Forest of Souls

by Lori M. Lee

  I skim the first two: lightgivers, shamans who can transfer the energy, or light, of one person to another; and light stitchers.

  I turn to the last craft. Soulguides. The section begins with a preface that all the knowledge therein should be read with the understanding that only one soulguide has ever existed and so it couldn’t be verified against any other sources. Not the most confident of texts, but I’ll take what I can get.

  The section goes on to cover the few things I already know, like how a soulguide’s power can resonate with other spirits, and how if Sury were present at someone’s death, she could guide the soul safely into the afterlife. Or depending on the type of death and the condition of the body, she could ensnare the departing soul and coax it back, restoring the person to life.

  The next paragraph talks about how Sury could disarm shamans by choking their bonds with their familiars, rendering them temporarily powerless. Or she could sever those bonds entirely. That would be handy against other shamans.

  Unfortunately, that’s the end of the section. Hardly anything at all. I need to locate a proper biography on Sury, one that isn’t based on legend and speculation. If such a thing exists.

  Turning the page, I discover the next two are missing. At first, I think they might have fallen out due to the book’s age and the broken binding. But a quick examination confirms the pages were torn hastily and messily. The inner margin of the first page is still intact, including part of the heading: Soulrender. Calling of Light.

  I stare at the words. Then I flip back to count the crafts, even though I know I’ve read through all three already. But there aren’t three. There are four.

  I press down the ragged edges of the torn page. Very little text is left, and all I can glean is that soulrenders were efficient game hunters, capable of instantly killing their prey from a distance by ripping …

  The line ends there. But I know what the rest of that sentence would say: Soulrenders could instantly kill their prey from a distance by ripping out their souls.

  My fingers tighten around the edges of the book. The Soulless was a soulrender. A lightwender.

  Footsteps in the bedroom startle me from my thoughts. I stare at the door, stiff with expectation, but it doesn’t open.

  “Don’t worry,” Phaut says. “She’s in good hands. I’ve heard that Kazan healers are extraordinary. It’s only the prejudices between the shamans and the shadowblessed that keep them from sharing their knowledge.”

  I rub my temples. “What’s the difference between a light stitcher and a shadowblessed healer?”

  She closes her book and considers an answer. “A light stitcher repairs the soul energy of a person. The body heals once a person’s soul energy is in balance. But a shadowblessed healer works differently. They’re called flesh workers, which can be a little intimidating.”

  My stomach turns. I’d left Saengo alone in a room with someone whose craft was called flesh worker?

  “They repair the body—the blood and bone. They can keep the physical symptoms of the rot at bay to slow the spread of the disease.”

  I suspect that a flesh worker’s ability to manipulate blood and bone could be used in other, less beneficial ways. “You’ve seen this done before?”

  She nods. “A small fox familiar once found its way into Spinner’s End. It’d been hiding among Lord Ronin’s supplies.”

  “How long did the fox live?”

  She looks down, and I brace for her answer. “Almost two weeks.”

  When I release my breath, it comes out thin and uneven. I feel like I’ve been stabbed in the gut. I half expect to find myself bleeding out all over the sofa. The whole world goes quiet until all that remains is the pounding of my heart and the familiar warmth of Saengo’s candle. It’s flickering, fearful but strong.

  When I can’t stand it any longer, I shove to my feet. She’s been in there long enough. Just as Phaut jumps up to block my path, the bedroom door swings open.

  The shadowblessed healer steps out. She’s a short woman with dark gray skin. Her white hair is pulled up into a braided bun at the crown of her head. She wears a simple but finely made tunic along with the crimson flame of the Fireborn Queens pinned beneath her collar.

  “I’ll need to see her every evening to repeat the treatment,” the woman says.

  I thank her and then rush past into the bedroom. Saengo sits up in bed, sipping water. Neither of us speak, but she scoots over and lifts the edge of the blanket.

