by Lori M. Lee
Relief releases the tension in my shoulders. A gate is someone who can open shadow gates, allowing them to travel from one place to another in an instant. “When was this?”
“Last night. They were speaking in Nuval. I don’t think they knew I could understand them.”
After a few minutes, Saengo finishes her letter with a neat signature and then turns to me, one hand pressed lightly to her chest. My stomach lurches. Although I’ve been tending to her infection every evening to keep the rot in check, she says it still pains her sometimes.
“We should get back,” I say, feeling suddenly awkward. It’s bizarre speaking to Prince Meilek without Evewyn’s rigid protocols. We aren’t friends—at least, I don’t think we are. But whatever our relationship, he is still my prince. And someday, my king. “Please … please take care of yourself. Evewyn needs you.”
He remains in his seat, reclined against the wall, and half-obscured by shadow, but his eyes are alert and sharp. “And to you. All of Thiy needs you.”
THREE
Mirrim is unlike anything I’ve ever seen.
Built into the side of a mountain, slim silver towers encircle the city, rising to such heights that it’s a marvel they don’t topple over. Multitiered roofs topped by spires crown homes that appear unevenly stacked atop one another, connected by sturdy, shining bridges and stairs that climb into the clouds. The city sprawls outward and upward in a way that defies logic.
The shaman capital of the Empire is easily thrice the size of Vos Talwyn. As we approach the gates and the outer wall, unease shivers through me. This is where we need to be, I assure myself. This is where I will find the answers I need to defeat the Soulless.
The land surrounding Mirrim is flat and lightly wooded, allowing the watch towers a clear view of the horizon. Only a single mountain stands visible to the north. Mist drags along its jagged peaks. My craft stirs within me, and magic rushes to my fingertips, straining toward some unnameable power … a soul.
The lines of the mountain, the depressions of rock and earth, the trees that cluster around its base, the mist blurring its silhouette—they seem to shift, the entire mountain rearranging into what could almost be a figure.
I blink rapidly and nudge Saengo. “Are you seeing this?”
When she doesn’t respond, I glance over to find her watching the mountain as well, her mouth agape. So I haven’t lost my mind.
“The Spirit of the Mountain,” says Priestess Mia, a reverent hush to her voice. She slows her drake until she’s riding alongside us. “When Suryal, the sun god, fell in battle, her remains gave birth to the three races of Thiy. The magic of the shamans, remnants of Suryal’s soul, breathed life into the elements, awakening both the spirits of nature and the creatures that would become our familiars. The Spirit of the Mountain is all that remains of that ancient time. When Suri, the founder of our Empire, neared the end of her life, she sacrificed her magic to the mountain in order to create the barrier around Mirrim.”
“So, it’s true that only shamans can enter the capital.” Although I’d read as much during my time in the Company, part of me wondered if the barrier was a lie the shamans had concocted to dissuade their numerous enemies from targeting Mirrim.
“It’s true.” She lifts her chin, her back growing ever straighter as she looks ahead toward Mirrim’s looming white walls. “None may enter unless they are of shaman blood or given leave by the Ember Princess.”
“So, if a shadowblessed merchant wanted to set up a shop within the city,” I say, “or if a human relative wanted to visit their shaman cousin or some such, they would each have to go through the Ember Princess?”
“That’s correct.”
With such an inconvenience, it’s a wonder anyone who isn’t a shaman would want to visit the capital. “Why the Ember Princess?”
“Because she’s also the current High Priestess of the Temple of Light. As a lightwender, you will be under her care.”
House Yalaeng likely keeps that title close to the royal family. It’s too powerful a position to trust to anyone else. Even if she wasn’t the Light Temple’s High Priestess, she’s still one of the most powerful shamans in all the Empire. Once her brother, the Sun’s Heir, takes the throne, she will become his First Advisor and the second-most-powerful shaman on the continent.
“The Spirit of the Mountain … she’s beautiful,” I say. Clouds undulate around the mountain like hair billowing in a slight wind. Mist rising from a distant waterfall becomes the flutter of gauzy robes, treetops like emerald brocade. Then, the mountain settles, returning once again to indistinct patches of trees and ragged cliffs.
I can still sense her, though, a soul so immense and bright that it nearly eclipses my connection to Saengo. Curiously, I can also sense her soul’s tether, but it isn’t to a person. It’s to the land. Her connection to the earth is too strong for me to break, allowing me the luxury of learning the strength and immensity of her soul without fear of ripping it from its mooring.
The low call of horns bellows from atop the city walls, announcing our arrival. The massive gates open. Carved reliefs of rearing dragokin resembling those ridden by the first and only true soulguide, Suri, flank each side. The connecting walls flow outward, the stones shaped like fish scales.
Saengo reaches for my hand. She is my anchor in a city bursting with souls. As our procession passes through the gate and I get my first unobstructed view of the city, my breath catches.
The streets teem with people and familiars, and every one of them is looking at me. I go rigid. Saengo squeezes my hand, and I remember to breathe.
