Forest of Souls

by Lori M. Lee

  Our maid has our things packed before we’re even finished with our breakfast. She’s tucked several spidersilk gowns into our bags in case the clothing up north doesn’t suit our tastes. I hug her goodbye.

  As we set out, I worry about how Saengo will fare in the Dead Wood, but at least Ronin is leading us. Although she’s slower than usual and her jaw tenses with pain, she never falters.

  We travel in taut awareness of the trees. I walk slightly behind Saengo so I can catch her in case she falls. After a while, the silence becomes oppressive. I glance at Phaut.

  “Will you know anyone once we reach the north?” I ask quietly. “Anyone you might want to see again?”

  “My friends are not so high up,” she says with a crooked smile. “Rumor has it an emissary of the Nuvali Crown will be there.”

  “And the Kazan. Theyen will be there as representative for the Fireborn Queens.”

  “Someone from all the major clans will be there, I expect. And the Merchants Guild as well.”

  With most land routes between the kingdoms obstructed by the Dead Wood, nearly all imports and exports are conducted by ship. The sea merchants have made an empire off the needs of the countries. They would probably not look kindly on me coming along and ruining their business by clearing out the Dead Wood.

  “Isn’t it dangerous to have so many rivalries in one place?” One wrong word, one unforgivable slight, and the Kazan and Nuvali could go to war right there on the grasslands. Or the Evewynians and the Nuvali. Or all three.

  “Any time Lord Ronin has need to discuss matters with the kingdoms, they meet in the north. This will not be the first time they’ll be forced to share company, nor will it be the last. Besides, the camps will be well separated, and Lord Ronin will have soldiers patrolling the grasslands.”

  “Well,” I say. “I suppose if they all kill one another, we’ll have an excellent seat from which to watch.”

  She snorts. “That we will.”

  We trudge on, magic tingling through me every time the roots shift. But as with our return journey from Sab Hnou, we reach the border within hours without incident. I’m surprised, however, to find that we haven’t emerged outside Sab Hnou. Instead, we must be north of it, well into the Empire.

  Saengo and I gawk at the sight that greets us. A road runs parallel to the trees, where a dozen mounted and armed soldiers dressed in Ronin’s livery await us, holding the banner of the Spider King. They’ve brought enough drakes for our party. But it’s what’s behind them that catches my breath.

  Swaths of bright sunflowers blanket the rolling hills, their stalks taller than a grown man. Not all are in full bloom, but it seems we’ve arrived just in time. Farther off, the sunflowers turn red, a fuchsia ribbon dressing the sky. The scent of them, heady and sweet, overpowers the decay of the Dead Wood.

  Once everyone’s mounted, Ronin leads the charge, setting a brisk pace. As soon as Saengo’s drake takes off, her face pales alarmingly, but she somehow holds on. Her pain echoes dully in my own chest. When I suggest asking Ronin to slow our party, Saengo refuses. The sooner we reach our destination, the better.

  Phaut’s gaze barely strays from the yellow fields. The other Nuvali soldiers breathe deeply the sweet air and turn their faces toward the sky like young sunflowers tracking the light.

  Will the same joy lift me if I’m someday allowed back in Evewyn? I used to escape the Company for a few hours by sneaking out to Vos Talwyn’s southern watchtower. I would sit at the lip of the roof, where the wind broke wildly against the cliffs and the briny air was thick enough to taste. Watching the frothing waves of Needle Bay, speckled with cargo ships, while my hair grew stiff with salt, always helped to soothe away my frustrations. Will I be able to return to that watchtower and that feeling, or has everything been forever changed?

  “How long has it been since you’ve seen them in bloom?” I ask Phaut.

  Fields like these must exist all over the Empire. Sunflowers are one of the country’s most prized exports. Every part of the flower serves a function, from food and medicine to clothing and ornamentation.

  “Years.” Her voice grows faint as she murmurs, “My father didn’t grow sunflowers, but we were close enough that on a clear day their scent would carry all the way to our little farm.”

  “Sounds wonderful.” I might have slept out in the fields if this had surrounded the orphanage.