  I slide in beside her. We lie down, face to face and hands clasped the way we used to when we were children in the Prince’s Company. The officits of the Prince’s Company hadn’t been as strict about our sleeping arrangements, especially for the heir of a powerful House. It took a long time for Saengo to grow accustomed to the austere barracks. Sharing a bed had helped her homesickness.

  The talisman bumps against my wrist bone. It had protected me against that firewender’s magic. I unclasp the talisman from my wrist and secure it around hers. The rot is a magical disease. Maybe the troll bone will help slow its spread. Saengo’s other hand falls over the bracelet, learning its shape in the dim light of the dying fireplace.

  “When you were dueling Theyen yesterday morning, Millie arrived at our balcony.”

  At this, I rise onto my elbow. We haven’t seen the falcon since the night of the teahouse attack. “What? How in the Sisters did she find you?”

  Her voice softens as she says, “She’s special. I think she could find me anywhere. She bore a message from my father.”

  I slowly sink into the mattress again. When Saengo shares memories of her childhood, they’re so beyond the scope of my own experience they sound more like fairy tales, filled with lessons and tutors, dancing and gifts, festivals and dresses. It’s no wonder Saengo took so long to adjust to life at the Company.

  Although she missed her family and her home, she knew what awaited her there. As heir, she’ll one day assume control over Falcons Ridge and all their lands. Her father is eager to begin shifting over responsibilities to prepare her. She’s been running from those responsibilities for years.

  “He received a message from the Company informing him of my desertion and that I’m now in Ronin’s custody. He …” Her breath hitches, and her voice grows thick with tears. “He asked if I needed him to send a party to fetch me and take me home.”

  I squeeze her hand. No wonder she hadn’t told me. No doubt she dearly wishes to see her parents, and it’s a testament to her father that he would defy the Spider King to try.

  But there’s far too much standing in the way of their reunion. The guilt rips me open once again.

  Her parents love her, but they’ve always disapproved of her decision to join the Queen’s Company. They blame me, of course. They’d rather believe I dragged Saengo into service with me instead of accepting their daughter wants a life that’s hers to choose. I have little affection for them, but I will do everything in my power to see Saengo home.

  “Did you reply?”

  “No,” she whispers. “I sent Millie off, but she’ll be back. I’ll reply then. I don’t know what to tell them.”

  I’m sorry, I think for the thousandth time. This is my fault. I’ll fix this somehow. But hope is hard to find and harder still to hold on to.

  “You should rest,” I say.

  “You too. You haven’t slept well since we got here.”

  My eyes find the shape of the bedpost behind her head, faintly outlined in silver from the balcony. “It’s my dreams. The spirits in the Dead Wood won’t leave me alone.”

  Her fingers tighten around mine. “Have they ever spoken in your dreams? Like how they did today?”

  I’d told her earlier about the strange moment in the trees. “No. Do you think I should try to talk to them?”

  “It’d be safer than going back into the trees. They can’t hurt you in your dreams.”

  I burrow deeper into the warmth of the blanket as I remember the sensation of decaying fingers trying
to worm into my mouth and gouge my eyes. The pain always feels real enough.

  After what happened today in the Dead Wood, the last thing I want is to be confronted again by those horrifying spirits in my head. But for Saengo, I’ll try.

  FIFTEEN

  Hands emerge from the dark. I suck in my breath as the clammy cold of their dead skin closes around mine. Ragged nails tear into me.

  “Stop,” I whisper. I have to fight the urge to curl into myself and hide from their grasping hands. That familiar dark awareness settles in my gut. Claws of ice wrap around my spine, tugging me somewhere I don’t want to go. Back into the depths of that garden maze. “I need to speak to you.”

  Faces appear next, broken beyond recognition. Their necks swell and roil as roots push up their throats. One mouth opens wide, black sap spilling down its chin. Panic seizes me, and all I want is to scream or run. But I’d done that in the Dead Wood, and I owe it to Saengo to swallow my fear.

  Broken fingers wrap painfully in my hair. Before I lose my nerve, I shout, “Why do you stay in the Dead Wood?”

  The hands clawing at me seem to recoil, if only for a moment. The faces snarl and gnash their teeth. “Trapped,” they whisper in raw, overlapping voices. “Trapped, trapped, trapped.”

