“Sounds like just the thing we need,” Makeo said with a grin.
Aza sat across from Makeo, feeling empty but not hungry. Witt set a steaming bowl in front of Makeo and then slid onto the bench next to Aza, placing a bowl in front of her. Feeling his eyes on her, she braced herself with a steely sigh and faced him, taking in the shadows under his lashes and the red around his brown irises.
He leaned a little closer. “Aza, I’m really sorry about your—”
She jerked her gaze back to the burnished table, something threatening to unravel inside her. Could no one speak of anything else? “Not now, Witt.”
A hubbub echoing from the hall saved her from further wretched condolences.
“Ach! Stop pushing me, woman!”
“Then move faster, old man. I don’t want to have to pick your skinny bones from the floor.”
“I don’t have to talk to them! They’re uninvited intruders!”
“Oh, don’t be ridiculous. You know you’re curious to see what they came all this way for.”
“They’re here for what they always come for. They need something.”
“Well then, the sooner you hear them out, the sooner they’ll leave.”
Witt rose to scoop two more bowls just as Dorinar huffed into the kitchen with Marloa close at his heels. He crossed his arms indignantly, and she pressed down on his shoulders until he slouched into a chair like a pouting child. Marloa took the bowls and spoons from Witt with a nod of thanks.
“Look, this is so much better than the scorched grub I make.” She smiled sweetly and took a bite, her face relaxing into an expression of bliss. “Try it. It’s definitely worth a chat over breakfast.”
“I don’t—” Dorinar started.
Marloa pounded her spoon on the table, making Dorinar jump. Her eyes widened with warning. “Try. It.”
He rolled his eyes, a long-suffering sigh rising through him. “Whatever it takes to get you to leave me alone.” They all watched him in silence as he dug his spoon into the porridge and brought it to his thin lips. He inhaled suspiciously before slowly placing it in his mouth, chewing and softening. His expression didn’t change, but his spoon dipped back in the bowl. “What do you want, then?”
Marloa practically glowed with triumph, and all the shoulders in the room relaxed. Makeo chuckled, and a smug grin tugged at Witt’s face. But Aza didn’t waste the window of opportunity. “Have you heard of Shadow Heirs leaving this world to cross into a colorless plane filled with strange creatures?”
Dorinar’s third spoonful paused on the way to his mouth, and Marloa brightened. “You mean not just go unseen but go somewhere else entirely?” she asked.
Aza nodded, and Marloa leaned toward Dorinar. “Wasn’t there something odd like that in the account of Silvix?”
“Yes…” Dorinar sucked on the spoon. “It does sound familiar.”
“Silvix?” Makeo asked.
“A Shadow Heir two centuries past…” Marloa’s fingernails tapped on the wood. “His writings were always… difficult to interpret.”
Dorinar nodded. “He was—”
“I already found them,” Shad said from the doorway. “It’s slow with paws, but I was able to read through a few. Marloa, if you could please assist me.”
Marloa cocked her head and rose from the table. “Is that what you were up all night poking around for? You could have just asked me, you know.”
Aza stilled. Did no one sleep last night?
The tip of Shad’s tail twitched to-and-fro. “Last time I was here, the ever-pleasant Dorinar was less than helpful. But at least the library was in better order this time.”
Marloa preened in Dorinar’s direction as she walked out. “See, someone appreciates my organizational system.”
A few moments later, Marloa returned with a short stack of weathered volumes. She plopped them on the table in a plume of dust, and Dorinar shielded his pottage, glowering irritably.
“So, Silvix could walk the Shadow Plane?” Aza asked, trailing her fingers along the spines.
Shad pawed the book on top of the stack. “He talks of entering the Shadow Plane to hear voices from afar but…”
“He claims to speak to the dead,” Dorinar cut in, his voice flat.
Aza swallowed, a cold chill prickling the back of her neck.
“But that’s not in The Heir’s Way, is it?” Witt asked, voicing her own thoughts.
Witt had sat with them at many a fireside listening to her mother recite the history of the Heirs from that very book. Her mother… Aza clawed away the thought before it could surface.
