Forest of Souls

by Lori M. Lee

  “Maybe we could run a bit,” Saengo suggests, her voice soft and high with alarm.

  “My thought exactly.”

  We break into a light jog. The Company makes us run five laps around the Grand Palace every morning, so we won’t tire quickly. Kendara often made me run twice that in half the time. Even with my injuries, I should be able to keep up.

  There is magic here as old as the Dead Wood itself. The longer I run, the stronger a sensation grows in my chest. It’s not the warmth of Saengo’s presence, her candle bright and strong even from behind the mental window I’ve placed between us. This feeling burns from inside me, hotter, more effusive, and slightly painful. It reminds me of what I felt after Saengo died, moments before I passed out.

  After jogging a steady pace for over an hour, we slow so that we can withdraw our waterskins from our satchels. We drink quickly. My legs ache, and although I should be warm from the steady movement, I can’t shake the chill. A wrongness lingers in the very air; it seeps into my skin like a slow poison. A corruption beyond what can be seen. The sooner we get to Spinner’s End, the better.

  As I put away my waterskin, something brushes against the backs of my legs, cold even through the layers of clothing. I startle, spinning around. Saengo hisses my name. There is nothing behind me but the serpentine lattice of roots and the trees, rustling gently.

  There is no wind.

  My mouth goes dry, despite having just drank my fill. With a glance at Saengo, we continue on, increasing our pace again. The slender trees take on the shapes of broken men—roots like legs bent the wrong way, bodies torn in half, arms locked at grotesque angles. I look away. I focus only on where I place my feet, but even that has become difficult in the swiftly fading light.

  Something snags my hood. I whirl back around, my hands half raised to draw my swords. There are only the branches, low enough to block the path when only a moment ago, they’d been well above my head.

  My breaths come quicker, louder. I almost don’t hear it. A high, hoarse wail, like when air pushes between the grooves of branches.

  The trees are breathing.

  “Sirscha, we can’t stop.” Saengo’s fear bleeds into mine until there’s no distinction between our feelings, only an icy certainty that we should keep running.

  So we run. The shadows grow darker. Night settles into the woods. Our cloaks glow faintly, but it’s a meager light.

  My imagination can only be blamed for so much, because I’m convinced the trees are pressing closer. The branches shake and dip, reaching. The roots shamble after us. Saengo knocks aside a branch that drops into our path. It snaps, but not before ripping her hood off her head.

  Something spindly snatches my braid. I yank my hair free, and we both dash into a sprint. My heartbeat drums in my ears. The wailing grows, rising up like a chorus of banshees. Skeletal fingers grasp at our legs, scoring the old leather of our boots and catching in the loose fabric of our pants.

  The roots lift from the ground like risen corpses. Dead earth cascades from their pale, exposed flesh. Saengo leaps to avoid one and then gasps when it shoots out, catching her foot. She sprawls into the dirt.

  “Saengo!” I drop beside her, pulling at her arms to get her to stand.

  A branch strikes her temple. She flinches and scrambles back. Spidersilk tangles around her legs. Another branch whips across my cheek, stinging as it breaks skin. The pain sharpens my senses, cutting through my fear. Cursing at myself, my hands find my swords, and I stand. The roots unfurl, revealing sharp ends that strike out. I split them in two. Suddenly, the woods shriek, enraged.

  The trees writhe, the bark buckling and cracking open. Faces emerge from within, straining against the decaying wood. Their eyes are wrinkled burls. Their mouths scream their anguish and outrage. I recoil, my own scream frozen in my throat. The faces twist away, sinking back into the wood, but they’re quickly replaced with more—snarling, screeching, weeping sticky black sap from those horrific eyes. Branches like fingers grasp at our clothes, our skin, our hair.

  Saengo draws her own sword and finds her feet. A trickle of blood slides over her cheekbone from her temple. With a fierce, shaking breath, she whispers, “Courage.”

  The heat in my chest sears as if trying to melt the skin off my bones. I gasp at the pain. Something cold wraps around my ankle. I slash at it, suddenly furious.

