Forest of Souls

by Lori M. Lee

  And then what? We would be free, but at what cost? I could never ask Saengo to leave behind her family and home for me. Besides, Evewyn is my home, too, one of the few things I’ve ever been able to lay claim to. I’ve always been prepared to defend it.

  Fleeing could never be an option for either of us. If Saengo is now tied to my magic, then I have to make sure we still have a home in Evewyn. I’ll have to meet this Kazan Hlau and learn how to use my craft against the trees.

  The shamanborn probably studied under mentors who shared their craft, but there’s no one like that for me. How do I learn a craft that no one knows anything about? And how do I do it in two weeks? My failure with Kendara is still a fresh reminder that I am only a girl with no true name, and I have never once lived up to anyone’s expectations, except in disappointment.

  “Give me a moment,” I say to my guard. My nails scrape against the stone as I turn away from the balcony, heading for the stairs that will take me down into the courtyard.

  There’s a rudimentary palisade up ahead, little more than misshapen posts running the perimeter of the castle grounds. I hadn’t noticed it when we arrived. An open gate leads to the white drapery that shuts out the trees. On closer inspection, the gauzy material is exactly what I suspected: more webbing. It circles the entire castle.

  Spinner’s End resides within an enormous spider’s nest.

  I dance my fingers over one of the white posts that form the palisade and then pause. The material is neither stone nor wood, but it’s quite smooth. Leaning closer, I rub my thumb along the side of the post. A faint vein-like texture ambles across the surface, bearing a striking resemblance to the talisman around my wrist.

  They’re troll bones, I realize, taken aback. I finger the talisman, more curious than ever how Kendara came by it. Drawing a deep breath, I nod at the guard glowering at me.

  She leads me back inside and then down several corridors and a set of stairs. At last, we stop at an open set of double doors with ornate silver knobs.

  I suck in my breath, pausing at the threshold. Shelves jammed with books cover the walls from floor to ceiling. More shelves run parallel through the considerable length of the room. A single traceried window rises the height of the left wall, its shadow casting complex patterns against the hexagonal floor tiles. The ceiling soars above us, what isn’t patched in white revealing a faded map of ancient Thiy.

  “He’s usually that way,” my shaman guard says. The corners of her mouth turn downward as she nods at the middle aisle, braced by lanterns. Then she retreats to the door. “If you need me, I’ll be outside.”

  I plunge down the center of the library. All manner of tomes line the shelves, from books bound in leather, cloth, and wood to scrolls of parchment, papyrus, and vellum. This library must be a dozen times the size of the throne room.

  The shelves aren’t as fastidiously clean as the occupied parts of the castle, but they look routinely dusted. The scholar in me rejoices at so much knowledge kept safe. Some of these books must predate Ronin’s arrival here.

  The lanterns are lit farther apart the deeper I delve, and the shadows grow darker. I wonder if I’ve been misled when I spot a square table and two chairs occupying a small space between shelves. A lantern rests at the table’s center, the golden glow illuminating a man sitting with a stack of books.

  My feet haven’t made a sound against the faded tiles, so he hasn’t noticed my approach. The fine silk of the jacket draped over the back of his chair indicates he must be the Kazan Hlau, a fact further proven by the style of his clothing. He wears a black tunic, embellished with turquoise embroidery that adorns the collar before racing down the front in two ornate stripes. The detailing repeats around the cuffs of his sleeves. A broad strip of turquoise cloth circles a trim waist, knotted at the front and overlaid with a beautiful belt of interlocking silver links.

  His hair is the perfect white of fresh snow. I assumed he was an old man, but I recall the shadowblessed in Ronin’s camp. They all possess the same brilliantly white hair.

  I lightly clear my throat.

  His head snaps up. As I suspected, his face is young, and his skin is a solid gray. He can’t be more than a few years older than I am. A silver circlet with pure white stones rests across his brow.

  “Rather rude to sneak up on a person,” he says in Evewal, closing his book. His voice is low and clipped.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you,” I say.