Marloa scratched her short brown hair. “Silvix is not really an Heir you’d want to remember.”
“What do you mean?” Aza picked up the book Shad had indicated, another cloud of dust billowing into the air as she leafed through it.
“He eventually went mad,” Marloa murmured, sliding into her seat. “Speaking to people who weren’t there, violent outbursts, and then eventually, he disappeared.”
“Sounds like a peach.” Witt grimaced.
Aza skimmed the yellowed pages scrawled with uneven text—half-complete thoughts and nonsensical phrases scribbled across the paper in unreadable loops and curves. Finally, she found a few legible lines near the end.
The stronger he grows, the tighter the Plane holds him. He forgets himself. The wraiths are ever with him now. They call him farther. He pleads to go farther. Cries to be one with the Plane day and night. The deeper he goes, the louder his ravings become.
Impatient, Aza closed the book. “Does he say what the Shadow Plane is? Or how we’re connected to it?”
“They claim it is the place between the living and the dead.” Shad frowned. “But not much more than that. However, he does mention that he trained others to go there, as well.”
“Other Shadow Heirs?” Makeo asked.
“No,” Shad replied. “He refers to them as the Wraith-Called, but I think they’re ordinary humans.”
Dorinar nodded, tugging absently on one of his curls. “It’s been many years since I’ve been there, but the Wraith-Called still train in Somisidas Abbey.”
“An abbey?” Aza asked.
“They are an odd folk.” Dorinar rolled his eyes. “They wouldn’t even let me inside their precious little circle for the sake of research.” He slurped another spoon of pottage. “But perhaps they would feel differently about a Shadow Heir.”
Aza swallowed. Could they really use the Shadow Plane to speak with the dead? If so, would her parents be there waiting for her? Her stomach flipped with an aching dread.
Witt tapped his spoon on his lips. “But how is this connected to the not-Lost and the unrest in Carceroc Forest?”
“Maybe it’s not,” Shad said.
“If anyone knows, it would be the Wraith-Called,” Marloa said, pushing her empty bowl away.
Aza slid the slim volume of nonsense back to Shad. “So where is Somisidas, and how do I get there?”
“How do we get there?” Shad corrected with a stern glare.
Aza shrugged. “You heard Dorinar; they probably won’t even let you in.” And she didn’t know if she could survive their compassion chipping away at what little defense she could cobble together.
“Then we will accompany you as far as we can,” Makeo rumbled.
“I’ll provide a map…” Dorinar rubbed a thumb along his sharp jawline. “If you return with a full account of Somisidas for my records.”
“My, my, Dorinar,” Shad said, the tip of his tail twitching on the table. “You’re practically amenable now. You must have had quite the change of heart these last few decades.” Shad’s gaze slid to where Marloa’s elbow touched Dorinar’s.
Smiling, Marloa poked Dorinar in the shoulder. “Perhaps it’s the pottage.”
The magus scoffed and rose from his seat, his pale cheeks coloring ever so slightly. “You can never please humans,” he grumbled as he shuffled into the hall. Shad leapt from the table, silently following after
him like a fond housecat.
Aza took a bite of her pottage. Even tepid, the delectable flavors of honey, fish, and herbs washed through her. She oozed a sigh of tense relief. There were others who knew of the Shadow Plane. They could teach her. This wouldn’t be for nothing. A cautious flame of hope warmed her belly. “We’ll leave as soon as possible.”
“How exciting.” Marloa beamed in a sunny smile. “Take whatever supplies you need. Dorinar keeps all kinds of odds and ends out in the barn.”
“Thank you for your kindness.” Makeo rose from the table. “C’mon, Witty, let’s see what we can find.”
Setting his bowl and spoon next to the wash basin, Witt turned to Aza. “If you like the pottage, there’s more by the fire.”
Aza’s gaze slid to the large kettle. “Only if you promise not to get a big head about it.”
“Too late,” he laughed as he followed Makeo out.
Marloa shifted to sit across from Aza. She peered up at her from beneath long lashes. “Those boys care about you a great deal.”
