Forest of Souls

by Lori M. Lee

  “That’s terrible,” Saengo says.

  Theyen lifts one elegant shoulder in a slight shrug. “Crafts aren’t strictly hereditary, but they can be more common within families, so when one was found, the entire house was executed to prevent the bloodline from producing more soulrenders. It was an effective, if archaic, solution.”

  The fear of him and his legacy infected Thiy so deeply that every soulrender since has paid for his crimes. Generations of families massacred, all because of a single shaman.

  “You don’t disapprove?” I ask.

  He lifts his gaze from his plate. Those bright eyes are cold. “I don’t care how the shamans choose to kill one another. If they want to hunt their own, let them.”

  I tap one finger against the edge of my plate and consider his words. Would that callousness extend to sending an assassin after me?

  Saengo pokes her fork into her food, like she no longer wants to eat it. “I must say, Hlau Theyen. You’re not endearing me to the Nuvali.”

  “Not at all deliberate, I assure you. But one positive thing that can be said for them,” he says, shredding a piece of succulent meat with his fork, “is that they know their culinary skills.”

  “Not much variety in the mountains?” I ask.

  “Some. From imports, mainly. The Kazan sleep during the morning hours, and they dislike daylight, so there aren’t enough people willing to till and plant the mountainsides.”

  “You don’t seem to mind daylight.”

  He casts a reproachful look at the window. “I’m trying to get used to it. If I’m to live in the Nuvalyn Empire, then there will be little shelter. The Nuvali worship Suryal, the sun god, creator of all spirits. Mirrim is filled with towers of glass and open roofs.”

  “Don’t the Yalaeng royals have eight children? Lots of contenders.” I twirl my spoon in a frothy sauce that smells of lemongrass. “Maybe you’ll get lucky, and your intended will be killed before there’s even a wedding.”

  “Sirscha,” Saengo says, incensed.

  Theyen only laughs, low and quiet. “Unfortunately, barring outright war, I’m honor bound to unite our Houses, one way or another.”

  My brows lift a fraction at the admission that only war would sever his engagement. A slip due to arrogance, or a deliberate remark?

  “Is that so?” I ask. “And, in your opinion, how likely is outright war?”

  “Are you worried?”

  “Should I be?”

  A beat passes between us, something indefinite and guarded.

  But then it passes, and Theyen smiles mockingly. “No one welcomes war, but we must always be prepared for it.”

  It’s a diplomatic answer, which annoys me. “So if the Ember Princess died, what would happen?”

  “It’s as much a symbolic marriage as it is a political one. Bearing my child to seal the alliance would, of course, be ideal, but in desperate situations—as, for example, when war is a tangible threat—the Yalaengs would select one of her siblings to take her place. A union with a prince would work just as well. Possibly even preferably, since I doubt they want any half-Kazan children becoming potential threats to the throne.”

  “I see.” As much good as the union might bring to Thiy, a royal marriage can’t erase past wrongs. Just as a peace treaty can’t hold forever. Words on paper, signed by kings and queens long dead. Signing a contract agreeing not to act on standing hatreds is not a promise to stop hating.

  I hadn’t understood until I arrived here how fragile Ronin’s grip is on the peace. He’s holding the kingdoms together by a gossamer spider’s thread.

  Theyen insists on finishing his meal before answering any other questions, so I allow him to change the subject. Since he seems to enjoy hearing himself talk, I let him carry the conversation as I construct a mental layout of his suite in case I ever get the opportunity to rifle through his rooms in his absence.

  After we finish eating, we move into the sitting room as servants clear the table. A few patches of white mar the walls in here, but the room is otherwise in superb condition. Silk dressings adorn the walls, framing a tapestry of a landscape constructed from thousands of perfect little stitches.

  Random musical notes puncture the room as Theyen plucks at a long horizontal string instrument tucked into the corner. I’ve always envied those with musical talent.

  “Have you been by that maze of gardens at the back of the castle?” I ask Theyen. The memory of scurrying legs and the density of an unnameable power sends a shiver through me. Saengo and I move to the window, drawn by a warm draft of air.

