by Lori M. Lee
I twist to the side as the point of a small blade narrowly misses my shoulder. Neither of us breaks stride as I dive for his legs and his fingers find his last throwing knife. I’m too close, with too much momentum to properly dodge.
Pain spears my leg as I barrel into him. We tumble into the underbrush and crash against the base of a tree. He jams his fingers against the knife in my thigh. The pain makes me gasp. I smash my fist into his bloodied face. Sticky warmth coats my fingers. I need to reach Phaut. Why won’t he just die?
Tears blot my vision. I punch him again. He catches my wrist, but I rotate my shoulder and smash my elbow into his jaw. We roll, stones digging into my spine. The knife thrower, at least twice my weight, ends up on top.
I grope for the knife in my thigh and rip it free, hissing through the pain before stabbing the blade into the man’s side. He roars, but instead of falling off me, his hands close around my throat. I slam my knuckles into the hole in his side again and again, but his eyes grow crazed. He doesn’t relent. His fingers crush my neck with the ferocity of a dying man.
I claw at his wrists and forearms. Black spots dance in my vision, and my blood roars in my ears.
“If I die, you die, too.” The knife thrower spits into my face.
I rake my nails down his cheeks and his neck until my hands find his chest. The burning heat of my craft razes through me. A glow forms behind my fingers, like sunlight searing through clouds. Something pulses against my palm. My hand closes around it, and the grip around my neck loosens.
I throw my head back, air rushing into my lungs in long, wheezing gasps. Each breath is like razor blades down my throat, but I don’t release the light in my hand. I know exactly what I’m holding. Above me, the knife thrower has gone immobile. When I regain enough breath to meet his gaze, the soul cupped in my palm illuminates his eyes, stark with fear.
I see Phaut’s eyes, her fear. The regret in her face for failing to protect me, when I’m the one who failed her.
My fingers tighten, and I wrench free his soul. He convulses once. I heave him off me as he goes limp, dead before his body strikes the ground. Coughing raggedly, I turn my head to examine the orb of light clutched within my fingers. It lingers for a moment. Then I close my fist, and it dissipates.
Nearby, Prince Meilek has dispatched the others and disarmed Jonyah. They’re both frozen now, staring at me and the dead knife thrower. I struggle to my feet and wonder why my leg won’t hold me. Blood oozes from my thigh. I swear, slapping my palms over the wound and applying pressure. A wave of nausea washes over me.
Stumbling over the uneven ground, I collapse beside Phaut. Her shirt is saturated. A sob builds in my chest, but I swallow it down. Pressing my hands to her shoulders, I close my eyes.
Please. Please please please.
My magic stirs within me, but it’s weak. Pain sharpens beneath my ribs, and my thoughts immediately go to Saengo. She’s hurting. I have to save her before it’s too late. Like I should have saved Phaut. Tears blur my eyes, and I dash angrily at them.
I slam my palms into the ground. I’m supposed to be able to restore a soul to life, aren’t I? Work, damn it!
But nothing happens. I had gripped the bright warmth of the knife thrower’s soul in my palm, and yet I can’t save Phaut. Dirt slides beneath my nails as I sink my fingers into the earth, seeking purchase. I curl over Phaut’s side. I can’t breathe. The world tilts into a dizzying spiral.
I can’t break down. Not now. Not with Saengo still depending on me.
“Are you all right?” Prince Meilek asks softly.
Although everything hurts, I force myself to look up. He’s still standing by the shore, his sword pointed at Jonyah’s chest.
“I think you’re bleeding.”
My thigh throbs in agreement. With a groan, I reach for the throwing knife still embedded in one of the musicians lying nearby. I wrench it free and wipe it off in the grass. Then I tug off my sash and cut into the fabric. With a few sharp motions, I tear the sash into several long strips.
As I bandage my thigh, hands shaking and stained, magic thrums beneath my skin. I can touch souls, so why can’t I—
My fingers go still. Oh, Sisters. I hadn’t just touched that knife thrower’s soul. I had ripped his soul from his body. A single word rings through my ears.
Soulrender.
