skirt around a thick nest of roots. They’re so dense, the ground so uneven, I must take care where I step.

  “I guess you’re right, then. We’ll have to see this through. And, Sirscha—” She rubs her hands down her arms as if she’s cold. Her fear transforms into something else, something more fragile. I can’t put a name to it, only that it feels like a breath of frost against the inside of my ribs.

  Being privy to her emotions suddenly feels intrusive. I imagine a mental barrier between me and Saengo’s candle flame, something I can open and close at will, like a window.

  “When we get to Spinner’s End, we should … talk,” she says.

  “I know.” I’ve been a coward for not facing what I did—but Saengo had died. There hasn’t been time to press her about how she’s been handling it, and now, in this haunted place, we need to remain focused. “But maybe Ronin will know what happened.”

  She shrugs one shoulder and gives a low-hanging branch an uneasy look. “Maybe? Let’s just get through this place first.”

  “We’ve been through worse. Remember that time when second-years poured cabbage soup down the latrines?”

  Her lips twitch. Through our connection, a momentary warmth flares through me.

  “And it clogged the pipes, and the Company yard smelled like manure for a week?”

  “See? What’s a bunch of old trees compared to that?”

  They’re not just old, though. They’re ancient, their surfaces drab and brittle, their decaying innards exposed where patches of bark have flaked off. And yet, they remain standing. It’s peculiar how intact these trees are, given that they’ve been dead or dying for centuries. They should have collapsed long ago.

  I lift my foot high to step over a raised root. It still bumps the heel of my boot. A minute later, I duck a low branch only to feel it brush the top of my hood. A chill races through me. I must have misjudged the distance. I continue telling myself that when I angle my body to slip between two trees, and the bark rasps against my shoulder.