  This is not how we die. Not here. Not in this wretched place, and not by the hands of creatures that should be long dead. Together, pressed back to back, our swords flash, severing branches and scoring trees. That scorching heat, a power that can only be my craft, blazes bright and pure.

  Every branch clawing at us crumbles. The roots, too, scatter into the dirt like sand.

  “What?” Saengo whispers, confused.

  Panting, I slowly turn in place, swords ready for the next assault. Tiny orbs of light wink into existence all around me. Warily, I sheathe one sword before stretching out my hand, my fingers tingling with a sudden and desperate need.

  Saengo reaches for me. “Wait, don’t—”

  The moment my skin makes contact with a glowing orb, they all brighten as one. They circle around me, spinning like a vortex of strung paper lanterns. Saengo gasps.

  My eyes widen in wonder. Are these …?

  That power in me loosens its grip, and the lights disperse into the dank, shadowy air.

  I release an unsteady breath. Darkness settles once again. The trees are still. Faces continue to press outward from within the bark, but the shrieking has stopped. The roots rustle and the branches vibrate, agitated. But both keep their distance.

  Saengo whispers, “What just happened? Did you do that?”

  “I don’t know.” A wave of exhaustion washes over me. I cup my head as my knees waver. Saengo catches me before I can fall.

  “What’s wrong?” she asks, frantic.

  I try to tell her I’m fine, but I can’t seem to speak. My heart thunders. The branches shake over our heads. The trees seem to press in again, but not with the same malice as before.

  Then, all at once, the trees shrink away. Saengo’s head snaps up at the sudden movement, and she reaches for her sword again. A tall figure emerges from the dark. I squint up at him, but he’s difficult to make out in the gloom.

  Ronin the Spider King says, “Come. The woods at night are no place to linger.”

  EIGHT

  My head feels like it’s been stuffed with feathers. I squint at Ronin’s back, his broad shoulders, and the sweep of his gray robes. As much as I want to ask him questions, I’m more intent on not falling on my face in front of him. It would make for a poor first impression.

  After a length of time that feels like ages, Ronin leads us through a gauzy white drape that hangs from the trees, and just like that, we stand before Spinner’s End. I take in the impression of somber walls, curved roofs, and towers limned in silver moonlight before soldiers sweep Saengo and me into the castle. They usher us into a room where we’re ordered to rest for the night. We’re so exhausted that we don’t argue. We merely seek out the bed and fall into it.

  Thankfully, I awake clearheaded in the morning, despite disturbing dreams of grasping, broken hands and silent, screaming mouths. Saengo is asleep beside me, hogging the blanket. We’re still wearing our clothes from yesterday. My nose wrinkles at the smell.

  I sit up and take in my immediate surroundings. I’m in a bedroom with scrubbed wooden floors covered in plush rugs. Beyond a pair of glass doors lies a balcony. A mirror hangs on the wall, its antique copper frame flecked with green. The bed I’m in is large enough to accommodate both Saengo and me, although a second bed sits across the room. They’re both framed in exquisitely carved oak and draped in curtains dyed the rich orange of persimmons.

  “Good afternoon,” says a voice.

  I instinctively reach for swords that aren’t there and then force myself to relax. Standing in the doorway is a woman in the crisp gray uniform of what I assume must be the castle staff. She
carries a tray with a cup and pitcher.

  “Afternoon?” I return warily, glancing at the light through the balcony.

  “Indeed. It’s past midday.” She sweeps into the room and sets the tray on a desk.

  I haven’t slept past morning bells at the Company in years. Rising from the bed, I scan the room for my things. My boots rest against the wall beside the armoire, the last few days’ worth of mud scraped off the heels. I pull open the armoire. My empty satchel is neatly folded on a shelf above the bare clothes rack.

  “Where are my swords?” I ask, circling the room.

  I peek into a door beside the armoire. It leads into a small bathing chamber, unfurnished save for a tub partly hidden behind a screen. My gaze falls longingly on the tub, lined with linen to prevent splinters.

  “Confiscated, I imagine,” she says dryly. I’m uncertain if she’s teasing me. The servants at the Company never would have dared.