Soulguides shepherd those who’ve already passed, but soulrenders steal from the living. They can’t help souls pass on. They can only manipulate and destroy them. It’s a small but significant distinction. They are a blight to shamanic magic, a legacy of fear that remains even now in the existence of the Dead Wood.
I swallow thickly, the truth pushing the air from my chest as I knot off my bandage. Then I tuck the throwing knife into my belt and rise unsteadily to my feet.
Ahead of me, Jonyah suddenly turns, allowing Prince Meilek’s blade to slice into his shoulder so he can slam the back of his fist into the prince’s jaw. Prince Meilek staggers, the distraction just enough for Jonyah to plant a knee in his gut and steal his sword.
Fury sends energy coursing through me, chasing away the fatigue and confusion.
“I’ve always wanted to do that.” Jonyah shakes out his hand. He grimaces as the movement strains the cut in his back. He does nothing to stop the bleeding.
When Prince Meilek’s head lifts, his eyes have gone flat, the promise of death in that gaze. It’s a promise he won’t be able to keep, because I’m going to kill Jonyah first.
“Don’t,” I say. The word is meant for them both. Prince Meilek doesn’t look at me, but he doesn’t attack Jonyah, either.
Jonyah smirks and stalks toward me. “Finally you show some sense.”
When he’s near enough to grab for me, I snatch the throwing knife from my belt and stab his arm.
With a shout, he drops the sword. I lunge for it, but he kicks it into the shadows. I narrowly dodge his knee as I jump back, putting space between us.
Cursing loudly, he pulls the small knife from his arm. “You can never make anything easy, can you, Tshauv Taws?”
“I’m going to kill you,” I say, limping backward. It hurts to move my entire left side, but I grit my teeth and bear it. I’ve endured worse. Kendara made sure of that.
I catch sight of Phaut’s body. Anger crystalizes inside me. I draw a slow, deep breath, relishing the pain in my throat, in my leg, in my heart—a reminder of what I will bestow tenfold on Jonyah. Already, calm sweeps through me, a cool breath of frost that numbs the worst of my pain.
Jonyah scoffs. “You’re going to kill me after you saved my life at the teahouse? I wouldn’t have done the same.”
“I regret it daily.”
The retort I’m expecting doesn’t come. Instead, the mockery slips away, a peculiar solemnity taking its place as he considers the new wound in his arm. “Sometimes I envy you. Your existence is so … simple. You’ve never known family. You’ve never had to shoulder the duty of your elders. No one expects anything of you.”
I laugh, a harsh sound. “You don’t know anything about me.”
“You have nothing to lose because you’ve always had nothing,” he says, although his words lack their usual bite. “People like me, who are too low to hold a title but too high for drudgery? We have to fight for any scrap of power we get, no matter who we have to take it from.”
Is he actually trying to justify the way he’s bullied and terrorized me from the moment we met?
I speak softly, a promise in my voice. “Queen Meilyr claims I’m a traitor, which means I don’t have to follow her rules anymore. I don’t have to bite my tongue and suffer your pathetic inferiority complex. So why don’t you come here and show me how you plan to keep whatever power you think you have?”
Jonyah sneers, all traces of gravity wiped away. “You’ve always talked big, but we both know it’s all bluster. You don’t have any power I would want. I already won the position of Shadow.”
“Who cares about being Shadow anymore?
Haven’t you heard? I’m the Soul of Thiy, the Little Sun God. I’m the savior who’s going to destroy the Dead Wood. Queen Meilyr needs me. You? You’re just her pet. Easily replaced.”
His face tightens with every word. It’s so easy to bait him. If only my tongue had been allowed this freedom at the Company. He takes a step toward me and, like a complete idiot, tosses the small knife into the pockets of blackness beneath the trees.
He doesn’t think he needs a weapon. I’m injured, and I’ve lost enough blood to make me light-headed. Besides, he can’t kill me without risking his queen’s wrath. He only wants to break me.
But even though he nearly died at the hands of shamanic magic, he still underestimates them. Still thinks himself better. And even though I’m in pain, whether by my anticipation or the shaman blood inside me, I’m not nearly as weak as he thinks I am.
Behind him, Prince Meilek watches with a fierce glint in his eyes. “Sirscha,” he says. I hear the order in his voice: kill him.
