by Lori M. Lee
I leap to my feet, hands reaching for weapons that aren’t there. Saengo quietly slips Kendara’s letter into her tunic. At the end of the bookcase, shoulder propped against the corner, stands Theyen.
“How long have you been there?” I demand. Sisters, I allowed myself to become so distracted by the letter that I hadn’t heard him approach.
“Not long,” he assures with a knowing smile that makes me itch to duel him again. “Long enough to overhear you’re planning to enter that maze. I thought you’d want my help with that.”
He doesn’t even have the decency to look ashamed for eavesdropping. Although I’d like to tell him to go away, I’m curious, despite myself. “What sort of theory?”
He straightens off the bookcase and holds up the book in his hand. “Specifically, I have a theory about Ronin’s power. Do you remember this? I was reading these fables the day we met.”
My eyes narrow on the familiar cover. “What’s your point?”
“In ‘The Tale of the Woodcutter’, he tries to claim the power of the gods by ordering shamans to consume their familiars. Now look at this.”
He flips through the pages, then holds up an ink drawing of a creature that’s part man and part wolf. I have to get closer to see the details. The creature on the page is bent over, his hindquarters that of a wolf but ending in human feet. His face is a hideous mixture of wolf and man, long fangs gouging through torn cheeks.
Theyen says, “It’s a story about a shaman who sought the power of the gods by forging an unnatural bond with his familiar. He drained the spirit blood of his wolf familiar and drank it, combining with the creature. Although misshapen beyond recognition, he thought himself the most powerful of beings. But the transformation was too much, and it soon killed him.”
He flips the book shut, but the image remains branded in my mind. I glance back at Saengo. She looks unsettled, her fist pressed against the base of her throat.
“You think Ronin did the same as this shaman? That he … consumed his Spinner?”
Theyen lowers the book at his side. “The practice was banned and fell into obscurity, but some time before the Yalaeng Conquest, there were accounts of shamans who tried to do this. None survived. But if Ronin actually succeeded?” He pushes snowy hair off his forehead, his expression somber. “It would explain why he has magic here in the heart of the Dead Wood when no other shaman would risk bringing their familiar within a day’s ride of the trees.”
I lean my back against the bookcase, arms crossed. What Theyen suggests would explain a great many things about the Spider King. Although the notion that it was Ronin skittering through the gardens that night I ventured into the maze makes my skin crawl.
If he was already a powerful sower, pursuing an unnatural union with his familiar might have been enough to defeat the Soulless and win him control of the Dead Wood. Sowers likely control plants by manipulating the liquid within them. It seems a shame that Ronin should rule over the one place where he cannot use his craft as it was intended.
But the explanation doesn’t quite fit. Even now, a phantom power wills me to return to the garden maze. Something is back there, and given the evidence, it can only be Ronin’s familiar.
Saengo makes a quiet gasping sound, suddenly collapsing against the bookcase. My breath catches as I rush to her. Her face is ashen, the skin around her mouth tight with pain. A sheen of sweat slicks her brow.
Theyen drops at her other side. He scoops her into his arms and lifts her easily from the floor. “Let’s get her to your rooms. Quickly.”
The rush to our rooms passes in a panicked blur. Theyen heads straight for the bedroom and places her on the sheets. His movements are gentle, but she still winces in pain and tugs at her collar.
“Sirscha,” she says between gasps.
I grasp her hand tightly between mine as Theyen backs away to give us space. Fear churns in my gut. “Saengo, tell me what you need. Should I send for the healer?”
She grimaces. “It wouldn’t do any good. She left yesterday.”
I rear back a bit, first in surprise and then outrage. I turn on Theyen. “Why would she leave? Did you send her away?”
Saengo places a hand on my forearm. “Calm down. She left because there wasn’t anything else she could do. The rot can no longer be contained. It’s too far gone.”
I shake my head and reach for the connection between us, which is when I realize … it’s not there. Or rather, it’s weakened enough that although I still sense Saengo, her emotions barely reach me now.
