by Lori M. Lee
“I wanted to know if you could do it.”
I frown, a spark of anger releasing my tongue. “You let the trees attack us? Because you wanted to see if we’d survive?”
“But you did.”
He hadn’t lost control over the Dead Wood. He’d allowed it to nearly kill us. My hands curl into fists beneath the table, but I relax my face so that I don’t betray my anger. With Ronin, I must tread even more carefully than I had at the Company.
“So we did,” I say evenly.
On the table between us, a silver tray holds a porcelain tea set. The teapot steams faintly. I don’t lean back like I want to when he lifts one pale hand. But nothing happens except a door swinging open to our right. A servant hurries across the polished floor, pausing only to bow deeply to Ronin, before reaching for the teapot. He pours us each a cup, then bows again and scurries out as quickly and silently as he entered.
Ronin spends the entire time scrutinizing me. I give him as little as possible. The tea smells sweet with a dash of warm spices, but I make no move to drink it. I worry that my hand will shake.
“Tell me what happened the night before yesterday.” He speaks with a poise that I recognize in many of the lords who’ve passed through Vos Talwyn. Yet his fingers that rest on the rim of his saucer are those of a soldier’s, dry and roughened by work.
My anger with his manipulation aside, we still need his help. So I tell him about how unusual it had been for three Nuvali shamans to attack a teahouse in Evewyn. With hesitance, I force myself to also tell him about how Saengo had died.
“But I did something to her, and when I woke up again, she was alive with only an old scar to show for it.” Saying it out loud for the first time makes my chest constrict.
He listens without comment, his expression one of keen interest. When I finish, he looks down at his untouched tea, contemplative. I rotate the talisman around my wrist, trying to find answers in the angles of his face. Even though he gave me permission to meet his eyes, doing so still feels insolent.
“Light magic is unique,” he finally says. “All lightwenders possess the singular ability to touch the source of a person’s magic. That is, his soul. But such an ability can come with a cost, which is why you were out of sorts last night.”
I wince, but he continues.
“The awakening of your craft rippled across Thiy. It unsettled the spirits of the Dead Wood as well as many shamans and shadowblessed who are sensitive to the spirits. Within the Calling of Light, only one craft would be able to resonate that way with others. I knew immediately what you are, as did every lightwender and shadowblessed who felt your craft awaken.”
My throat has gone dry. I lift the teacup and take a scalding sip. “Which is what?” I croak.
“Have you ever heard of a soulguide?”
“I might have seen it in a book once,” I say, but I don’t know its significance.
“A soulguide is a lightwender who can shepherd souls, guiding them either into the afterlife or back to the living. Or so the stories say. Only one soulguide has existed in the long history of the shamans. Sury lived long before Evewyn was even conceived as an idea. She founded what would become the capital of the Nuvalyn Empire, the shaman city of Mirrim.”
I’m grateful I’m sitting because my legs feel weak. In the last few seconds, the throne room seems to have risen in temperature. My head swims. How could such a thing be possible? And yet, I had clutched Saengo’s lifeless body, and the very next day, I had touched my hand to her beating chest.
“Is that what I did to Saengo? I restored her to life?”
“In a manner of speaking, although it wasn’t a demonstration of your specific craft, not like what you did in the Dead Wood. What you describe sounds more like you made her into your familiar.”
NINE
“Into my …” I think about the healer from the Valley of Cranes, her magic trapped within her without a familiar as a conduit. That Saengo could be my familiar hadn’t even occurred to me. “I’m sorry, but I don’t quite understand.”
“Shamans cannot access their magic without a familiar, almost always an animal spirit. Being the remnants of souls, they’re able to resonate with our living ones. Think of it like a song only souls can hear. The bond is an exchange. The familiar becomes the shaman’s conduit for her magic, and that same magic allows the familiar to regain physical form.”
And to become vulnerable to attack and disease. A smart enemy would target the familiar and render the shaman powerless.