  In the bed, Saengo mumbles something in her sleep and rolls over. Her newly short hair sticks up along the side of her head. I frown, an echo of anger tightening in my chest.

  In truth, I don’t understand how we’re both not dead. Once again, I’d done something with no earthly idea how or why. But it wouldn’t have been necessary if Ronin’s promise of safe passage had been guaranteed. That he’d ordered us into the woods, knowing we might die, sets fire in my gut. I suppose I ought to be grateful that he came for us, but my store of goodwill has never been very full.

  As I prowl through the rest of the room, I catch sight of my reflection in the mirror. My feet freeze. This is the first time I’ve seen my eyes since I glimpsed them in the water.

  Hesitant, I approach the mirror. I raise my hand, fingers skimming over my reflection. My irises are a brilliant amber, startling and strange but no longer alarming. My gaze shifts to my fingers. I’m struck by the memory of light and heat, awe and horror. The extraordinary awareness of an entire being compressed into a tiny, brilliant sphere of light. What is this power?

  “Some water if you’re thirsty,” the woman says. I drop my hand, glancing at the pitcher on the table. “And there’s food in the sitting room. I’ll be back in a bit to help you wash.”

  As she leaves, I approach the glass balcony doors, framed by sheer curtains. The balcony is a fraction of the size of Kendara’s. It looks out on the remains of a garden, within sight of two guards.

  From my view, Spinner’s End is smaller and less opulent than the Grand Palace. The architecture is lovely in its simplicity, the clean lines of each level accented by gracefully swooping roofs. Curiously, white patches cover sections that have decomposed, holding the castle together like bandages stretched over a wound. I hadn’t noticed that last night.

  At the very border of the grounds, the gauzy white curtain that Ronin had led us through drapes the trees, separating Spinner’s End from the Dead Wood.

  I’m on the second of four floors. Leaning over the rail, I memorize the arrangement of the roofs and mentally draft three different routes to the perimeter before I’m satisfied that my only true obstacle to an escape is the Dead Wood.

  A cushioned sofa the color of pomegranate seeds furnishes one half of the adjoining sitting room. There’s also a table laden with several steaming platters. My stomach grumbles, reminding me I’ve had very little to eat these last few days.

  “Saengo, food!” I shout into the bedroom.

  Nothing quite motivates her the way the promise of good food does. She won’t admit it, but I know she misses the meals at Falcons Ridge. For me, the Company had been an improvement on the orphanage.

  Without waiting for her reply, I sit before the table and serve myself a bit of everything. I pile my plate high with stuffed chicken smothered in a sweet and spicy peanut sauce, fat mushrooms and seared greens with slivered ginger, and sticky rice stained a brilliant purple.

  Students at the Company only eat this well a few times a year, when we’re allowed to attend Vos Talwyn’s festivals and during every Company end-of-year celebration. During the latter, Saengo and I plant ourselves next to the refreshments and stuff our faces until our sashes feel like instruments of torture around our waists.

  Saengo appears in the bedroom doorway. Her clothes are thoroughly wrinkled, and her hair defies all logic. She blinks blearily at the table. “Did I hear you say ‘food’?”

  I refrain from laughing and pat the seat beside me. “A lot of it. Just the way you like.”

  We’re both on our second helping before the servant returns and introduces herself as our personal maid. The idea both intrigues and confuses me. I’ve never had a personal maid. I suspect she’s meant to report everything we do back to Ronin.

  Saengo only spares her a brief glance, but I give her closer scrutiny. Her eyes are brown. Human, then. Originally from Evewyn, I’d guess. She has the light skin tone and black hair of the northerners, like Saengo.

  Although I’ll never know my blood family, my appearance—tawny skin, black hair, the shape of my eyes, and the curve of my nose—indicates I have ancestors from both the northern and southern regions.

  There’d been periods in ancient history when the borders stood open, allowing free movement across Thiy. But that was well before the Dead Wood and before the shaman emperors conquered much of the continent to form the Nuvalyn Empire. With so much animosity between the kingdoms now, it’s difficult to imagine how such a time ever existed.