Aza rolled her eyes, debating how rude it would be to excuse herself and flee. She stuffed another spoonful of pottage in her mouth. “It’s not me they follow.”
“Oh?”
“Shad is eternally loyal to my… to my parents. Witt’s been my brother’s left hand since they could walk, and Makeo…” Aza paused. “Makeo is trying to find answers for his own family.”
“That may be true.” Marloa took Aza’s bowl to the kettle and spooned her another helping. “But it’s not the only truth.” She replaced the full bowl on the table, her eyes softened with a pity that made Aza swallow a scowl. “They worry about you, and they believe in you. I wouldn’t let such friendship go idly.”
Aza nodded to appease the woman and spooned out a chunk of honeyed fish. She did nothing idly. If her parents were truly dead, there was only one person who was capable of killing them. And when Mogens came for her, she would make sure no one else was around. Friendship or not.
Chapter Thirteen
Wraith-Called
The mud of the swamp squelched beneath Aza’s feet as they made their way through the marsh once more. A spongy moss coated every surface in fuzzy shades of deep green, thickening the air with the stinking rot of mildew. The tiny silk toads belched irritably at the rude sloshing of Aza’s feet, and the occasional hard-shelled otterillo snuffled in her direction with dark shining eyes. Every weed, branch, and leaf dripped with the thick mist that hovered stubbornly over the soggy ground, turning the air to a gluey soup long gone cold.
She glanced at the weathered map in her hands where Dorinar had scrawled a meandering line from Tazgar into the steep cliffs on the morning side of the Naerami.
Witt peered over her shoulder. “Are we close to escaping this bog before it swallows us?”
“The faster you walk, the faster we get out of the wet.” And onto the icy rocks, she added silently with a frown. “If you pick up the pace, we might even be able to make camp in the foothills.”
Witt sighed. “Surely we could’ve spared one more night with a dry bed and a decent pantry.”
Aza stepped around a puddle in the path. “No one stopped you from staying, Witty.”
“But you’d miss me.”
He reached out to put an arm around her shoulder, and she ducked. “Witt Corser, I have yet to miss you—ever.”
“Oh c’mon, you can admit it. I know you like my cooking.”
“I don’t have to admit anything.”
Even while she groused with Witt, she angled an ear to catch Makeo’s question to Shad. “Did Dorinar ever explain why Ivanora took those spell books?”
“He did not.” Shad picked his way delicately from dry spot to dry spot. “Even though he seemed more restless than usual when I asked him.”
“I always imagined confronting her and making her break the curse, but I never thought I’d actually come face to face with her.” He paused, his boots making huge footprints in the muck. “Do you think I’ll get another chance?”
“Ivanora walks among men often, but rarely does she reveal herself. I haven’t seen her in thirty years.” He shook the moisture from his whiskers. “Not that it aggrieved me.”
“There has to be some way I can get her attention. Some kind of deal I can make with her.”
Shad’s breath escaped in a hiss. “Ivanora has always been mercurial at the best of times, but after her sister magus, Bellaphia, was murdered a century ago, her cruelty has festered with each passing decade. She wields her yanaa like a club, and the Maldibor are neither the first nor the last to bear her ire.” He shook a cloud of water droplets from his fur. “I pity whatever poor soul she plans to turn Dorinar’s spells on next. Frankly, I’m relieved she departed as quickly as she did.”
“Still, I’m already cursed. What have I to lose?” Makeo’s rumbling voice lowered even further. “It’d be worth the risk to ask her. I won’t hesitate next time.”
“Just remember, were it not for Everard’s bargain, the Maldibor would not even exist.” Warning weighed on Shad’s words. “More damage can always be done.”
Aza blinked rapidly, only half-listening to Witt as he rattled off the ingredients to his favorite recipe. She thought back to Ivanora’s snarl of disgust when she looked at Makeo. Her hate for the Maldibor had almost been palpable, and her power had been… overwhelming. Was she the one stirring up Carceroc? Trying to take away their home or erase them from Okarria completely? But why now after all these years?