The Nuvali don’t cheer or shout. Instead, there’s an uncomfortable hush, as if they’re waiting for something. The click of our drakonys’s clawed feet against stone is loud in the strange silence. The Nuvali whisper to one another and point at me, the only other lightwender in our procession aside from Priestess Mia and the Light Temple guards.
Slowly, I force my body to relax into the saddle, although I can’t control my heart thundering in my ears. Unlike in Luam, nearly all who’ve gathered are shamans. Gray-eyed children gawk as older shamans with jewel-bright eyes watch, their expressions ranging from curiosity to awe. Even their familiars pay attention, likely made aware of the strangeness through their shaman bond.
Something small strikes my leg. I instinctually reach for the swords on my back but quickly realize my mistake. I’m not being attacked. Another scatter of rice grains showers down on us, and I look up.
Nuvali crowd the wide lip of balconies and bridges that arch overhead. They grasp handfuls of rice from woven baskets, grinning as they fling the celebratory offering over our procession. This seems to free the others gathered along the streets, and their voices begin to rise in excitement. They speak in Nuval, so their words are lost to me, but I manage to pick out one word spoken again and again: Suryali. Little sun god.
I mentally cringe, but at least the general sentiment appears to be jovial. They’ve even decorated the streets for our arrival.
Thick ropes of woven sunflowers, hibiscus, and bamboo have been strung from building to building, forming a vibrant, fragrant canopy over our heads. Golden ribbons stream from nearly every window. Banners from the Temple of Light bearing brilliant golden sun rays adorn bridges and walls.
I attempt to appear pleasant, but really, I want to crawl into my own skin and shield the truth of my craft from their prying eyes.
Isn’t this what you’ve always wanted? a part of me taunts. To be acknowledged? To be seen?
But they’re not seeing me. What they see is a lie. Even the smile on my face is a mask, as thin and flimsy as the tether that holds a soul to a body. It’s like I’m back at Sab Hlee with the shamanborn, their impossible expectations deposited at my feet. Except this is much worse.
Even as the murmur of the crowd grows, I can’t help wondering how many of these people would gladly haul me to the executioner if they knew what I really am.
The streets are unnaturall
y smooth, probably the work of earthwenders. In fact, from the impossible towers of glass and bleached stone to the waterfalls cascading from hidden pools high above the ground, churning clouds of mist and scattering the evening sunlight, every part of the city boasts signs of shaman magic. Gilded birdfeeders hang from nearly every roof for familiars that can fly or climb. Flames burn in silver saucers without any noticeable fuel, and trees flourish on balconies, their flowering branches crawling over the walls and roofs in a strange mimicry of the Dead Wood.
The air is thick with magic and souls. It’s too much. I lower my gaze, trailing my fingers down Yandor’s cool scales. Something in the crowd catches my eye, the flash of an iridescent scale attached to a familiar scabbard.
It’s there and gone in an instant. My heart climbs into my throat as I turn in my saddle and scan the crowd. I’ve never been allowed to touch Kendara’s swords, but she wore them nearly always at her waist, and I would know them anywhere.
“What is it?” Saengo asks. Still gripping my hand, she turns to try and spot what I’m searching for.
I swallow back the surge of emotion—disappointment, anger, longing—and shake my head. I must have imagined it. “It’s nothing.”
The great gleaming dome of the Bright Palace rises in the north, capped by several huge spires. At the crest of the central spire is an elaborate sun with golden rays extending outward like an explosion of light.
The Bright Palace isn’t our destination, though. Instead, we climb a gradually sloping path that weaves through homes of white-washed stone and vibrant blue roof tiles. The crowds grow thinner the farther we travel, although many follow in our wake, joining the procession.
At the top of the path stands a modest brick wall, and beyond it is the Temple of Light, a massive stone behemoth. White columns brace a multitiered roof, tiled in gold with ornate gables and an extravagant finial to rival the imperial palace’s.
Figures dressed in pale robes move about the grounds, familiars trailing at their heels. Several kneel before the statue of a woman with long, loose hair and extravagant robes. She carries a sword in one hand and a sunflower in the other. A crown of golden rays circles her head. Another robed figure paces slowly about the temple, a censer swinging gently from her hand as curls of incense smoke lace the air.
Plain buildings stretch back through the temple grounds, but Priestess Mia stops our procession in the courtyard before the main temple. She dismounts smoothly, her movements as elegant as the rest of her. Her crisp white robes pool around her slippered feet. At once, a servant rushes forward to take her dragokin.
Saengo and I share a look—an unspoken agreement to watch our backs—and dismount. I roll my shoulders, taking comfort in the weight of my swords.
Those who followed us remain respectfully outside the temple grounds, draping garlands of sunflowers over the gates and calling out to me in Nuval. I wish I knew what they were saying, but part of me is glad to be spared the knowledge of their expectations. I’m thankful to escape them as Priestess Mia leads me and Saengo inside the temple.