  He turns in his seat to face me. “You must be the lightwender shaman.”

  “My name is Sirscha.”

  His mouth curves, but the smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Everyone has been buzzing about you.”

  “Oh?” I say, wondering if it’s appropriate to show too much interest. “And what are they saying?”

  “That you’re either the Soul of Thiy or the Ruin of the West.”

  I stare a moment and then let out a short burst of laughter. “Ruin?”

  “Not everyone stands to benefit from what you can do.” He looks me over, and the way his lips compress and one eyebrow lifts tells me well enough what he thinks.

  Ass. I lift my head, meeting his eyes and abandoning my attempt at deference. “How would you know what I can do?”

  I am not beholden to this prince. No one will chain me to the stocks or force me to haul barrels up and down the tower for a misplaced look or speaking out of turn. I’ve not yet been able to shed myself of habits ingrained into me by the Company, but as long as I’m here, I won’t stand for humiliation or ridicule. Although I yearn for the life I’d lost mere days ago, I hope never again to be made small to appease someone else’s ego.

  “Because I know what a soulguide can do,” he says.

  Such knowledge is probably why he agreed to help me in the first place. “Do you mean to introduce yourself, or will I have to guess your name?”

  He stands. Although not nearly Ronin’s height, he’s still very tall. With the lantern at his back, shadows steal across his face as he bows. “Hlau Theyen Yee of Penumbria, seat of the Fireborn Queens.”

  Penumbria is one of the largest mountain cities in Kazahyn, its exact location unknown to outsiders. The Kazan don’t acknowledge a single monarch. Instead, each clan has its own leader and customs. One of the oldest and most powerful among them are the Fireborn Queens, a matriarchal clan. What reason would a Hlau of Penumbria have to be here?

  He takes his seat again and flicks his hand at the chair opposite his. “Sit, if you must.” When I don’t move, he adds, “Or stand there and gawk. The view must be far more magnificent than what you’re used to.”

  My brows twitch together. I’d prefer to leave, but we haven’t yet spoken about my magic, and he might know more about the gossip beyond Spinner’s End.

  I sit. “They’re not really calling me those things, are they?”

  When he answers, he keeps one finger slowly moving across his page as if still reading. “They are, although I doubt any know what they’re talking about. Most who might have heard the word soulguide would have acquired the knowledge through superstitions and folk stories. Next thing you know, they’ll be claiming to have seen you take flight and disappear into the sun.”

  I look up at the ceiling draped in shadows. “If only I could.”

  “Yes, you’re utterly ordinary after all.”

  “I understand now why my guard didn’t want to join me. You’re insufferable.”

  He finally looks at me, his expression bored. “So I’ve been told.”

  That’s not at all the reaction I was expecting. Annoyed, I reach for the top book in his stack. “Ronin says you agreed to invoke my magic.”

  “I did. Do you even know what that means?”

  I reluctantly shake my head.

  “You don’t know a thing about magic, do you? Typical Evewynian ignorance. But I suppose you can’t be blamed for the faults of your upbringing.”

  I narrow my eyes, uncertain if he’s insulting me or Evewyn. Probably both. �
��And I suppose you know all about the Callings of Magic.”

  “Of course. I’d wager you didn’t even know you were a shaman until … well, until everyone else learned as well.”

  “I had no reason to suspect.”

  “No?” he asks archly. “What about your ears? The tops are shaped a bit funny, and they’re edged in a pale scar, like they were cut when you were a baby.”

  I frown as I reach up to trace my finger along the top curve of my right earlobe, feeling the faint line of the scar. “How—”

  “I have excellent eyesight.”

  No one has ever noticed the scars before. In fact, I’ve never even told anyone about them, not even Saengo. That someone mutilated my ears as a baby isn’t exactly something you just bring up in a conversation. His vision must be exceptional, indeed, to pick out such a fine detail in the library’s dim light.