  “How are you trapped? What keeps you here?”

  But they only repeat the word, as if no longer capable of anything more than that.

  Then another face emerges, pushing out from the side of a swollen, twisted neck. Everything inside me turns to ice. There’s enough of her left that I recognize the thin lips, the gaunt cheeks, the small but slightly crooked nose. Where her bright emerald eyes had been, there are only black, weeping burls.

  It’s the healer from the Valley of Cranes.

  She opens her mouth and whispers in a harsh, broken voice, “Suryali.”

  I awaken with a scream lodged in my throat.

  Saengo is leaning over me, calling my name. With a deep breath, I relax into the bed and throw an arm over my face. Enough light presses through the drapes that it must be well past dawn.

  “The spirits?” she asks softly.

  I nod and tell her about the dream and the earthwender girl who’d treated me at the Valley of Cranes. What could have happened? Had Evewyn’s soldiers thrown her to the trees?

  “Do you think they meant Ronin trapped them?” Saengo asks.

  “Who else could they mean?” And why would she say Suryali? It’s a Nuvali word and the name of Kendara’s sword.

  If, somehow, Ronin bound the souls to the Dead Wood, then Ronin’s problem isn’t that he’s losing control over the trees; he’s losing control over his own powers. That would explain why he deflected my questions. Maybe that loss of control led to the emergence of the rot. The rot, like the ever-increasing spread of the Dead Wood, is a symptom of a deeper problem.

  As I wash up, the earthwender girl’s face surfaces again behind my closed eyes. She must have been newly taken. To be able to speak to me, some part of who she’d been must remain intact. But the longer she’s trapped there, the more her soul will wither until, as Phaut said, she will become nothing but rage.

  Would Ronin know what happened to her? Would he even tell me? I’d probably have more luck asking Theyen. He’s informed of what goes on beyond Spinner’s End.

  Given the way our duel ended and my suspicions about the shadowblessed assassin, the idea of reaching out to him makes my stomach curdle. But I have questions, and not just about what’s going on in Evewyn. Theyen might have answers.

  Before I change my mind, I draft an invitation to dinner this evening as thanks for his healer’s services and send it off with our maid. To my surprise, Theyen responds promptly.

  “He says he’d prefer we join him in his rooms for lunch, and he will see us at noon,” I say, reading the message he sent back with the maid.

  “That was quick.” Saengo rubs her chest, wincing a bit.

  The echo of her pain tightens behind my ribs. “Maybe—”

  “Don’t you dare suggest I stay in bed.” She drops her hand from her chest. “When’s the next time I’ll get to dine with a Kazan prince? I’m going.”

  “Fine. But I warn you he’s completely unbearable.”

  I’m wary of him, but I doubt he’d try anything in his own rooms. Besides, Theyen is well informed and in a position of considerable influence. If he weren’t my enemy, then a Kazan Hlau would be a powerful ally.

  Theyen and his many attendants occupy an entire wing of the castle. Kazan guards are posted at nearly every entrance and stairwell. Their uniforms—ink-black armor over midnight-blue tunics and curved blades tucked into matching sashes—mark them as soldiers from Penumbria.

  Eventually, we come to a huge door with metal cuffs at the corners and a knocker in the shape of a wyvern’s head at its center. I knock once. No more than a second passes before the door opens to reveal a Kazan servant who ushers Saengo and me inside. Our guards remain in the corridor with Theyen’s.

  We step into a small foyer, to the right of which is a dining room. Theyen is already waiting at a low table, sitting cross-legged on a plush cushion with lavender tassels. In the brilliant light of multiple lanterns, his skin is the pale gray of river stones. He’s dressed in a teal tunic with silver embroidery. He wears a matching jacket and a darker gray sash knotted around his waist. At our arrival, he stands.

  I decide it’s best to stick to diplomacy. “Hlau Theyen, may I introduce you to my dearest friend, Saengo Phang.”

