by Lori M. Lee
It would probably be smarter to stay where I am, exposed by the moonlight, and force him to come to me. But while I don’t have his abilities, I, too, have been taught to become a shadow—and I do not fear them.
So I step forward. I feel his gaze on me. It’s a different sensation from the one in the garden maze, the one that tugged at my core to venture deeper, whispering of dangerous secrets.
I join him in the shadows of the castle, where even the walls become inseparable from the dark. I wait, letting the night wrap itself around me—the distant crackle of stretching trees, the satin warmth of air against my neck. The sharp smell of blood that closes in on my left.
I dodge, my hand shooting out to grasp his arm. With a sharp twist, I snap his wrist. He grunts in pain, his sword falling from his grip. I catch the hilt with one hand while the elbow of my other arm smashes into his face.
Dark-gray blood spurts from his nose. My knee meets his gut. He grunts again, stumbling. Another punch to his jaw, and he sprawls into the dirt. His shadows melt from his body, sinking into the earth like water. Beneath the disguise is the simple tunic that all the castle servants wear under their uniforms.
A quick scan of the area confirms our fight hasn’t drawn the attention of any guards. That’s good. Judging by his silence, he doesn’t want the attention, either. Also good. I lift his sword, admiring its razor edge as he gawks up at me, bewildered, white hair mussed.
“You’re good with this.” He might have gotten in more than a small nick if not for Saengo. I twirl the sword. The blade sings through the air. He sucks in his breath as the metal stops a hair’s width from his neck. “Who are you?”
His lips flatten, nostrils flaring as he draws a slow, deep breath. My mouth stretches into a smile that makes the blood drain from his face. His fingers flex against the earth.
“Just kill me already, shaman,” he says through his teeth. “I won’t tell you anything.”
“Are you absolutely sure about that?”
“Inferni take you,” he spits.
I lean over him, speaking low. “You must not have very much practice in this sort of thing. Allow me to explain. When I ask you a question, you answer. And when you don’t …”
The sword stabs through the fleshy skin between neck and shoulder. His back arches as his mouth opens on a silent scream. As I expected, his control suggests he’s had training not unlike my own. Blood wells around the blade, trickling down his collarbone and pooling at the hollow of his throat. Should it disturb me how easily I can hurt him? How his pain can move me so little?
“Why are you trying to kill me?” I suspect I know the answer, but I’d like to hear it from his lips.
“You bring nothing but destruction,” he hisses. “You are a weapon of the shamans to be used against my people.”
“Are you a servant here in the castle?”
The corners of his lips pull downward, and he doesn’t reply.
I lean over, allowing my weight to settle on the sword. Pain tightens his face. “What am I to do with you? Do I kill you?”
“Sirscha,” a voice hisses. I don’t turn, but I hear Saengo sliding along the roof behind me.
His eyes close; his mouth pinches tight. The resignation there surprises me. I don’t actually intend to kill him. I only want answers before I hand him to Ronin. Tears seep from beneath his lashes, sliding down his temples into his pale hair.
I startle back, confused by the anguish carving lines around his eyes. In a flash, he rips the blade from his shoulder and springs to his feet.
Saengo makes a strangled sound of warning. I curse and raise the sword to defend against an attack. Instead, he flees and launches himself over the troll bones.
“Wait,” I say, but he’s already scrabbling to get beneath the white drape that separates Spinner’s End from the trees. My heart hammers in my chest. “Wait!”
I gape, jaw hanging loose, as he vanishes into the dark. Should I go after him? What was the fool thinking? I wouldn’t have killed him, but the trees certainly will.
I look up at Saengo. She stares dumbstruck at the place where the shadowblessed had vanished.
“Damn it,” I whisper fiercely, stabbing the sword into the dirt. I approach the palisade, fingers gripping the troll bones. My stomach churns at the idea of entering the trees, especially now in the dead of night, but can I just leave him to die?
“Don’t,” Saengo calls, her voice high and frantic. Her fear rises inside me, even with the barrier between us.