Between one breath and the next, Jonyah attacks.
I duck his punch and jab his gut. The impact jars through my leg. His strength would quickly overpower me, so I can’t risk getting caught. He kicks out. I leap back, but my injury makes me clumsy. My foot slides out from under me. I land on my side with an oomph. Pain jolts through my thigh.
He tries to get on top of me, but I bring up my knee, jabbing him in the side. He falls onto his back, groaning from the impact against the cut in his shoulder. I flip to my feet and drive my knee toward his neck. He rolls away, and my knee strikes dirt. As he climbs to his feet, I spy the dark sash of one of the dead musicians, half undone from the man’s waist. I wrap one end of the rough cloth around my fist and stand as well.
Before Jonyah can attack, I land a punch on his jaw. He dodges the next punch. For his size, he’s fast, and he’s a competent fighter. More than competent. A bitter reminder that we share the same teacher.
He goes for my injured thigh, and I swing my other leg into his jaw. He collapses against a tree. Leaping onto his back, I dig my arm into the cut on his shoulder, making him stagger from the pain. Then I hook the sash around his neck, gripping the ends tight with one hand as my other presses to his chest.
Magic flares inside me. Jonyah goes rigid as his soul pulses against my fingers. Then agony spears my chest. My magic vanishes like a doused candle. Jonyah’s elbow crashes into my temple. My grip loosens and I fall, landing hard on my back. Lights flicker behind my eyelids. Jonyah clutches the tree trunk, coughing and swearing as he pulls in air.
I roll onto my side, struggling to focus my vision. Saengo. Dread splits open my chest. She’s dying. I have to defeat Jonyah and get to Spinner’s End. But the weaker she grows, the less I’m able to access my magic.
Jonyah swipes for my head as I regain my feet. Blocking his fist, I slam my forehead into his face. He cries out, falling back.
I don’t need magic to defeat him. I never have. The Company trained me to be a soldier, but Kendara trained me to survive. From the moment she took us both on as pupils, it was always meant to come to this: him or me. And I don’t mean to lose.
I rush Jonyah as he’s still clutching his face, slamming us both back into the tree and shaking the branches overhead. Leaves flutter down around us. Jonyah’s fingers dig into my thigh as mine claw at his shoulder. Pain sears my leg and up my side, but it only enrages me as I wrap the sash again around his neck.
His eyes bulge. His legs kick, but I hook my feet behind his knees, using my body weight to bear down on him. His face turns bright red and then purple, made more livid by his scars. For a moment, the cold fury inside me wants to do worse to him, to make him suffer. He doesn’t deserve such an easy end. But then Jonyah convulses, and his enormous body goes slack.
Slowly, I release the sash. His body slides clumsily to the ground, his vacant eyes gazing up at the night sky. I breathe hard. My limbs tremble from the exertion. Then everything goes fuzzy, and the darkness closes in.
When I wake, Prince Meilek is leaning over me. Beyond his shoulder, the moon sits high in the clouds.
“How do you feel?” he asks.
In an instant, I remember everything. I bolt upright. He backs away to avoid getting bashed in the head.
“How long was I out?” We’re still beside the stream, but he’s moved us away from the carnage.
“Only long enough for me to sneak supplies from my medic’s tent.”
I reach up and touch my neck. It’s wrapped in bandages, although the strong smell of medicinal paste seeps through. Fresh bandages also cover my thigh, which aches dully.
He helps me to my feet. “I wanted to find you a healer, but the only person to ask would have been Ronin, and we can’t trust him.”
“Does this mean you’re ready to warn the leaders in the manor house of your sister’s attack?”
There’s a moment of tense silence. Then, voice rough with emotion, he says, “Enough Evewynians have suffered because of her hatred. And now she wants to spread that hatred across all of Thiy.” He nods at the darkness ahead. “Come on. I have a surprise for you.”
After everything that’s just happened, I’m not keen on surprises. “Where are your Blades?”
“It’s best they remain uninvolved. I won’t have Mei punishing them for my actions.”