  “I’ve seen them in passing. The area is restricted to everyone but a few guards. The staff whisper that Ronin keeps his familiar back there.”

  “His Spinner?” I knew that had been a Spinner lurking in the maze, but Ronin’s own familiar? “What about the rot? How can his familiar survive in the middle of the Dead Wood?”

  Saengo looks to Theyen, clearly keen on the answer as well.

  Theyen smiles with false benevolence. “I understand why you would think that I know everything, Sirscha, but—prepare yourself now—shockingly, that isn’t the case.” As I roll my eyes, he continues, “Ronin’s magic is intact. I’ve seen him use it to heal some sagging crops in the vegetable gardens. So clearly he must have a familiar stowed somewhere nearby.”

  “Ronin is a sower,” I say quietly, surprised. Sowers use their water magic to nurture the earth. They’re architects of nature, the most powerful of whom can make crops flourish even in times of drought.

  I suppose Ronin’s familiar, connected to his considerable power through their bond, could account for the presence that had crawled inside my chest and made room against my spine, demanding my attention.

  “What?” Theyen says distractedly as he tunes his instrument, strings stretched over a long resonant cavity made of lacquered wood.

  “What do you think he’s hiding back there?” I ask.

  He pauses and looks down his nose at me. “You’re going to have to be less dim-witted if you expect to keep my company. We just discussed the existence of a Spinner.”

  “Kindly stop insulting my friend,” Saengo says with an arch of her brows that I’m certain she learned from her father.

  Theyen is unimpressed. “That was your idea of an insult? I wasn’t even trying.”

  “It’s fine,” I say. “He doesn’t pretend to like me. I’m used to it.”

  “Just because I don’t like you doesn’t mean I dislike you.”

  “Well, that’s flattering,” I say dryly.

  “You should be flattered. My attention is hard to keep.”

  Any more time in Theyen’s company, and I’ll be at risk of injuring myself from repeatedly rolling my eyes. “Anyway, I don’t mean just a Spinner.”

  Whatever power lurks in the garden maze sank hooks into my skin, and it’s been trying to reel me back ever since. If his familiar is back there, then it must be powerful indeed to not only resist the rot but to maintain Ronin’s control—

  The thought jolts through me. Ronin’s familiar is the key to his power. It’s so stupidly obvious now that I’ve realized it. Shamans can’t perform magic without familiars. Ronin is no different. His loss of control over the Dead Wood and whatever’s keeping the spirits tied here is connected as well to his familiar. Something must be wrong with it.

  “Do you think you could help me get into that maze?” I ask.

  “Why would I do that?” His fingers hover over the strings, waiting.

  “Because I know you want Ronin to dissolve your engagement with the Ember Princess. Maybe we’ll find something back there to help you negotiate.”

  A slow smile twists his mouth as he withdraws a fingerpick from beneath the instrument. “I think I’m beginning to like you.”

  I turn a triumphant look at Saengo. She mouths, “I don’t trust him.”

  Neither do I. But I mean to take advantage of whatever assistance he’s willing to offer.

  “There’s one more t
hing I was hoping you could tell me. Have you heard any news from Evewyn? Anything about the shamanborn?”

  “Why would I have news from the human kingdom?” he asks as he begins to play. His long gray fingers glide across the strings with mesmerizing grace.

  I consider a lie. But then the earthwender’s face appears in my thoughts. Somewhere in the Dead Wood, she’s suffering. Trapped. My heart twinges at the memory of her eyes, bright with defiance. Anger heats through me. She deserved so much better.

  “I had a dream. I saw a girl I knew from the Valley of Cranes. She was taken by the trees.”

  “Ah. I suppose between Ronin and me, I was the easier option for seeking out answers.” Theyen doesn’t look up, his hands continuing to move as each note shivers through the air.

  Saengo winces, but I only lean my shoulder against the wall and cross my arms. “Does that mean you don’t know anything?”