I suck in a sharp, panicked breath. For a dizzying moment, the room blurs and the floor tips. But then I dig my fingers into my thighs, finding a bruise I hadn’t realized was even there, and the pain helps recenter me. For her sake, I can’t break down. Saengo needs me to be strong and to come through on my promise to her.
“Sirscha.” Her fingers tighten around my hand until it’s nearly painful. I don’t pull away. Instead, I grip her back. “There’s a lot I would die for. My country. My family. My best friend. But I’m not going to die like this.”
Her words are a spark. Determination burns through me. “I’m not going to let you.”
TWENTY
Theyen gestures to the library’s broken window, now cleared of glass. “No one’s noticed?”
“I’m sure it’s been noticed,” I say, shrugging, “but no one’s come to me about it.”
I feel terrible deceiving Phaut by sneaking off, especially after what we endured together. But she’d never let me get anywhere close to the gardens, and we’re leaving for the north in the morning. There’s no time to waste.
“How exactly are you planning to get there from here?” Theyen asks.
“Over the roof,” I say, which earns me a raised brow. “If the guards spot me without Phaut, they’ll be suspicious. Once we’re in the garden maze, you can use your shadow magic to”—I wiggle my fingers—“conceal us. We need to get as close as—”
Theyen’s sharp eyes narrow. “My craft is not available for your illicit activities.”
I frown. “But—”
“No magic. Or whatever”—he mimics the motion I just made with my hand—“that is.”
“You’re being unreasonable. You saw what’s happening to Saengo. Shadow magic is perfect for this.”
I tried to heal her again now that I can summon my craft, but it didn’t work. Whatever’s causing the rot is too strong.
“Don’t try to guilt me. My personal healer cared for her, and now I’ve agreed to risk Ronin’s trust by accompanying you.”
I nearly snap at him, but he’s right. He’s already done more than expected. When I speak again, it’s through clenched teeth. “Fine. Then consider it an opportunity to flaunt your magical superiority.”
“Sirscha, every moment in your company is an opportunity to flaunt my superiority, magical or otherwise.”
“Maybe I’ll just bind and gag you and leave you back there as a diversion.”
“I would make irresistible bait.”
I rub my temple. “You do realize we might actually run into a Spinner? We could avoid being seen if you’d—”
“No. Magic.”
I huff angrily. “Fine. If we’re attacked by a giant spider, I’m tripping you and making a run for it. I’ll meet you out back.”
Without waiting for his response, I climb out the window and land silently on my feet. I’m far less confident now that Theyen refuses to use his magic, but there’s nothing for it. It doesn’t take long to scale the castle and make my way to the walled garden maze. Within minutes, Theyen joins me. Once we’ve ensured we’re alone, we enter through the arched doorway.
“This is charming,” he mutters under his breath.
We walk slowly, alert for any guards who might patrol back here. We haven’t gone far when Theyen says, “I heard a story this morning.”
“Not one about woodcutters, I hope.”
“There was a fire in Vos Gillis some days ago. Apparently, a handfu
l of shamanborn used the diversion to escape from a guardhouse.”
My stomach tenses, the only outward indication of my surprise. “Is that so?”
“Indeed. It wasn’t the best test of your skills.”
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Don’t insult me,” he says, with a slow roll of his eyes.
I suppose it doesn’t matter if he knows. I’m already a criminal in Evewyn. “If I’d done nothing, those shamanborn might be dead now.”
The cobbled path takes us beneath the same stone arches I passed the last time, branching into more walled gardens.
“Don’t pretend as if you went for them. You went for yourself.”
I turn sharply to face him. “Haven’t I already told you not to speak as if you know me?”
“But I do.” He crosses his arms. “Oh sure, part of you went for those shamans. You’re surprisingly softhearted. But you went mainly because you had something to prove.”
“To whom exactly?” I ask.
“To yourself.” His voice would have been almost kind if not for the patronizing tilt of his nose. “And to the shamanborn who escaped the Valley of Cranes for you.”