The branches over our heads grow thinner as we leave the trees. “What about Phaut?” The pain of her loss is still fresh. I have to force down the knot in my throat. At his confused look, I clarify. “Ronin’s soldier. The woman Jonyah killed. She was my friend.”
“I’m sorry. We’ll go back for her as soon as there’s time.”
Something moves behind the shadows, and there’s a quiet snuffling sound. I pause, but Prince Meilek tugs me along. As we near the source of the noise, I make out the silhouettes of two drakes waiting just outside the trees. I recognize instantly the sleek head and dark green scales of the drake sniffing around the dirt.
“Yandor,” I whisper.
Yandor’s head whips in my direction. He gives a joyous shake as I throw my arms around him. I press my face into his smooth scales. He rests his heavy head against my shoulder, his hot breaths blowing against my hair.
“I missed you.” My voice catches.
“I spotted him when I went back for those healing herbs,” Prince Meilek says. “Thought you might be pleased.”
“Thank you,” I whisper.
We mount our drakes in silence and head back through the camps toward Ronin’s manor house. Torchlight speckles the grasslands as if to mirror the starlit sky above. The camps are quieter now, but no less crowded.
“I need to ask you to do something for me,” I say as we near the Dead Wood. “Saengo is still in the manor house under Ronin’s care. Will you get her out for me? I don’t trust her with him once he learns we’ve discovered his plan.”
He frowns. “Where will you be?”
“I have to go to Spinner’s End.”
By the tone of his voice, I can guess that he’s scowling when he asks, “What for?”
“Warning everyone of the attack will lose Queen Meilyr the element of surprise. But the only way any of them will stand a chance is if we remove Ronin. And to do that, I have to go back to his castle.”
Destroying Ronin’s familiar bond should save Saengo, but it should also render him powerless. And I think, even if Saengo’s life didn’t depend on its destruction, even if Ronin hadn’t chosen power over peace, I would still choose to destroy the Dead Wood. It is a disease on the land, infecting the kingdoms with its twisted power. It is a relic of an ancient war, a monument to hatred. It must be brought down.
“You’ll never make it in time,” he says.
“I know. But this is the only way to ensure victory in the long run.”
As long as the leaders are warned, there’s little else I can do in the grasslands. If there’s a battle, it might very well be over before I even reach Spinner’s End, but so long as I can sever Ronin’s po
wer, then I can end the war before it spreads.
“Once you’ve warned those in the manor house and retrieved Saengo,” I say, “maybe you can reach your sister before she attacks. If she knows her plan with Ronin has been exposed, then she might listen to reason and retreat.”
“I’ll try. If we can avoid bloodshed, we might yet be able to salvage the peace.”
Our drakes carry us down the path to the manor house and into the front yard. Prince Meilek waves away the servants who rush out to greet us. I lead the prince around the back of the manor to a narrow trickle of water that cuts through the property. The water isn’t safe to drink, but it’ll lead me to Spinner’s End. All I have to do is survive a full day in the Dead Wood. My stomach turns.
I rub my palms down Yandor’s neck. I don’t want to take him into the Dead Wood, but there’s no other choice. If the Falcon Warrior sees fit to protect us, I’m confident we can outrun the grasp of the trees. My connection to Saengo might be weak, but it’s still there. Although I don’t have the strength to grasp any living souls, I might have enough to fend off dead ones.
“You’re sure about this?” he asks.
“I have to try. Please look after Saengo. I’m trusting her to you.”
He reaches out, clasping my shoulder. “You have my word that I’ll take care of her. Good luck, Sirscha.”
“I’m going to need it.”
“We’ll see each other again. When this is over, we’ll go to Byrth. We’ll watch the ships make port, ride in a drake race, and eat sugared plum blossoms until we’re sick.”
I smile, and I’m glad that it’s too dark for him to see the sadness in it. I don’t have his capacity for hope; my victories have always been hard-won.
“May the Falcon Warrior protect you,” I say.
“May the Demon Crone guide you,” he replies, reciting the old prayer of the Five Sisters. I haven’t spoken it since childhood, but I join him now, and our voices murmur together in the dark: “May the Serpent Mother provide. May the Twins lend you favor. Carry with you the faith of the Sisters, and be blessed.”