  Before the attack, I’d never even seen a Nuvali shaman, much less glimpsed the Empire. But the stories I’ve read and the tales I’ve picked up paint a strange picture—a land where the sun holds dominion, where magic lingers thick as dust in the air, and where the power of the shamans runs through the earth like veins, the very lifeblood of the Nuvalyn Empire.

  The servant announces that Ronin will see us both, but separately. My stomach dips, making me wish I’d eaten less. Saengo gives me a small smile, but I can read her nervousness even without the connection between us.

  I allow the servant to usher me away from the table to bathe. I’ve just finished changing when there’s a knock at the door.

  “That’ll be your escort,” says the maid. She rushes out into the sitting room to answer the door. I take escort to mean guard.

  I’m proven correct when two soldiers await me in the hall: one, an older woman with the gem-colored eyes of an earthwender. The other is a human man with heavy brows and a thin mustache framing his mouth. The human man stays behind to guard Saengo, but the earthwender gives me a curt command to follow her.

  She guides me through long hallways with floor-length windows and past columns inlaid with chips of crystal. I take in what I can of the castle and its layout. Closed courtyards with marble pools, long dried, whisper of a former grandeur. Given the castle’s age, it’s in remarkable condition. White patches speckle the stone, especially glaring against the more vibrantly patterned walls. As we round a corner, I peer closer.

  Webbing. I realize it with a start. Whoever’s castle this had once been, Ronin restored the ruins splendidly. Holes in ceilings and floors and crumbling walls have been filled by raw webbing—thick, fibrous, and remarkably strong. Maybe Ronin really did bring Spinners with him from the north. How else could this have been accomplished?

  My guard stops outside large iron doors that stand open. Inside is a vast chamber that must have once been a throne room. A boy sweeps in the corner, the rasp of his broom’s bristles the only sound aside from our footsteps. Glowing braziers hang at either side of the aisle, pungent incense curling around the broad metal bowls and their golden chains. A magnificent set of stairs leads up to a long dais where a throne would have once sat. It’s empty now; the wall behind it that would have born the royal crest has been replaced by an enormous hearth.

  Ronin stands from his seat at the center of a long table set before the dais. The sound of sweeping stops as the boy quietly takes his leave. I force my steps to remain even, to not stall. Unlike last night, I have all my wits about me this time.<
br />
  The guard who escorted me drops her head in a quick, polite bow. Evewyn is ruled by customs and tradition, but Kendara never prepared me for what to do when faced with the Spider King. I err on the side of caution and greet him as I would a reiwyn lord, bowing deeply.

  Ronin dismisses the guard, leaving us alone.

  He gestures wordlessly to the chair across from him as he lowers back into his seat. He sits in an oversize, ornate thing. It’s upholstered in black spidersilk with the wooden back carved into vines and broad leaves brushed in gold. The chair dwarfs every other seat in the throne room. Although he does not sit on the dais, neither does he pretend to be the equal of those who share his table.

  I pull out a simple wooden chair and drop stiffly into it, looking only at his chin. He has a narrow face, lean cheeks, and an angular jaw. He’s tall and broad-shouldered, with short hair the color of charred wood and a sturdy build that tells me he’s as much soldier as diplomat.

  “You seem recovered.” His voice is quiet but deep, and his Evewal is flawless.

  I mentally cringe and try not to feel mortified that the last time he’d seen me, I’d been stumbling after him like a drunkard. “Yes, my lord. I’m … sorry about that.”

  “You may look me in the eye. I do not hold to Evewyn’s conventions.”

  Hesitant, I lift my gaze to meet his. Sapphire. A waterwender.

  He folds his pale hands on the tabletop. His fingers are long with knobby joints. “I regret the difficulty you encountered getting here.”

  I’ll bet you do. “You promised us safe passage.”

  When his lips compress the tiniest bit, I wonder if I’ve made a misstep. A knot forms in my stomach. Insulting the Spider King would be a grave mistake.

  His lips relax, and one corner of his mouth curves up. It’s wholly unnerving to have the full attention of a man whose name is only ever uttered in reverence or fear.