  He glances at me, eyes bright with amusement. “When your queen outlawed shamans, she also restricted the shadowblessed to Evewyn’s port cities. I’ve been informed that Vos Gillis’s notice boards are filled with posters warning of shamanborn hiding in the city. The result of an escape from the prison camp.”

  The words lance through me like a bolt of lightning. An escape.

  He finishes his song and then shifts in his seat to face us. “Rumor has it, someone within the queen’s circle is helping the shamanborn stow aboard ships to escape the country, but no one’s been able to catch more than a glimpse of a shadow.”

  “Sirscha, you can’t do this,” Saengo says once we’re back in our rooms.

  I’d have thought by now that she would know better than to tell me I can’t do something. It only makes me want to try harder.

  “It’s Kendara,” I say. “It has to be. She’s always hated the prison camp, and who else would have the means to help those shamanborn without getting caught?” Not to mention the word the earthwender healer said in my dream also connects to Kendara. It can’t be a coincidence.

  “You can’t leave on little more than a guess. What if the queen catches you? It’s too dangerous.”

  “It’s worth the risk,” I insist. “I have to speak to her, and there’s no better opportunity. Vos Gillis is a big port city and as far from the capital and the queen as you can get in Evewyn. If I can find her, I know she’ll help us.”

  Kendara is the most intelligent person I know. As the queen’s Shadow, she’s also one of the most informed. She’ll be able to tell me more about Ronin and his familiar, and what might be going on with the Dead Wood.

  “But would she really betray the queen by helping the shamanborn? Even if she hates the prison, she’s also a loyal subject.”

  Kendara once sent me into the home of a minor lord to retrieve copies of the man’s ledgers. The lord in question had been in Vos Talwyn at the time, and his estate was barely guarded. When I’d questioned the morality of stealing from the queen’s own lords, she’d said that sometimes one had to work around the law in order to best serve it.

  “She is a loyal subject,” I say. She’ll do what she thinks is best for the kingdom. “Besides, it’s only treason if you’re caught.”

  “Then I’ll come with you.”

  “You can’t. You can’t risk missing any treatments with the healer.”

  She tosses up her hands and storms over to the balcony where she braces both palms against the glass. “If the rot doesn’t kill me, this confinement will. I can’t breathe here. I need to do something. To be useful.”

  The set of her shoulders tells me she’s not looking to be comforted, so I remain where I am by my bed. I’ve changed out of my gown, which lies in a pool of spidersilk in front of the armoire.

  “As soon as I have the information I need to destroy the Dead Wood, you won’t ever have to come back here again.”

  Saengo’s hands curl into fists against the glass. “We used to be a team.” Her voice is soft, but the words still cut. “Now all I am is a piece of you. A shadow tethered to your soles, looking at your back.”

  Her pain is a hard knot at the center of me. My nails dig into my stomach, like I might be able to tear the feeling away. “I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I’m sorry I did this to you.”

  She looks back at me. Sadness sharpens her eyes and the lines of her mouth. “I don’t blame you. You didn’t know what you were doing. But maybe you’re right that I should stay. I think I need to be alone.”

  With Phaut’s help, I’m given an audience with Ronin later that afternoon. Leaving Spinner’s End would be impossible without his assistance.

  She takes me again to what had once been the throne room. I approach the broad, sweeping stairs leading up to the dais where Ronin stands. The doors shut behind me with a resonating clank. A fire burns low at his back. A hazy heat ripples the air around his tall figure. He’s dressed in a plain gray shirt tucked into loose black pants and a matching jacket. The table from the last time I was here is gone.

  “You seem troubled,” Ronin says. He speaks in that same soft voice that’s much too difficult to read.

  Why wouldn’t I be troubled? Learning my craft is still necessary, but it won’t be enough to destroy the Dead Wood before the rot takes my best friend.

  “I think … I think the best way to restore control over the Dead Wood is to find out what’s keeping the spirits rooted to the trees. We need to undo whatever curse keeps them here.”