“Damn it,” I repeat, just as the trees groan. I freeze, chills racing down my arms despite that I’m still warm from the fight. I swallow thickly, perfectly still, listening.
Something almost like a scream pierces the night before it’s abruptly cut off. I release the bones, backing away as I slap a hand over my mouth, panting against my damp palm. My heart races; my legs tremble. The trees shift again.
Grabbing the sword, I spin and vault up the wall to where Saengo waits for me. We don’t stop until we’re slipping back through the window into the gloom of the library.
THIRTEEN
The next morning, Saengo and I go over the details at breakfast. Our maid sets for us a meal of spongy rice cakes, bright fruits shaped into whimsical beasts, and a steaming pot of chrysanthemum tea scattered with petals. It’s a bit surreal, like if I rub my eyes, the bounty before us will ripple and vanish.
But even in the bright light of day, my belly full and warm, I shiver at the memory of the trees and that lone, strangled scream. Although I pity his death, I can’t summon any remorse. He did try to kill me, after all. I only wish I’d gotten more answers from him.
“Why would someone try to kill you?” Saengo asks, scowling down into her tea. Last night, she’d grown bored alone in the library and followed me out the window in time to witness the attack. Thank the Sisters no one besides Ronin knows she’s my familiar.
“He mentioned me being a weapon against the shadowblessed, which doesn’t make sense. Controlling the Dead Wood benefits everyone, not just the shamans.”
“I don’t think he meant the Dead Wood. As a shaman, you’re an enemy by default. The Empire once tried to conquer Kazahyn. Think about what it must mean to shamans that another soulguide has appeared after so long. The last one was the founder of their kingdom.”
My nose wrinkles. I don’t like the reminder of expectations built around preconceived notions of who I am. I’ve been contending with such notions all my life, namely that I will never attain anything because of my low birth.
“Imagine what would happen if the Yalaengs got their hands on you,” Saengo continues. Her voice grows hushed with worry. “Or me. If they think you’re a threat to their power over the Empire, then they’ll kill us. Or just me and use you as a powerless figurehead to—”
I toss a chunk of mango shaped like a bird at her. It splashes into her nearly empty teacup, spattering her pale cheek.
“Sirscha! Really?” she says, exasperated. But the dark cloud over her eyes clears and a smile pulls at her lips. “How did Kendara ever wring any discipline out of you?”
“Focus on the problems we have now.” I reach for more mango. “Not the ones you’re adding in your head.”
She grabs for the grapes just as I lob another chunk of fruit at her head. We’re both laughing, juicy ammunition primed for attack, when the door opens. Saengo slams back into her seat, grape-filled hands hidden in her lap. She’d be the picture of decorum if not for her twitching lips and the way her hair sticks straight up in the back. Neither of us had bothered to wash up before breakfast.
Unlike Saengo, I don’t hide the beast-shaped fruit fisted between my fingers. Instead, I pop a papaya-drake into my mouth.
Our maid sweeps into the room, ignoring our antics. Her arms are laden with layers of sheer golden fabric. I catch a glimpse of Phaut out in the hall. Her short hair is tucked behind her ears, which are only slightly pointed. She looks like she’s just arrived to join Saengo’s guard, who’d
been on the night shift. Then the maid swings the door shut with her foot.
“Come see!” The maid rushes past us into the bedroom. I fling one more piece of fruit at Saengo and then follow after her.
In the bedroom, the maid is shaking out a stunning wine-gold gown with matching robes. I suck in my breath.
The style is a little outdated but certainly Nuvali. Intricate gilt embroidery decorates the high collar and either side of the sleeveless bodice, a shade darker than the flowing skirt, which falls loose and airy in a stream of pale gold broken by panels of gossamer lace. A carmine sash embroidered at the ends in shimmering thread provides a bright stripe of color. Without even touching it, I know it’s spidersilk.
The maid beams as she spreads the lush dress across the foot of my bed. “Isn’t it beautiful? Oh, and this one is for Saengo.”