“Normally, a medium is required to bond a shaman with a familiar. Mediums can see and speak to spirits. But occasionally, in situations of high stress, your magic can be unlocked by reaching for the nearest available spirit.”
“High stress,” I echo faintly. My pulse races. Confusion and disbelief war within me. Can this really be the meaning of our connection?
The light of Saengo’s candle burns strong from behind my mental window. I resolve to keep it shut. Her emotions should remain her own.
“But she’s human.”
“Exactly.” Although his voice is quiet, the word and all its implications spear through me. “No human familiar has ever before been recorded.”
“Then how can you be sure?”
“You wouldn’t have been able to perform magic last night without a familiar. It is the simplest explanation, and yet, not simple at all. It is unprecedented.”
“Will she be okay? Is she … did I hurt her?” My chest aches with the possibility.
“She will be tied to you and your magic so long as the bond remains.”
By racing after Jonyah that day, I’d upended both our futures. I rub my fingers, warm from the tea, over my temples. “This is … a lot.”
“I can imagine.” He stands.
I stiffen, but he only climbs the steps up to the dais and the enormous fireplace there. His clothes are simple but finely made, a floor-length black jacket with gray accents over a matching shirt and pants. He wears a gray sash knotted at his back and a second sash, embroidered with his sigil in black, knotted at the front. A sword is belted at his hip, the scabbard and hilt plain enough to indicate its presence isn’t mere decoration.
His ears are unusual. The tips taper up into a noticeable point. Frowning, my hand wanders to my own ears. I don’t recall if the healer from the Valley or the shamans from the teahouse had such a distinguishable feature. But then again, the healer’s ears had been hidden behind tangles of hair, and I’d been too busy trying not to get killed by the other shamans.
“Many stories about soulguides, often altered at the will of those telling them, have been passed down from the time of Sury. That one should, at last, again appear can only be taken as an omen.”
What kind of omen? I hesitate to say it out loud. Most stories are simply that—stories. Tales to inspire awe and nostalgia for the heroes of old, that such heroes might one day rise again.
A draft from somewhere in the large room rustles the hem of Ronin’s robe and breathes life into the dying embers in the fireplace. With his dark hair and plain features, it’s easy to imagine that I would have passed him by in Vos Talwyn, brushing him off as just another visiting lord or even a high-ranking soldier.
But that would be untrue. Something about him draws the gaze, demanding acknowledgment of his presence. He commands attention without speaking a single word.
He steps away from the fireplace and descends the dais. “There are some who will see your presence as a threat. The limitations of shamanic crafts begin to bend when shamans achieve a certain level of power. In the past, some continued to push until those limitations broke. Or until they did.”
“Like you?” Apparently, I have a death wish. My breaths quicken, and I wonder if it’s not too late to make a run for it. I don’t know what possessed me to say that, except that Ronin must have pushed against the limitations of his magic—and broken them—when he sought to defeat the Soulless and tame the Dead Wood.
He rests his h
ands against the edge of the table and leans forward. I stare hard at the tabletop, regretting my brash words.
He speaks softly. “Yes. Like me.”
At this, I look up. The sapphire of his irises and the black of his pupils seem to fracture, splintering into the many-eyed gaze of a spider.
The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end, and I stop breathing. Chills skitter across my skin like hundreds of tiny legs. I tear my eyes away, but fear spreads through me like venom.
He reaches for his neglected teacup and takes a languid sip as I try to recover the use of my lungs. The silence grows taut until he finally says, “The Dead Wood is growing.”
I imagine the branches breaking through the ceiling, wooden beams crashing on our heads as roots erupt from the floors. The trees would rip Spinner’s End apart.
“I’ve been able to slow its progress, but it’s no longer enough. This is a problem for which there is no solution, not even from the vast knowledge of the Nuvali. The trees cannot be harmed by magic lesser than what created them. They can be cut, but even their severed branches can cause harm. They do not rest. They do not burn.”
Every attempt to destroy the woods has failed, and yet I did something to them. The roots and the branches disintegrated. They can be stopped. But I’d rather crawl into a nest of wyverns than voluntarily step foot back inside that forest.