  Without moving a single muscle, Ronin cuts me a look that makes my tongue shrink back in my mouth. His eyes narrow into thin chips of sapphire. “It’s no wonder you’ve made so little progress summoning your craft when you squander your time on useless pursuits. We already have a solution to the problem—your power, which you’re meant to be developing. Instead, you dawdle over questions I’ve already exhausted.”

  I bite the inside of my cheeks and force a small, acquiescent bow. His response only confirms that I won’t find any answers with him. I’ll have to seek them elsewhere.

  “Of course,” I agree, schooling my voice into something neutral.

  “You’ll be glad to know that the shaman who attacked your friend was captured three nights ago.”

  And you’re only telling me now? “I’m relieved to hear that. What were his motives?”

  “I sent soldiers to collect him for interrogation. But before they could, the shaman escaped. Evidently, there was a prison break at the Valley of Cranes, and the shaman took advantage.”

  Frustration pinches at my temples. Of course he escaped. Could nothing go right? “I see. But you’ll recover him?”

  “As soon as I can. But in the meantime, some of the escaped shamanborn have arrived at my western encampment. I’m leaving to meet them in the morning.”

  Surprised, I smother my rising anger. “You’re going to help them?”

  “I won’t return them to Queen Meilyr, but as a neutral entity, I’m unable to do anything for them.”

  In the firelight, the hard angles of his face soften. I don’t know how to interpret his expression, but I imagine it’s not one he wears often. As the ruler of the Dead Wood, softness or vulnerability are indulgences that are not available to him. He must always be in control, and for the first time, I wonder at the burden he must carry.

  “But you wish you could?” I ask quietly.

  Any shred of softness in him vanishes. He links his fingers together, once again the picture of calm. I can’t tell if it’s an act. How many years, decades, lifetimes even, would it take for someone to become unmoved by tragedy?

  When he responds, it’s without inflection. “I do what I must to keep the peace.”

  I shouldn’t have overstepped. Straightening my shoulders, I say as firmly as I dare, “I’d like to accompany you to your encampment.”

  He regards me for an excruciatingly long second. “For what reason?”

  I clasp my hands behind my back, gripping my fingers tight, and speak a half-truth. “I believe the shamanborn might have information that will h
elp me find someone—a former mentor. I haven’t yet been able to summon my craft, and I think she can help me.” In case he doubts my intentions, I add, “Saengo will stay here with the shadowblessed healer.”

  He appears to genuinely consider my request. My heart thunders, and my palms grow slick with anticipation.

  At last, he says, “Very well. You may accompany me to Sab Hlee and speak to the shamanborn. I intend to remain there for three days. After that, I will return to Spinner’s End. If you haven’t located your mentor and returned by that time, you’ll have to find your own way.”

  He means to make this into another test. Without Ronin as an escort, getting back to Spinner’s End on my own would be all but impossible. Still, I nod, my thoughts already racing to the challenge ahead.

  SIXTEEN

  The next morning, I’m given an hour to pull together a satchel of necessities. There are only five of us leaving—Ronin, two soldiers, Phaut, and myself.

  Saengo waves from the front steps of the castle, her face pale and worried. I whisper a prayer to the Falcon Warrior to keep watch over her safety until I return. As we pass beneath the white drape and enter the Dead Wood, everyone in our party seems to hold their breaths. Even the soldiers look nervous, tugging their cloaks closer. We follow Ronin’s path through the trees, thankfully away from where I encountered Kamryne.

  Ronin walks purposefully, his steps never faltering. He’s the only one in our party who isn’t wearing a spidersilk cloak, choosing instead a simple jacket and sash over leather armor. The woods shrink before him, clearing his path.

  Every creak of the trees sends magic coiling beneath my skin, magic that I’m not at all confident I can call upon. The roots rustle and spasm but never quite complete the threat of tripping us. Withered bark splits, baring black rot. Those burl eyes track us as we pass.

  The soldiers try not to look afraid in Ronin’s presence, but their body language gives them away. Their hands never leave their swords. What conversations they manage are short and stilted.