by Lori M. Lee
My gut clenches. I set the books on the desk and join her by the balcony. After a moment, I take her hand. Her skin is warm.
“Are you angry with me?” I ask quietly. I can easily find the answer for myself, but I resist the temptation to crack open that mental window between us. I still feel her there—I always feel her there—but the glow of her emotions is easier to ignore when it isn’t so intense. If Saengo doesn’t wish to share how she’s feeling, then it’s not for me to know.
A faint line forms between her brows. She lifts her other hand, extending it palm up to the sunlight. “I don’t know. Ever since I woke up at the teahouse, I’ve felt … strange. Not unpleasant, just weird. Like I’m being held together with sunbeams, and I could dissolve at any moment. Like those souls in the Dead Wood.”
The idea sends panic shooting through me. “What did Ronin tell you?”
“A number of things—what kind of lightwender you are and how shaman magic works. I thought maybe he was trying to put me at ease about you being shamanborn.” She drags her fingertips against the glass door, watching shadows chase the light across her knuckles. “But the more he talked about familiars, the more I began to wonder.”
Ronin didn’t tell her, then. My stomach weaves itself into knots. “About that … I have to tell you … when I brought you back, I—”
The words stick in my throat, thick enough to choke. Saengo’s fingers still against the glass.
She looks at me, her eyes dark and intense. “Am I your familiar?”
My heart races. I want to fall to my knees and beg her forgiveness. Instead, I force myself to hold her gaze and say, “Yes.”
She draws a slow, deep breath. I squeeze her hand as she struggles to control the way her entire body trembles, just faintly. Her jaw clenches tight, as if the truth is a poison curled against the cage of her teeth, and the moment it reaches her tongue, she will forever hold its bitterness in her mouth.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, heart aching. “I didn’t know.”
She tries to smile, but it wilts as soon as it forms. “How could you have?”
Silence weaves between us. It feels fragile, held together by the threads of unraveled dreams.
When she speaks again, it’s in a near whisper. “Ronin says a familiar can’t be apart from their shaman for more than a few weeks. Anything more than that, and the familiar begins to fade. Not completely, not as long as the bond remains, but they … I will need to be near you to be real.”
“You are real,” I say fiercely. “You are Saengo Phang, heir to Falcons Ridge. And you’re my best friend.”
“He also says familiars don’t age. How can I be any of those things when you’ll continue to grow and change, and I …”
“Saengo.” My voice breaks, but nothing I say or do can repair this. So I say nothing. I only hold her hand in both of mine, willing my strength into her.
“It could be worse,” she says, although she doesn’t sound like she believes it. “You are my sister, Sirscha. And now we’re bound together.” She reaches up and wipes from my cheek a tear I hadn’t even felt. “Tell me what Ronin said to you? He alluded to a deal of some kind.”
That’s the last thing I want to talk about, but she’s clearly finished speaking about her own somber situation now that she’s gotten her answer. So I don’t press her and instead relay the bargain I made with Ronin.
“This soulguide thing is probably just an old story. I’m not sure how much of it I believe. But what matters is that I prove I can help control the Dead Wood. It might be enough to convince the queen that I’m not an enemy so we can go home.”
Saengo looks down. “How can I possibly go home?”
“We’ll figure something out.” I can’t promise her that things will work out, not when everything feels so hopeless. But for her sake, I try to sound optimistic. I gesture to the books on the desk. “I’m hoping something in there will mention how the Dead Wood was created or tell me more about the first soulguide. Culling the trees only works if I know what I’m doing.”
Saengo moves away from the balcony for a closer look at the books. Her hand slips from mine.
“A Chronicle of the Yalaeng Conquest,” she murmurs, reading the first title.
The Yalaeng Conquest is how Scholars refer to the period in Thiy’s history when the Nuvalyn Empire set out to expand its borders by conquering smaller neighboring kingdoms. It culminated in the rise of the Soulless, which effectively ended the conquest.