“There must be something else you can try,” I say. “You’re … Ronin the Spider King.”
“I have never called myself a king. That title was not of my own design. Still, there can be power in names. What will people say of soulguides a year from now? Or a decade? A century? You freed the souls trapped in those trees, and you must do it again.”
Before I can think better of it, my gaze shoots up to meet his. Thankfully, his eyes look normal again. “Me? I … but—” I pause to gather my thoughts. “Why are the trees growing at all? What’s keeping the spirits tied to the Dead Wood?”
“It doesn’t matter why.” I think he’s patronizing me. It’s hard to tell, though.
“Of course it matters. Wouldn’t it be better to figure out the true cause? Then you could just undo it.”
There was a boy at the orphanage who spent several hours every evening before bed screaming in terror because he was afraid of the dark. The monks tried all manner of things to calm him—teas, then bribes, and then threats and punishments. At last, someone discovered that a year earlier, the boy’s mother had led him into the night and abandoned him to the dark. The other children were able to find more tailored solutions to his fear.
Culling the Dead Wood would be addressing the symptom of a deeper problem. In order to truly understand how to control the woods, one has to know what lies at its roots.
I begin to tell Ronin this, but he interrupts me. “If only the solution were that simple. For now, what matters is that you can stop it. You’re a soulguide. This cannot be taken lightly.”
“But I don’t know the first thing about my craft. I couldn’t—”
“The growing trees threaten the kingdoms, but as a dividing force, it is also the best means to maintain peace. In order to remain effective, the Dead Wood must be brought under control. There is no other option.”
Even knowing of the tension in the north between Evewynians and Nuvali, I’d scoffed at the idea of war, certain that Ronin would never allow it. But if he believes the Dead Wood is the only means of preventing war, then the kingdoms of Thiy exist in a far more tenuous peace than I believed.
This must be the real purpose of his summons, not to discuss the attack but to assign me this daunting responsibility. Even though I understand his reasons, anger hardens within me. By forcing me to come here, to this place that is merely a more opulent prison than the Valley of Cranes, I have no choice but to obey his command.
Still, I came here with my own purpose, too. I need to know why the shamans attacked us. But if what Ronin says is true, and I’m the first soulguide to appear since Mirrim was founded, then proving my usefulness against the trees could convince the queen I’m an ally. It might even earn me back my place beside Kendara.
“You’re right. The Dead Wood needs to be controlled. However, there’s something I need as well.”
Ronin’s eyebrow slowly raises. I wonder what he’d do if I told him no. It’s probably not a word he hears often.
“Are you bargaining with me?”
“Yes.”
Although his expression remains neutral, I have the impression he’s amused. “What is it you need?”
“That attack at the teahouse. One shaman got away. First, I need him caught. Then I need to know who sent them and why.”
One corner of his mouth twitches upward into the barest of smiles. “Your queen readies for war. She has sent falcons, demanding answers, to Mirrim. She will not easily forgive this attack. Her accusations have angered the Yalaengs, who already mistrust her for her treatment of the shamanborn.”
The Yalaengs are the Nuvalyn Empire’s imperial family. “Why would they care about the shamanborn?”
“They don’t,” he assures me. “The shamanborn are not Nuvali, and the Empire will not rise to protect them. But the Empire takes offense at her hatred of the shaman race. Evewynian shamanborn or Nuvali, they are all shamans.”
“But if Queen Meilyr is truly ready to go to war with the Empire over this, then all the more reason to seek out the truth.”
“I’ve managed to placate both sides for the time being. We will meet in two weeks’ time at my northern holding to discuss a diplomatic solution. Therefore, I agree to your terms. As you say, I must know the truth of the attack.”
I’m so overwhelmed by his agreement that I’m momentarily at a loss. When I collect myself, I ask, “And the shaman who escaped?”
“I’ve already sent my own soldiers to assist in the search. In the meantime, you must begin learning to summon your craft immediately.”