She rushes over to the second pile of fabric she’d left on Saengo’s bed and shakes it out. The gown is in a much different style. The neckline is cut lower, the waist higher, and the sleeves are long and billowing, spilling down over the full length of the dress.
“Since you’ve made friends with Hlau Theyen, I had to find you something more appropriate to wear.”
“I have not made friends with Theyen.” I cringe at the idea. “And he hasn’t even met Saengo yet.”
She waves away my comment. “Even so. This color will look perfect with your skin tone.”
“Where did you even find gowns like this in Spinner’s End?” I head into the bathing chamber to wash my hands and clean up. It’d be a waste to wear them for someone like Theyen. He’s not a friend, but at least he isn’t an enemy.
My hands still, the water cupped in my palms sluicing between my fingers into the silver basin.
Not everyone stands to benefit from what you can do.
No. He wouldn’t have dared. Sending a shadowblessed with powers not unlike his own would be too blatant. And yet the assassin had called me a weapon of the shamans, and Theyen made no secret of his dislike for me.
“They belonged to a previous guest,” the maid calls from the bedroom.
I close my eyes and resume washing my face. There will be time enough later to consider whether the assassin had been working alone or if he’d been sent.
Back in the bedroom, I spot Saengo at the edge of her bed, expression guarded as she fingers the silk sleeves of the gown set out for her.
“Some guests who arrive here underestimate the journey through the Dead Wood,” the maid continues. “Sometimes, in order to make the return journey more quickly, they abandon whatever they’d brought with them.”
Still, the former owner would have been someone of great means to discard spidersilk.
With a glance at Saengo, I say, “Saengo and I can manage from here. Thank you so much.”
The woman lifts one eyebrow but doesn’t argue. She bobs a curtsy and leaves, shutting the door gently after her. I turn to Saengo, not even sure what to say. Her misery is my doing, and I don’t know how to fix it other than to continue in my bargain with Ronin.
A beat before the silence between us grows awkward, Saengo pastes a smile on her face and rises from the bed. “These really are beautiful. My father promised me a spidersilk gown for my wedding one day. I guess that’s unlikely now.”
“Saengo,” I begin, but she cuts me off.
“I like seeing how happy you get over pretty things.” She crosses the room to the gown on my bed. “Come on. I’ll help you try it on.”
Reluctantly, I tug off my nightgown. Without the layers common in Evewynian fashion, dressing is a much quicker affair.
As she helps me into the gown’s thin chemise, I say, “Do you think it was a Spinner back in that garden maze?”
The evidence all around the castle makes it plain that there are Spinners within the grounds. Although that’s likely what I heard last night, the press of that strange power does give me pause. The mere memory of it is like a tug at my navel, urging me to brush away Saengo’s hands and rush back to the garden. It takes more effort than it should to force my thoughts away from that nameless sensation.
“I should like to see a Spinner.” Saengo tilts her head thoughtfully. She holds out the gown for me to slip my arms through.
“I don’t. After the sorts of things Kendara made me hunt, I’d rather not meet any eight-legged creatures larger than a drake in shadowy garden mazes.”
Saengo tucks one side of the sleek fabric beneath the other, securing the bodice with tiny pearl buttons. I’ve never worn anything so exquisite in my life. The only gown I possess—pale-pink satin robes Saengo gifted me when we graduated from the Prince’s Company—sits at the bottom of my trunk in the barracks.
The gown has likely already been confiscated by the officits with all my other possessions: a worn volume of Evewynian myths and folktales, a dried plum blossom pressed between the pages; a doll I’d bought with my first month’s stipend at the Queen’s Company; a cloth square embroidered with mountain orchards in bloom, purchased from a festival; ticket stubs to plays I’d attended with Saengo at the theater; the very first message Kendara wrote me, a single sentence indicating a time and place to meet, meaningless to all but me.
They were few in number and yet the physical sum of all my years in Vos Talwyn. A pang of longing strikes swiftly, making my chest ache with the knowledge of lost things, lost time, lost dreams. Every moment I’m here feels like I’m careening further and further away from the life I’d chosen.