Before I learned exactly how the Soulless fit into Thiy’s history, I knew him as a figure of nightmares. At the orphanage, the monks would warn of a shapeless shadow that swooped down from the night sky to swallow unruly children the way the Dead Wood swallowed its victims. In my head, he became the source of all evils in Evewyn’s folktales. He was the one-eyed serpent who hissed from dark corners, or the winged crone with wooden hands that snatched you from your bed if he peered into your window and found you still awake.
It wasn’t until I entered the Prince’s Company and had more extensive history lessons that I learned the true origins of the Soulless. In some ways, his real story—or at least what the Scholars know of it—is more terrifying than the folktales.
“Do you think Kendara will take you back if the queen allows it?” she asks.
“She has to,” I say, because I don’t know what to do if she doesn’t. I am meant to be Kendara’s apprentice. I’ve worked toward that single goal for four years, and I’m damned good at it.
But something else I’m good at is surviving. I don’t know how to be the soulguide Ronin wants, but if this is the path that will lead me back to Kendara, and Saengo back home, then I can adapt. As Kendara would want, I can play the part.
We take turns washing up in the bathing chamber, enjoying the novelty of having time to soak and enough hot water for us both. Our maid brings us a late meal of rice porridge and fish, and then she offers to assist us with readying for bed. I decline, but Saengo doesn’t object or speak when she helps her change. I wonder if having a maid reminds her of her home at Falcons Ridge.
In the Company, we washed on a strict rotation with only a couple of buckets of water and a bar of soap. You really didn’t want to be the last person in line. The last time I had a bath was a year ago—ten minutes in a hot spring to soothe fresh bruises. Earlier that day, I’d trapped an enormous zaj serpent that lived along Evewyn’s southern border where the Black River emptied into the sea. Kendara wanted me to retrieve a handful of its iridescent scales.
Zaj serpents are native to Kazahyn, but the Dead Wood’s expansion stranded a colony of them in Evewyn a decade ago. I recall, with an echo of irritation, that Kendara wanted the scales for no other reason than to decorate new sheaths for her prized swords, Suryali and Nyia. As I tie the laces at the collar of my new nightgown, I wonder if Prince Meilek has told Kendara that the attack was meant for her, and if she’s tried to find her own answers.
Would he also have told her what I am?
I perch at the edge of my bed and try out the words in my head: I am a shaman. I wince. They don’t fit right. Too tight, constricting enough to make my breaths grow shallow. That’s not who I am.
Saengo is already in her bed, so I slip into mine, tugging the thick blanket over my legs. The maid blows out the lantern on her way out, leaving the room in darkness. The half moon outside the balcony doesn’t offer much light.
After a while, a sound disturbs the quiet—short, muffled gasps. Her anguish echoes in my chest like a fresh wound. Silently, I rise from my bed. I cross the room and lift the corner of Saengo’s blanket so that I can slide in beside her. She’s curled on her side, away from me, her face buried in her pillow. Her body trembles faintly.
My heart breaks, the pain a knife beneath my ribs. I don’t speak, but I put my arm around her, letting the force of her quiet sobs rock against me.
Saengo has always been meant for so much more than the life of a soldier. She’s supposed to travel and have adventures
and claim her own fate. And then if she wants, she’s supposed to fall in love and get married and become the Lady of Falcons Ridge. She’s supposed to grow old, happy, and content after a life well lived.
I squeeze my eyes shut and turn my face into the pillow as I listen to her mourn all the things she’s lost. All the things that I’ve taken from her.
ELEVEN
Hands in the dark. Bones with too many joints breaking through skin. Nails splinter and peel, clawing, clawing—
My eyes open. The drapes enclosing the bed shroud me in darkness.
I rub my forehead. Why does my sleeping mind torment me? My throat feels dry, and my tongue sticky. Careful not to disturb Saengo, who is burrowed into the blanket, I slap the drape aside so I can sit up. Maybe the dreams are related to what Ronin said about how my craft can resonate with spirits. Evidently, I disturbed those in the Dead Wood when I awakened it.
Are the spirits trapped there trying to ask for help? If so, they could stand to be less creepy about it.