Aza pressed her lips together. Surely it was just a coincidence they’d met Ivanora at Dorinar’s abode. Her fingers touched the dagger hilt at her thigh. But with every shadow sharpening its knife, she couldn’t trust chance to play nice. In this game, a coincidence was just a riddle she had yet to solve. But time wasn’t on her side.
✽✽✽
Aza’s boots slid on the slick rock as she pulled herself up the incline with her bloodied fingers. Her breath clouded, while the cold rain mixed with her sweat, dripping down from her chin. The sun had already sunk below the mountain, and the clouds turned to charcoal gray in the fading light. After three days in the marsh and another six on the trailless rocks of the Naerami bluffs, frustration ached through her every joint. But they had to be close.
With one last heave, she pushed herself onto the narrow ledge of the peak to find dots of distant light peppering the canyon wall in front of her. She nearly wilted in relief. Squinting in the dusk, she could just make out the wood buildings balanced atop stone landings carved into the mountain. If not for the lights, she wouldn’t have been able to distinguish them from the jagged stone at all. The low-hanging clouds misted over the canyon, and her gaze followed the snaking structure along the cliff until she found the ledge that served as a trail leading to it. It was actually below where they were now, but if they didn’t hurry it would be too dark to find it.
“Anything?” Witt shouted from below.
Not bothering to answer, Aza lowered herself off the ledge. Hand over hand, she felt her way back down to where the others waited. With his thick fur damp with rain, Makeo’s beastly odor was more pungent than ever. Shad cringed away from the wet beneath the meager shelter of a boulder, and even Witt’s scratched face had lost its usual annoying glow.
Aza wiped the rain from her face with a soaked sleeve, tucking her dripping dark hair behind her ear. “It’s just down to the next valley.” Her mind ran over the trail again, carving it into her memory. “We’re a few hours away, nothing more.”
Witt looked up into the dark sky. “I suppose we can’t make it there tonight.”
Aza sighed, wanting to contradict him and press on. But even she wouldn’t take that risk on a foreign mountain in the dark. She shook her abnormally heavy head.
Makeo nodded. “In that case, I saw a rock shelf not too far back that should keep us out of the wet for the night.”
“Backward?” Shad groaned. “If you’re going to kill me, Maldibor, please just do it quickl
y instead of running me to death on these godforsaken rocks.” Shad’s small legs shook as he rose to his feet. Although Makeo had carried him from time to time, Shad’s still-healing body was in no shape for the kind of climbing they’d been forced to surmount in the past couple days. Aza had spent most of her life training Greens to strengthen their bodies on the cliffs near Catalede, and even she felt spent.
He stumbled, and Aza reached out to lift him into her arms. “How many times have you crossed the land in the last century?” She tried a stiff smile. “Surely, you can make it one more day.”
He growled in annoyance, his dark fur plastered to his thin body. “The difference between dead and alive is one day.”
“So it is.” Makeo chuckled. “But it’s not this day.” He pointed to a pathetically small outcropping in the path, a scrub of a tree reaching out to one side. “Not big enough for a fire, but it should keep us dry.”
Shad leapt from Aza’s arms and curled into a tight ball in the driest corner, his ears peevishly pressed against his head.
Witt tucked in next to him and dug into his bag for the remnants of the supplies they’d brought with them. He held up strips of meat and a soggy lump of hardtack. “For dinner we’ll be having two succulent entrees, accompanied with the clearest of mountain rainwater to wash it down.”
Aza mentally measured out three even portions and a smaller one for Shad before grabbing her meager rations. If she wasn’t careful, they would let her eat more than her share. Though her belly ached, if someone was going to collapse from hunger, she knew she’d be the last one.
His paws tucked under him, Shad sullenly gnawed on a strip of meat and looked Aza’s way. “We should properly greet you as the Shadow Heir before we go to Somisidas tomorrow.”
Witt tossed a brick of bread to Makeo. “What does that mean?”
“Traditionally, when an Heir ascends, a passage is chosen from The Heir’s Way, and the Heir formally swears to grant Okarria their protection.”
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