“I’m afraid I don’t know where to start,” I admit. “I don’t know anything about, um, summoning my craft.”
He sets his teacup on the saucer, gently enough that it doesn’t make a sound. Then he rests his fingers on the tabletop. From beneath the table’s edge, a white spider crawls out. It climbs onto his finger, long legs moving over his knuckles to rest on the back of his hand. I watch it, half afraid it’ll leap across the table and land in my lap.
“You are inexperienced and untrained. We cannot possibly evaluate your capabilities until you learn to use your craft.” He leans over to peer more closely at the spider perched between his knuckles. The angle makes his ears more pronounced. “Would you measure the capacity of a swordsman by their first fumbling duel?”
The first time I tried to wield the dual swords, I nearly cut off my own foot. The other students had laughed. Jonyah, whom I’d only just met, declared that a talentless orphan without a proper upbringing couldn’t be taught.
“No. I would not.”
“Your powers are a question that must be addressed. Much relies on the answer.”
The spider crawls over and down his wrist before disappearing beneath his sleeve. He makes no move to dislodge it.
Before I can respond, he turns, striding the length of the table. “I have arranged for you to meet with one of my guests—a Kazan Hlau. Shamans learn to summon their magic by dueling with their elemental opposite. This normally can’t be done for lightwenders, since your natural opposite is shadow, which isn’t a shamanic craft. But the Hlau has agreed to try and invoke your magic. This is a rare opportunity.”
“Invoke … what?” I shove to my feet. He’s already halfway to the door, apparently finished with me. “Wait!”
To my surprise, he does. He stops and turns, looking infuriatingly patient. “As I said, you disturbed the Dead Wood and all those sensitive to the spirits when you awakened your craft. As you can imagine, this did not go unnoticed by Thiy’s leaders. The falcons have been arriving in casts. Leaders and heads of Houses from all over the kingdoms have a
lready begun journeying to my northern holding to seek my counsel. In addition to the peace talks between Evewyn and the Empire, I hope to present them with a solution for the threat of the Dead Wood. We have a deal, Sirscha Ashwyn. You have two weeks.”
TEN
Out in the hall, my guard awaits me. She’s dressed in the same gray sash and leather armor as the soldiers from Sab Hlee.
Although the prospect of meeting this Kazan Hlau, the equivalent of a prince, intrigues me, it’s hard to focus on any single thing after everything I’ve learned. Mostly I just want to speak with Saengo.
I follow my guard, assuming she’s delivering me back to my room. But the corridors remain unfamiliar. “Where are you taking me?”
Without looking at me, she says, “To meet the Kazan Hlau.”
I pause before a mezzanine that overlooks the front of the castle. There’s a courtyard, some miscellaneous buildings, and a handful of soldiers and staff going about their business. For a castle of this size, I’ve seen hardly anyone.
Beyond the courtyard, there again is that gauzy white curtain stretching from tree to tree, somehow keeping the Dead Wood at bay. And trapping us all inside.
“I need to go back to my room.”
The guard gives me an annoyed look. “The Hlau is expecting you. Lord Ronin gave me specific orders.”
It irritates me that he’d arranged all this before even speaking to me. “Well, then where is your Lord Ronin so that he can un-order you?”
Her lips pinch. Those vivid green eyes flash with derision. I’m well familiar with the look. “He is meeting with the other girl, the human you arrived with, in his study.”
My stomach drops at this news. Saengo should hear what I did to her from my own lips. I can only hope Ronin will consider that. Guilt and worry rush through me, bunching the muscles in my shoulders and back.
I linger at the balcony, my fingers tightening against the cold stone. For the first time, I consider abandoning everything—culling the Dead Wood, regaining my place in Evewyn, stalling war between the kingdoms. Spinner’s End is close enough to the eastern edge of the Dead Wood that it wouldn’t take long to reach the Nuvalyn Empire. If, by some miracle, Saengo and I managed to escape without being maimed, we could find our way to the coast and board the first ship away from Thiy.