  “It was. I didn’t want to be a farmer, though. I taught myself all I could about swordplay. My father was kindhearted. He didn’t tell me until I was much older that only those of the Imperial Court can become sun warriors.”

  I frown. Evewyn’s customs are rigid and its social etiquette stringent, but even so, any soldier of the Royal Army may rise to become a Blade regardless of their station. Up until Queen Meilyr, that had included shamanborn.

  “You did even better.” I throw back my shoulders and lift my chin. “You’re the personal guard of the Little Sun God.”

  Phaut laughs and sits a bit taller in her saddle.

  Over the next two days, we travel alongside the Dead Wood. We spot several small villages with squat houses lining dusty streets. This close to the trees, there isn’t a familiar in sight.

  Likely, these villages were here long before they learned the trees crept outward. One day, unless something is done, the Dead Wood will overtake them and kill those unable or unwilling to leave their homes behind.

  As the sky transforms into a fiery gradient, the ground slopes upward. When we reach the crest, the road descends into the northern grasslands, which unfold before us in green waves. Normally, herds of beasts big and small roam the vast expanse, numbering in the thousands. During a migration, the earth rumbles from one end of the grasslands to the other.

  Today, the sunset gilds the crowns of thousands of tents. Rainbows of banners catch in the wind, bearing so many emblems I hardly recognize any. Drakes and people navigate between tents, trampling the grass and carving pathways.

  “Wow,” Saengo whispers.

  Phaut releases a low whistle. “This is incredible. I was expecting a dozen leaders, two dozen at the very most, like in the past. This looks like all of Thiy has gathered.”

  My heart flutters at that. All these people, leaders from every corner of Thiy, here for a single purpose.

  Although it looks a bit like arriving at a war camp, as we pass through the first cluster of tents, the atmosphere is jovial. Noise assaults us from every direction: the slew of chatter in various languages, the clang of weapons, and the rhythm of music, several tunes at once blending into a cacophony of sound. The tangled aromas from dozens of cooking fires infuse the air.

  Servants and soldiers alike pause to incline their heads as we pass. Whether out of respect or fear, no one wants to insult the Spider King.

  This morning, Saengo and I donned spare uniforms to blend in with Ronin’s soldiers. He doesn’t want anyone knowing who I am until I can be officially introduced. In a company made up of shadow-blessed, shamans, and humans, no one gives us a second glance.

  A troupe of five colorfully dressed musicians steps aside to make way for Ronin’s retinue. They bow low, blowing notes into their reed pipes and jaw harps as we pass.

  The Dead Wood remains always at our left. Ahead, the road veers into the trees. Ronin leads us through, the path wide enough for a couple of wagons driving abreast. The boisterous sounds die off quickly. Our group presses tight in the middle of the road.

  Within minutes, the path leads to the gates of a bone palisade. Unlike the one at Spinner’s End, there is no additional webbing to shield against the trees.

  Ronin’s manor house is an ornate, four-story behemoth, with the extravagant tiered roofs and intricate sculptural accessories that were lacking at Spinner’s End. I suspect the house’s whitewashed walls and golden traceries are more for the benefit of its guests than for Ronin. Additional buildings stand perpendicular to the main house, extending farther back into the property. Staff rush in and out of the open fr
ont doors, hauling luggage from newly arrived dignitaries and directing drakes to the inner stables.

  “You’ve been here before?” I ask Phaut.

  “Twice. Each time, the trees have moved a little farther out. Once, long before I came into Lord Ronin’s service, the manor stood well outside the Dead Wood.”

  As we pass through the gate, my body grows slack and weak, as if I’ve spent the entire day training with Kendara. I glance at the others, but they appear unaffected. Saengo gives me a concerned look. Is this an echo of her discomfort or something else? I grip the saddle with faintly trembling arms as I dismount, although it’s more like a controlled fall. When my feet touch the ground, my legs nearly fold.

  “Welcome to Vienth Manor. I’ll show you to your room,” a servant says after handing my drake off to a stable hand.

  “What’s wrong?” Saengo whispers as we link arms and cross the yard. We lean against each other, keeping the other upright.

  “I don’t know.” My knees waver as I cross the threshold. I grab the door frame to keep from dragging Saengo down with me.