The fire has burned down to a pile of embers, their slight glow the only light in the room. Too sleepy to bother with the lantern, I open the armoire and find the black pants and fitted shirt that I requested from our maid last night.
I yawn as I dress. My body begs me to crawl back into the warm blankets. My chest feels heavy with the evening’s unresolved matters, although the thought of Theyen standing in the dark courtyard, growing increasingly annoyed, briefly amuses me. But I made a bargain with Ronin and a promise to myself. So I braid back my hair and splash water on my face until I feel more alert.
When I leave my rooms, the dozing guard outside my door jolts awake. It’s the shaman from yesterday. She yawns and returns my smile with a slight narrowing of her eyes. It’s half-hearted, though, as if she’s attempting to make peace with being assigned to me. Well, I’m not thrilled about her assignment, either.
She falls into step beside me as I say, “I never got your name. If we’re to be stuck with each other, I should at least know what to call you.”
The shaman glances at me. Her black hair is cut short to her chin, streaked with gray at her temples. Her eyes are vivid green, and her lips seem determined to form a thin, unhappy line.
“Phaut,” she says grudgingly.
“How did you come to be in Ronin’s service, Phaut?” Are his soldiers here by choice? Or were they sent to Ronin by their respective leaders through an agreement between the kingdoms?
Phaut stands a good head taller than me, which makes me eye level with her jawline. Age lines brace her mouth and crease the corners of her eyes. Her sword is strapped to her right hip. She must be left-handed.
“I swore an oath to Lord Ronin when I was young,” she says in accented Evewal.
“That’s not an answer.”
The lines around her mouth deepen as she frowns. “I volunteered. As we all did.”
Does that mean she’s loyal to him? From what I’ve seen thus far, the staff seem happy here, which surprises me a little. But I suppose people make their homes wherever they will, so long as the choice is theirs. And sometimes even when it isn’t.
“Are there shamanborn here as well?” I ask.
Her eyebrows come together in confusion. “Shamanborn?”
“In Evewyn, we call our shamans ‘shamanborn.’ Their abilities aren’t any different, as far as I know. It’s just a geographical distinction between Nuvali shamans and Evewynian shamanborn.”
“Ah. Then I believe there are a few shamanborn among the staff, yes. Are there many in Evewyn?”
“Not compared to the humans.” Queen Meilyr had been able to force them all into a single prison, after all. At least those she hadn’t killed first. “How many people live in Spinner’s End?”
She takes her time answering, turning my question over in her head. Likely searching for an ulterior motive. I could reassure her that I don’t mean to escape, but it’s more fun to watch her second-guess my words.
She finally says, “Just over two hundred.”
I frown. Two hundred people, the majority of whom would be soldiers and staff, in a castle that might have once housed four times that. From the courtyard yesterday, I’d noticed that whole sections of the castle had been left untouched by Ronin’s webbing, abandoned to time. They must have been either impossible to restore or unnecessary, given the castle’s small population.
“Most of Lord Ronin’s soldiers are spread out among his various properties and encampments,” she explains. “There isn’t much use for soldiers here at Spinner’s End, when the Dead Wood is all that’s needed to keep intruders out. And prisoners in.”
I make a face at her, but she doesn’t seem to care.
At this hour, with the halls bathed in shadows and the silence and stillness absolute—not even the scratching of mice within the walls—the castle feels truly abandoned. It’s almost like I’m still caught in a dream. Any moment now, hands will reach from the dark to grasp at my ankles. I suppress a shiver at the memory of being yanked down into blackened earth.
Minutes later, I descend the stairs that lead out into the courtyard. Theyen is sitting on the bottom steps, already waiting. Two blazing torches tint his white hair with gold. He wears all black, a simple combination of dark pants and tunic with a modest sash.
He stands at my arrival. “You didn’t bring a weapon.”
I note the curved dagger tucked into his sash. “I assumed we’d be using magic.”
“I should have known you’d need detailed instructions. Invoking your elemental opposite works best with increased danger.”