Saengo makes a face and ties the scarlet sash around my waist. “You know I respect Kendara, but I don’t like her ‘tests.’ You always come back looking a little less like yourself.” Her voice grows quiet. “Like how you looked when you stabbed that shadowblessed. Everything about you goes cold.”
“He was trying to kill me,” I say dryly. I slip my bare arms through the sleeves of the robes, which cascade down my form. In a gown like this, I would have fit right into one of the queen’s lavish balls or dinner parties.
On those evenings, Saengo and I would sneak from the barracks and hide within the gardens, watching the court in their resplendent silks beneath the glow of hundreds of painted lanterns. Being a lord’s daughter and heir, Saengo of course was taught to dance. So we pranced in circles around ylang-ylang trees, swinging our arms in dramatic swan poses between rows of hibiscus and plumeria, each dreaming our impossible dreams.
Saengo shakes her head. “I know. You didn’t have a choice. But you’re also one of the most compassionate people I know. Stop rolling your eyes. It’s true. I worry when you’re forced to do things like that. Kendara didn’t like seeing any softness in you.”
I sigh. “She would absolutely disapprove of this gown.” She disapproves of anything too conspicuous, like silks and jewelry and smiling and pretty much anything that isn’t dour and boring.
Still, she taught me to survive. Saengo doesn’t understand that I’ve rarely had the luxury to be soft. I didn’t have the protection of a powerful family. Or any family. I didn’t have wealth, status, and comfort.
All things she’s lost because of me.
“All right, your turn.” I reach for the laces at Saengo’s collar. She jerks away, but not before my fingers pull down the fabric, just enough to reveal spidery blue lines climbing over her collarbones. “Saengo!”
“Don’t.” She backs away. Her hands clutch the laces at her throat, hiding the blue lines. “I didn’t want to tell you.”
“Why?” I ask, incredulous.
“Because I didn’t want to worry you any further.” Slowly, she releases her grip on her collar and tugs down the material. “I thought maybe it was a side effect of the familiar bond, but … I don’t think it is.”
My heart pounds as I look more closely. The lines are thin but bright and ominous, radiating outward from the center of her chest. I swallow, dread settling thick as oil at the back of my throat.
“Wait here.” I turn and rush through the sitting room before flinging open the door. Out in
the hall, Phaut reclines on a chair, arms crossed. The other guard is gone.
I must look somewhat frantic because she immediately grasps her sword and straightens out of her chair. “What is it?”
Without a word, I turn on my heel and lead her back into our bedroom. Phaut’s fierce expression transforms into confusion as she takes in the space, free of intruders, and then me, dressed like I’m about to have tea with the queen.
“Are you in danger?” she asks warily.
“Tell me what this is,” I say as I cross to Saengo.
Saengo looks resigned as she unlaces the collar of her nightgown and pulls it open to reveal the blue lines spidering her skin. Phaut’s face goes white, the age lines around her mouth deepening. Her hand falls from the pommel of her sword.
“The rot,” she whispers. “How is this possible?”
Saengo sways on her feet. I guide her to a chair. Even with the window in my mind shut against the flame of Saengo’s emotions, her fear pushes through me. My pulse pounds at my temples, drowning out everything but the harsh sound of my breathing.
The rot is incurable. A sickness of the soul.
“Get Ronin,” I say. Phaut doesn’t even argue. She all but flees the room.
“I’ve arranged for a healer.” Ronin stands beside the door, watching me pace the length of the sitting room.
Saengo sits nearby, hands clenched tight in her lap. She’s changed into simple pants and a tunic, the blue lines of infection covered up again. Phaut lingers behind Ronin, her gaze darting from me to Saengo in bewilderment. She’s still reeling from the news that Saengo is a human familiar.
Ronin says, “If I’d known she was your familiar, I wouldn’t have sent for the both of you. But once it became apparent, the fact she survived the journey without signs of sickness left me hopeful she would be immune. The rot usually settles in far more quickly. Perhaps a human soul is more resistant.”
The detached tone of his voice irritates me. I make another agitated turn around the room. The airy layers of spidersilk flutter around me.