  They both bow respectfully and exchange greetings. He waits until Saengo and I lower onto large beaded cushions and then finds his seat again.

  His civility surprises me. But then he shakes his head and casts a critical eye at my appearance. “You look haggard.”

  I glance at Saengo with an “I told you so” look. I can tell she’s calling on every ounce of her good breeding to keep from glowering at him.

  Passing a hand down my splendorous attire, I affect a mock frown. “Do I not meet your approval?”

  “No one meets my approval,” he says easily. I suspect he isn’t entirely joking. “Did you not sleep well last night?”

  Ghostly hands scratch at my arms. But I smile and say, “I slept fine. And you?”

  “Perfectly. The Kazan need very little sleep in general.”

  His servants finish serving our lunch, a sumptuous offering of roast smothered in plum sauce, fragrant herbed rice, pickled vegetables, and bite-size slices of fresh fruit.

  “Hlau Theyen, thank you for the services of your healer. I’m deeply grateful,” Saengo says.

  He nods. “I was sorry to hear of your condition.”

  He does sound genuinely sorry, but I can’t help searching his face for anything that might betray an ulterior motive.

  Saengo murmurs something noncommittal and then says more brightly, “I once read something about how the Fireborn Queens acquired their name. Is it true that Penumbria is protected by inferni?”

  Theyen smiles, a secretive curve of his mouth. “That isn’t an answer that’s mine to give.”

  “You’re a Hlau,” I point out. “Penumbria’s secrets are all but yours.”

  He shakes his head. “I’ll say this and nothing more—the inferni like the dark places of the earth, and our chroniclers tell of how our ancestors formed a blood pact with them for mutual protection. But storytellers do like to embellish.”

  “What would the inferni need protection from?” Saengo’s gaze flicks to mine, and I know she’s recalling the time I nearly crossed paths with one.

  Kendara had sent me into a mineshaft in search of some crystal buried deep in the Coral Mountains. The inferni had been a creature of shadows and embers, its edges distorted and shimmery with smokeless heat. The mere sight of it had been terrifying. Like most Evewynians, I hadn’t believed such creatures still existed.

  “Firewenders,” he says. “There’s an old Nuvali custom for firewenders to hunt the inferni to prove their mastery over their element.
”

  I make a face at this and hope the custom is long dead.

  “Now that we’ve finished with the pleasantries, what’s the true purpose of this gathering?” he asks me as I shovel rice into my mouth. His lip curls, and I resist the urge to chew with my mouth open just to irritate him.

  Saengo’s cheeks go pink, but I only swallow my food and say, “I have questions I was hoping you’d be able to answer.”

  He looks amused. “Well then, I’ll try not to disappoint. What sort of questions?”

  “Did you know that the Calling of Light has four crafts?”

  “Yes,” he says, like it should be obvious. “Please tell me you didn’t come here just to ask that.”

  I ignore the remark. “But how did you know? The craft of soulrender was torn from the compendium I was reading last night.”

  “The Soulless was a soulrender,” he says in that condescending tone. “There obviously had to be a fourth craft, even if knowledge of it is no longer taught to the Nuvali. Nor to anyone in Thiy.”

  “Why is that?” Saengo leans over her plate in interest.

  “As game hunters, soulrenders used their craft primarily on beasts, but—”

  “But when a shaman reaches a certain level of power,” I say, remembering what Ronin had told me, “the limitations of shamanic crafts begin to bend.”

  Theyen nods. “Exactly. The Soulless continued to push until those limitations broke, until he could rip the souls not just from beasts but from other people.”

  Even if the Soulless hadn’t gone mad with power, shamans with the ability to strip away souls—even if only those of animals—would be a strange and terrifying power indeed.

  “Souls are the source of all our magic. To steal them was desecration. So soulrenders were hunted into extinction.”

  I rub the spidersilk of my robes between two fingers, remembering the ragged edges of the torn pages. The Soulless couldn’t be erased from Thiy’s history—his mark still scars the land—but his power had been so dark and so hated that those who came after tore what knowledge they could from that book. And likely from other books as well.