He addresses my guard in Nuval. I assume he told her to fetch me a weapon because she turns back to the castle. Kendara promised to teach me the language of the shaman empire if I became her apprentice. I haven’t yet lost hope that it could happen.
As Phaut’s footsteps recede, he continues in Evewal, “You can fight without a weapon, I hope?”
“I guess you’ll see,” I say as I join him in the courtyard.
Rolling his shoulders, he says, “The way you move means you’ve had some training. But Evewynian soldiers aren’t trained for true battle—”
My foot strikes his stomach. He staggers. I grin wickedly at the stupefaction on his face. But his surprise lasts only a moment before he retaliates.
I avoid his punch, skidding back into the stairs. Then I slide left, dodging another punch. I block a kick, then strike out with my elbow. Our forearms meet with a jarring smack. I duck beneath another kick and drop into a roll, dirt flying into my face as my braid slaps the ground.
Theyen is impressively fast. Not as fast as Kendara, but he’s a talented fighter and a fierce opponent. I’ve barely blocked his attack before the next one comes. His foot hooks behind my knee, forcing my leg to fold as his elbow nearly slams into my temple. I block in time, his elbow meeting my palms. But I can’t stop his knee from jabbing my gut. I fall back and use the momentum to roll onto my feet again.
He smiles shrewdly as he looks me over. “You’re better than I expected. But I somehow doubt all Evewynian soldiers are so well trained.”
“I somehow doubt you know as much about Evewyn as you think you do.” We circle each other. Shadows shift over our forms as we move past the torchlight.
Something catches my foot. I jerk my leg to shake it loose, but it won’t dislodge. I have to look down. The moment I do, he attacks. I block as an invisible force wraps around my ankle and drags my foot out from under me. I go down, but not before my free leg whips up and catches him in the back. He topples over my shoulder as I land on my bottom. My fingers grope for whatever’s snagged my ankle.
There’s nothing. I press my fingers directly over that definite weight, but my hands touch only the worn leather of my boot. The shadows lurch around my legs.
I gasp, flipping to my feet, feeling that hold loosen and break. Dancing back, my eyes track the moving shadows. Quick as snakes, they converge on my feet. I kick and twist, but the shadows twine around my
legs, rooting me in place. My fingers dig into the shadows, trying to claw them off. I’m shocked when my nails catch an edge. Somehow, Theyen has given the shadows movement and substance.
Theyen attacks again, but without my legs, I can only block in quick succession before he catches first one wrist and then the other. Theyen’s arms circle me as he secures my hands behind my back. We’re almost chest to chest.
“Shadow magic,” I say, struggling.
“Your natural opposite.” He lowers his face a mere handspan from mine. “Now, come on, lightwender. Impress me.”
I suck in my breath and slam my forehead into his. With a grunt of surprise, he releases me. My hands whip up, grab two fistfuls of his hair, and give a vicious yank. His head snaps back. Before he can recover, I smash my knuckles into his jaw. He stumbles away, and the shadows loosen enough for me to untangle my legs and put space between us.
“You fight dirty.” He rubs his jaw. He doesn’t sound upset about it.
“Only dead men fight fair. Now, tell me honestly. Do you think invoking my magic will make any difference against the Dead Wood?”
The question seems to surprise him, because his eyes narrow. “How do you expect to prevent war between the kingdoms if you don’t even have the conviction to summon your craft?”
It annoys me that he knows what Ronin wants of me. But I suppose it’s not difficult to work out if he’s aware of what a soulguide can do. “Make all the assumptions you want about my conviction, I assume the only reason you agreed to this is because you want Ronin’s favor. You need something from him.”
Footsteps rush down the castle stairs. Phaut pauses near the bottom, taking in the shadows writhing at Theyen’s feet. She unsheathes my swords for me.
I extend my hands, and she tosses my weapons. I catch them both by the hilt. Brandishing my swords, I lower my center of gravity into the first stance of the Wyvern’s Dance.
“You’re not wrong,” Theyen says. “Our motives aren’t so different.”