My irritation diffuses. There isn’t any single, simple reason for why I chose to free the shamanborn. For them, for myself. Afraid of being nothing, but equally afraid that I might not be worthy of anything more.
“Don’t claim ownership over their choices,” he says. “Breaking from prison, entering the Dead Wood, escaping to Vos Gillis—they did those things for themselves, not for you.”
I’ve no intention of discussing this with him. However, he does have a point. Most of the shamanborn who escaped likely didn’t care whether I exist or not, only that an organized prison break meant freedom. Taking responsibility for what happened would be stripping from them the choices they’d made and the courage it had taken to make them. Still, that doesn’t mean I should have done nothing.
He doesn’t wait for my response. Instead, he steps ahead of me. “Shall we?”
The path forks and then forks again, taking us deeper into the odd maze of walls, arches, and weeds. Before long, we reach the garden with three paths. Prickling awareness skitters over my skin as a pressure builds inside my chest. I rub my hands, which are suddenly cold.
“That way,” I whisper. My feet step carefully, my boots silent against the dusty cobblestones. Beside me, Theyen is a little less quiet. Dead weeds crackle underfoot, the sound uncomfortably loud.
“How can you be certain?” he says.
The pressure increases with every step, spreading through me, my whole body feeling stiff and unwieldy. I’m overcome by the same dread that grips me when I’m in the Dead Wood.
“Can’t you feel it?” I shake my head as a slow ache begins to throb at the back of my head. Steady and rhythmic like a heartbeat.
Theyen tilts his head back, observing the stone arches that bridge the passageways leading from one garden into the next. “I feel nothing.”
“Well, at least you admit it,” I mumble, which earns me an amused glance.
The path curves sharply to the left between high brick walls and then abruptly opens into yet another enclosed garden. This one is larger than the others and more elaborate. The length stretches thrice the width, framed by tall columns. Webbing stretches between columns, wispy and tattered like old lace. Instead of weeds, there are empty beds of dry, fissured soil.
The path ends at a large structure hidden behind more webbing. It’s an abandoned section of the castle, and the only way in appears to be a single wooden door.
I press my palms against the sides of my dark tunic. The sensation of clammy hands groping at my skin washes over me, and I barely keep from shuddering. Looking at Theyen, who appears unaffected, I ask, “What do you think?”
His lip curls. “How appropriately morbid.”
He really can’t feel it, whatever this is. I dig in my heels as the power presses ever closer, imaginary claws raking against my mind. Beckoning.
From somewhere beyond the door comes the sound of something moving. Something heavy. Click. Click.
I go rigid. Beside me, Theyen stiffens as well. Whatever power rests here swells against me. It stings my nostrils and coats my tongue in a bitter aftertaste. I fight the urge to gag. The magic is strong, old enough to have soaked into the surrounding maze like an oil slick. It feels tainted. Unnatural like the Dead Wood.
Something rustles beyond the wall at our left. Through a crack, I glimpse a large white creature scuttle past. Click. Click. Click.
Fear sinks into my stomach even as my curiosity heightens. My instincts urge me to run, but that twisted power coaxes me closer. It feels like claws teasing at my throat, even as it whispers of dark promises. I clench my fingers around the fabric of my pants, disturbed by the sudden desire to rush toward that closed wooden door even as the familiar fear of the Dead Wood closes around my lungs.
A shadow passes over the cobbled path behind us. It’s brief, fast for a creature of that size, but I’m left with the impression of something massive, with multiple legs. Theyen’s face pales. He grabs my wrist, his fingers squeezing. Our gazes meet. A moment of understanding passes between us.
We stand our ground, facing the only exit, and await the beast.
Ronin appears from around the curved path. I suck in a sharp breath and scan the empty space behind him, but nothing appears. Whatever else had been there is gone. He’s alone.
Ronin’s glare impales me like ice between my ribs. He asks in a cold, quiet voice, “What are you doing here?”