  “I couldn’t have known about shaman ears,” I say. The shamanborn were imprisoned right before I left the orphanage. On the rare occasion I’d been allowed to accompany the monks into town, I’d been too taken by their eyes to notice their ears. “I didn’t really have the opportunity to interact with the shamanborn before they were imprisoned.”

  I’ve always wondered at the scars, though—if my mother was the cause and why anyone would do such a thing to a child.

  He looks down his nose at me. “As I said. Typical Evewynian ignorance. Both races of magic possess a slight point to their ears. It’s actually not very noticeable. It’s only in highborn shamans and shadowblessed that the difference is dramatic enough to be noted. Like Ronin’s.” He sweeps back his white hair, tucking it behind his pointed ears. “Like mine.”

  Whoever abandoned me to the orphanage cut away the evidence of my heritage when I was a baby. They didn’t want anyone to know I’m a shaman. They didn’t want me to know.

  A startling possibility occurs to me—what if my parents are in the Valley? The thought is alarming. If they are, I don’t want to know. They gave me up when I was a child, and I returned the favor a long time ago.

  “And your eyes,” Theyen continues.

  “Well, they’re obvious now.”

  “What color were they prior to changing?”

  “Gray.”

  His smile is patronizing. “All shamans are born with gray eyes.”

  I’d known that shamans weren’t born with jewel-colored eyes, but I hadn’t known they were all gray before changing. I rub my fingers over the raised lettering of the book cover in my hands. The signs were there all along. I just hadn’t known what to look for. Hadn’t known to look at all.

  “It’s a common-enough color in Evewyn,” he says, flipping a page. “But for all those born of shamanic blood, they possess gray eyes until they obtain their first familiar. When the bond is formed, they awaken their magic and learn which Calling they’ve been gifted.”

  By which color their eyes turn. Nuvali customs aren’t taught at the Company nor in any Evewynian school, I suspect. And after Evewyn’s shamanborn were imprisoned at the Valley of Cranes, no one dared mention them beyond mumbled reiterations of the queen’s hatred. Threat of retribution silenced those who remembered their shamanborn friends and relatives, but for everyone else? The ignorance bred fear.

  The Scholars point to the Nuvalyn Empire as proof of the shamans’ violent nature. The Empire’s history is fraught with blood and death at their attempts to conquer the continent. But how much of what we’ve been taught is based in fact, and how much is the invention of a fearmonger’s hatred?

  He reaches for the book in my hands. “That one is outside your level of comprehension.”

  I move it out of his reach. The book’s title is in Kazal, the letters embossed in gold. Beautiful metal rivets decorate the corners. Lifting my chin, I angle the book so that the candlelight illuminates the cover. I read in Kazal, “Beasts of Earth and Wing: Twelfth Edition.”

  Theyen’s eyebrows rise. He runs his fingers, the color of pale ash, through his snowy hair. “You speak almost as well as a Kazan.”

  “I have an ear for languages.” I return the book to its pile.

  He makes a pensive sound and then lifts his own book, showing me the cover, which depicts a man wearing a crown so heavy that he stoops.

  “Myths and Legends of Thiy,” I read. “History or fiction?”

  “Bit of both. I just finished ‘The Tale of the Woodcutter.’ It’s about a lowborn earthwender who, upon witnessing a grand procession through the forest, wishes he could instead be a king. And the gods, hearing his wish, grant him a crown and all that comes with it. But he wanted only the riches and the adoration, not the responsibilities of running a kingdom. Being ignorant in such things, his people fell to ruin and starvation.”

  “Pleasant,” I say, but Theyen isn’t finished.

  “He begs the gods to reverse his wish and return him to his humble position as a woodcutter. But the gods refuse, proclaiming that he should live with the consequences of his greed. In defiance, he condemns every temple in his kingdom to fire. When the gods fail to respond, he then puts to death a hundred newborn babies. When even such a heinous act does not move the gods to reverse his wish, he orders a hundred shamans to consume their familiars so that they might claim the power of the gods for themselves. But such a monstrous act drives the shamans mad, and they overrun the castle, killing the king and all within it.”