  “My lady?” The servant’s hand hovers over my arm, uncertain.

  Phaut nudges the servant aside. She puts her arm around my waist, gathering my weight against her. “Tired?”

  “You know me better than that,” I snap.

  “It’s the troll bones,” Ronin says, appearing in the foyer. Servants stream around us in an efficient sort of organized chaos, with Ronin at their center, an unflappable fixed point.

  “What?” I look down at Saengo’s wrist where the talisman is hidden beneath her sleeve.

  “I desecrated the only troll graveyard in Thiy to build this structure. The masons mixed the crushed bones into the mortar. The house weakens all magic users who enter.”

  So that’s why the manor house is the ideal place for the kingdoms’ most powerful to gather. Here, we are all rendered equals.

  “The strongest among us feel its effects more acutely,” he says, eyes appraising. Does it surprise him to count me among those strongest? “You’ll become accustomed to it soon.” He turns away, his tunic rustling as he ascends the grand staircase.

  Willing my legs to obey, I release the door frame. Phaut helps by shouldering my weight as the servant guides us to my room. Saengo grips my other hand. Once we’re settled, maids arrive to help us wash, but I send them away. Saengo and I bathe alone so that no one else will see the startling lines of infection that spider Saengo’s chest.

  The maids have left me gorgeous plum-colored silks in the Nuvali style of flowing layers and intricately embroidered hems. But I regretfully pass on the gown. Instead, I put on formfitting pants and a loose top, belted with a simple red sash. I’ll need the freedom of movement.

  Once we’re both washed and dressed, I empty my satchel of everything save my swords and then sling the bag over my shoulder. Saengo gives me a firm nod, her eyes dark and serious. The hot water has returned some much-needed warmth to her cheeks.

  “Be careful,” she says.

  “I will.” My plan is simple. After consulting some maps in the library, I learned that a creek runs through the rear of Vienth Manor. It flows directly south through the Dead Wood and cuts close to the western border of Spinner’s End. It’s the most direct route and should take a full night and day’s ride. If the trees cooperate.

  Once I’m missed, Saengo will say I went to meet her father to explain his daughter’s circumstances in person. Falcons Ridge is only a couple of days’ ride west of here. I’d be back in no time. Ronin will still be furious, and Phaut will probably go after me. She won’t realize the deception until she arrives at Falcons Ridge and learns I’m not there.

  It genuinely pains me to deceive Phaut. She’s my friend, and I have so few of those. But she’s also loyal to Ronin. Breaking his bond with his familiar is as much an attack on him as it is on the Dead Wood. I can’t be certain Phaut would believe my theories or that she wouldn’t report my intentions back to him.

  Something rustles at our window. Saengo’s eyes light up. “Millie!”

  The falcon perches on the sill, watching us with a slight tilt of her head. Sometimes I’m convinced she understands what we’re saying.

  “I asked my father to send his response here instead of Spinner’s End. She’s probably been waiting for me.” She coos at the falcon before retrieving the message attached to her leg. Since Millie only allows Saengo and her parents to handle her, they don’t have to worry about anyone else getting a hold of their correspondence.

  As Saengo reads the message, her joy at seeing Millie quickly fades. After a moment, she silently hands me the slip of paper.

  I read quickly, my stomach in knots. According to her father, nearly the whole of the Royal Army stationed at Falcons Ridge marched east over a week ago with the queen. He remained behind, citing the queen’s orders that her own generals would lead the troops. The lords and ladies of neighboring properties all report the same. He ends his letter with a request that Saengo prepare for whatever might happen.

  I close the note, my thoughts buzzing with questions. If it’s been well over a week since the army left Falcons Ridge, then they should have arrived by now. Even slowed by their numbers, an army of that size marching through the grasslands wouldn’t go unnoticed.

  So where are they?

  “I have a bad feeling about this,” Saengo says. What color the bath gave her has faded into a slightly green pallor. Even with the high collar of her shirt, I glimpse the lines of infection that have spread beneath her jaw.

  Urgency presses around my lungs, making it hard to draw a full breath. She’s running out of time. “We have to get you a healer.”

  I turn for the door, but she grabs my wrist. Even though she looks like a slight breeze might knock her over, her grip is strong.