Each word is clearly articulated, his glacial rage as oppressive as the magic emanating from the door at the opposite end of the garden.
Somehow, I manage to speak. “Exploring. The castle grounds are fascinating and speak well of its many years.”
“Is that so?” he asks with that same deadly calm.
“It is. Do you make a habit of sneaking up on your guests and scaring the wits out of them?”
He steps forward until we’re mere paces apart. “I have a feeling that you are not so easily undone.”
My throat is so dry that my tongue feels like sand against the roof of my mouth. But I force my lips into a smile.
He tilts his head at Theyen. “Hlau Theyen. It would be in your best interest to avoid this part of the castle from now on. Both of you.”
Back in my rooms, I fill in Saengo on what happened. If I’d been uncertain before, there’s no longer any doubt that Ronin keeps his familiar back there. But no familiar should be able to exist in the Dead Wood without contracting the rot, so how is he doing it?
Standing directly beside me, Theyen couldn’t sense the power there. As my dreams remind me on a nightly basis, I am attuned to souls, including those trapped in the Dead Wood. It’s the specific nature of my craft—like a song only souls can hear.
“What if his familiar doesn’t connect him just to his magic?” I twirl my spoon through the thick meat stew we’ve been given for dinner. I’m hungry, but my stomach is still in knots. “What if his Spinner is connected to the spirits in the Dead Wood as well, and that’s what keeps them tied here? And since the Spinner is his conduit, Ronin also gets access to the combined power of all those souls?”
“Is that even possible?” Saengo is still much too pale, and her hand trembles as she reaches for her cup. She insisted on getting out of bed to eat, though. She’s doing what she needs to feel normal.
“The Soulless did it. He made himself more powerful by taking human souls. Maybe Ronin decided to do the same after defeating him.”
“But the Soulless was a … what was it again?”
“Soulrender.”
“Right. That. Ronin is a sower. He’s not even a lightwender.”
“But if he’s using his familiar, then maybe it doesn’t matter. Familiars channel magic, and they’re spirits themselves.” I immediately wince at my poor choice of words, but Saengo doesn’t react. “I don’t know how it’d work,
but he must have figured out a way. That Spinner is the key. If I can break Ronin’s bond with his familiar, it might free the spirits that it’s anchoring here.”
“We’re leaving in the morning,” she points out. I’d expressed concern over her traveling, but there will be many skilled healers among the various camps in the north. None will have ever seen a human familiar, but with so many medically gifted minds, surely someone will have a suggestion for how to help her.
“Yeah, but so is Ronin. Once we’re settled up north, I’ll sneak away and come back here.”
Clearly torn, she chews the corner of her lip. “Should we ask Hlau Theyen for help?”
Theyen is going north as well, although he and his retinue plan to travel by a different means.
“I don’t think he’d approve.” Not after we were caught by Ronin today. “Besides, I’m still not sure how much we can trust him. We don’t know who sent that shadowblessed after me.” Whether Theyen wants war or not between the shamans and the shadowblessed, it can’t be ignored that he would benefit from one.
“But how are you going to make it through the Dead Wood without Ronin’s protection?”
“I’ve done it once already.”
“That was only a few hours. It’s a much longer journey to get from the north to here.”
“We don’t have any other choice. I’ll have to do it.”
She leans back in her seat, her hand lifting to touch the base of her throat. Beneath her collar, the lines have spread nearly to her jaw. She doesn’t need to voice her worry—I’ll have my magic so long as I have a familiar.
“You’re not dying, remember? As soon as I break Ronin’s familiar bond, the magic holding the spirits trapped here will be broken, and you should be able to heal.” I hope.
Maybe it’s a fool’s hope, but it’s all I have.
TWENTY-ONE
I would have tried slipping out in the middle of the night, but the guards in sight of my balcony remained diligent. Instead, I slept fitfully, trying to dispel the sensation of claws scratching at my mental walls, insisting on my attention.