  I lift one eyebrow. “I don’t suppose that was a children’s tale.”

  “It’s a cautionary tale, actually,” he says, watching my reaction, “about what happens to those who claim titles that they’ve not earned.”

  My fingers itch to punch that smug look off his face. How arrogant of him to believe he can wound me. It’s the same arrogance I saw in the officits and every person who believed me their inferior.

  I push to my feet. The chair scrapes loudly across the tiles. “Titles should be earned. As should respect, which makes it hilariously ironic coming from someone like you.”

  “Someone like me?” he echoes, mouth stretching into a smile.

  “An ass,” I clarify, striding away.

  This was a waste of my time. But as long as I’m here, I might as well look up some reference books. In a library this size, there has to be something about the Dead Wood. Or soulguides. Or a practical guide to learning one’s craft, hopefully with step-by-step instructions accompanied by illustrations.

  Theyen stands, snatching up the lantern as he follows me down an aisle I pick at random. “You should learn how to speak to royalty before you insult the wrong royal. I’ve punished people for less.”

  Spinning on my heel to face him again, I dip into a mocking bow. My braid spills over my shoulder, nearly touching the floor. “Oh, forgive me. An extremely rude, self-important ass.”

  His lips quirk. “I can’t tell if you’re fearless or stupid for disrespecting a prince.”

  I allow him the same disdainful appraisal that he gave me. “You’re not my prince.”

  “And yet you need my help.”

  “You’re not the only shadowblessed in Spinner’s End.” At least, I hope he isn’t. “I’ll find someone else to help me.”

  He looks amused and lifts the lantern higher for better illumination. “Are you looking for something specific or just enjoying the identical rows of shelves? Seeing as you’re not familiar with the library’s layout, it’ll take you weeks to browse everything.”

  It irritates me that he’s right. While perusing the books to my heart’s content would be ideal, my priority is to learn as much as I can in the brief time Ronin has allotted me.

  I look around the shadowy aisles, wondering if I should return in the morning with Saengo. My stomach dips as I wonder if she’s returned to our room.

  “History,” I say reluctantly. “I think.”

  Theyen turns away, not even looking back to ensure I’m following. I entertain the idea of letting him saunter off on his own and seeing how long it takes for him to realize and double back. But
I can’t waste any more time. So I sigh and hurry after him.

  We weave through the shelves, at last stopping before a row of old books and loosely bound manuscripts. “These are Scholar archives of various points in Thiy’s history. You’ll find them organized by kingdom.”

  “Thank you,” I say slowly, suspicious of his helpfulness.

  “Tomorrow morning.” He hands me the lantern.

  “What?”

  “Before dawn. Shadowblessed are at their best in the dark.”

  “You still want to help me?” I ask, dubious.

  “I don’t see why not. Besides, Spinner’s End is sorely lacking in people who can hold a conversation for more than two sentences.”

  “Maybe that’s because they’re in a hurry to rid themselves of your company.” I pull a book titled Early Evewyn and the Age of the Drake Queens from the shelf and settle it into the crook of my elbow.

  He sounds amused. “Must be how ‘insufferable’ I am.”

  “Must be,” I echo lightly as I crouch to look at the lower shelves.

  Without a word of farewell, he turns away. His footsteps are silent as he disappears into the dark.

  Thank the Sisters. What an excruciatingly unpleasant man, and I’ve known many. At least he was of use. And although I’d like to pretend I’ve no intention of meeting him in the morning, it would be a lie. I’d be a fool to reject the opportunity.

  Once I’ve acquired a few more books, I gather up the stack, balance the lantern on top, and make my way out. Fortunately, I don’t run into Theyen again.

  I find Saengo in the bedroom, standing before the glass balcony doors. She’s dressed in the same simple shirt and loose pants as I am, and her ragged hair looks roughly brushed. The day’s last light illuminates her silhouette against the darkening room. For the briefest of moments, the light appears almost to shine through her.