  “Promise me you’ll do something about this news,” she says. “This is more important, Sirscha.”

  “As soon as I find you a healer or five.” The shamanborn called me Suryali. If the shamans here share the sentiment, then they won’t hesitate to help me. And if they refuse, then I don’t have to ask nicely. I’ll—

  “Stop it,” Saengo chides softly, pulling me from my dark thoughts. “I think we need to tell Ronin. The people here have to be prepared in case …”

  In case Queen Meilyr turns a gathering to discuss peace into a battlefield. But I shake my head. “Ronin’s first priority is his own power. I don’t trust that he won’t twist the information to his advantage, especially to avoid admitting he can’t keep the peace. I have a different idea.”

  Out in the hall, Phaut awaits us, looking freshly washed. Her short hair is only partly dry, black and gray curling around her ears. Her dusty uniform has been changed for a clean one.

  “Can you find Ronin and ask him to send a healer for Saengo? Please.”

  Phaut opens her mouth, like she means to argue. But then she glimpses Saengo over my shoulder, and her jaw tightens. “Very well. What about you?”

  My body thrums with restless frustration. I want to flee this instant for Spinner’s End. Saengo’s life is not less important, and the longer I delay, the less time she has.

  But she’s right that something has to be done first. “I need to find a prince.”

  As soon as I’m outside, the draining effect of the manor’s walls begins to fade. My strength returns with every step.

  A servant brings me a drake. I secure my satchel to the saddle and leave through the gate. Coming up the path in single file are a group of armored warriors. In the fading sunlight, I make out the symbols emblazoned on their breast-plates: two crossed swords over a sun.

  I suck in my breath. Although I’ve never seen Nuvali sun warriors, there’s nothing else they could be.

  Sisters, does this mean Kendara had been a sun warrior? But that would mean she’s Nuvali. Was my mother Nuvali as well? I’d assumed I was shamanborn.

  The sun warriors ride a species of drakonys I’ve only read about—drag
okin, native to the Empire. Dragokin are taller and larger than drakes, more suitable for bearing the weight of their riders’ armor. The first one’s scales are a slick crimson. Four black horns curl from its head. The sun warrior riding it wears black armor so exquisitely detailed that my eyes don’t know where to rest.

  Whorls and panels of complex filigree ornament the metal—a forger’s skill. Gorgets rise like tiered fans around her neck. Her sash is a vivid yellow, tied around her waist in a series of knots I’m not familiar with, presumably a Nuvali style that denotes her rank. Her hair is as black as her dragokin’s horns, but her eyes are a bright, hard ruby. They catch my scrutiny, and a smirk paints her lips. What I wouldn’t give to test my skill against a sun warrior.

  The path emerges onto the grasslands. I follow the perimeter of several camps, searching until I spot the familiar silver moon against a white banner. To reach the Evewynian camp, I cut through what appears to be a makeshift market.

  Merchants have set up tables offering the usual fare—pottery, charms, bejeweled mirrors. There are also less common wares I wouldn’t find in Vos Talwyn’s market, like powdered zaj scales and bottled storms. The merchant waves one at us, claiming they’re good to have on hand during the dry season.

  I don’t even know if Prince Meilek is here. Maybe he’s with his sister. Though after what happened in Vos Gillis, I’d like to believe he wouldn’t sit idly by if he knew his sister was planning something dangerous.

  I’m nearly through the market when a voice calls, “Sirscha?”

  I turn. Prince Meilek has risen from a group of soldiers eating noodles beneath a pavilion. Someone has set up wooden tables and benches to serve customers fresh food. At the sight of him, conflicting emotions clash within me—relief but also wariness. We didn’t part on very good terms, and I don’t know how I’ll be received.

  Rather than royal attire or even his captain’s armor, he’s dressed in the same uniform as the other soldiers—a leather breastplate fitted over the thick fabric of his green undershirt. A matching sash is tied around his waist, the ends hanging over an apronlike leather faulds. Silver vambraces gird his wrists. Loose pants tucked into fitted knee-high boots speckled in mud complete the illusion of an Evewynian soldier. Even his jewel-studded weapons have been traded for a simple sword.