The other priests and priestesses bow in deference as we pass. As far as I can tell, all of them are lightwenders. Even among those of the same Calling, I feel like a fraud.
Priestess Mia leads us past the statue of who I can only assume is Suryal, the sun god, and into the interior of the temple. We step out into a covered walkway that cuts through a walled garden. Lush trees and flowering bushes girdle a circuit of small connected ponds teeming with water lotus.
Gathered before one such pool is a gray-haired woman and a small group of five children, each no older than ten. Their familiars sprawl in the grass nearby, some of them eating lotus seed pods. The woman lifts her hands toward the sky, and warm sunlight fills her palms, bathing her face in golden light. The amber-eyed children clap excitedly, whispering and looking at their own hands.
“Light stitchers,” I say, glancing at Saengo. Light stitchers can gather light in even the darkest of places. Many become renowned healers.
Although each Calling consists of three possible crafts, the Calling of Light is unique in that it has four: light stitcher, lightgiver, soulrender, and soulguide. The Light Temple hasn’t been home to soulrenders for some time, and the founder of Mirrim is the only soulguide known to have existed. Even with only two crafts, the temple brims with shamans.
What had other lightwenders done when the Empire decided to eliminate an entire light craft? Did they stand aside, folding beneath the fear of retribution, as the humans did in Evewyn when the queen imprisoned the shamanborn?
To Priestess Mia, I ask, “Where are we going?”
“I’m taking you to your room.”
“And then what?”
“Then,” she says, arching one elegant eyebrow, “you will await the High Priestess.”
Our room is a large chamber that opens directly into an enclosed courtyard.
Two beds stand at either wall, draped in layers of gauzy fabric. Thick rugs woven in eggshell blue and sunflower yellow cover the smooth tiles around them. The tiles continue into the courtyard where a glass-paneled roof arches over a domed stone pavilion sculpted in graceful swooping lines, like lace edging.
Beneath the pavilion, someone has prepared a modest spread. Steamed rice in bamboo baskets, fresh mango and papaya, saucers of thick coconut milk, and strips of seasoned meat, thinly sliced.
I set my bag on the rug and unbuckle my shoulder belt. I’m hungry, but I’m also exhausted, and the bed looks welcoming. But before I can decide which need to address first, our door opens.
A woman strides into our room followed by a sleek red fox with four bushy tails tipped in white. She doesn’t announce herself, but I suppose there’s no need. The Ember Princess wears an apricot spidersilk gown with sheer robes and a glittering sash. A crown of woven gold sits above her brow, and a thick band with cascading gold links and sunbursts hangs from her neck. Her eyes are a luminous amber, paler than my own, and her slick black hair is pulled away from her face into an elaborate braid threaded with gold ribbon.
She’s beautiful in a way that doesn’t seem real, like a painting brought to life. Precise streaks of crimson paint her eyelids, and her lips are stained in the same vibrant color as her gown.
Saengo recovers her composure first and dips into a deep bow. I follow suit, dropping my weapons at my feet.
Gliding past, the Ember Princess doesn’t pause to greet us and heads directly for the pavilion. I watch, bemused, as she sits on a stone bench and arranges the considerable length of her robes around her so that she appears to be seated in a puddle of silk. Her fox familiar climbs onto the bench beside her and settles onto the silk, its tails fanning out around its slim body.
She smiles warmly and says, “Please, come sit. I’ve been in meetings all afternoon, and I’m starved.”
Wary, I step out into the courtyard. The setting sunlight through the glass roof douses the corners of the area in shadow while bathing the rest in an eerie, orange glow.
The Ember Princess begins filling her plate at once, apparently content to serve herself. With a shrug at Saengo, I do the same. A wooden spoon with its handle carved to look like a crane rests atop the bamboo basket, and I use it to scoop the warm rice. It smells faintly sweet as if it’s laced with honey.
“You may call me Kyshia,” she says, lifting the pot of tea and pouring the steaming liquid into a dainty porcelain cup. It smells floral with an herbal undertone. Bangles of twisted gold circle her wrists, and delicate cuffs adorn the pointed tips of her ears. “Is this your first time in the Empire, Sirscha?”
Of course, she knows my name. Someone would have told her. “Yes. Saengo’s as well.”
Kyshia transfers her smile to Saengo. “I’ve heard of House Phang. Your falconers are renowned. You are both welcome in Mirrim.” She pauses with her teacup halfway to her lips. “Is it true that you’re a familiar?”
Saengo blinks once, clearly as puzzled about the protocol as I am. But, ever th
e reiwyn lady, she lifts her chin and replies calmly. “Yes. I am Sirscha’s familiar.”
“Remarkable,” Kyshia murmurs, sipping her tea. Her other hand caresses the red fur of her fox’s head. “A human familiar has never before been recorded.”
“We were promised your best stitchers once we arrived,” I say. I saved Saengo from dying of the rot in the north, but it wasn’t a cure.
“And you will have them,” Kyshia says, which eases some of my uncertainty. “The infirmary is just north of the temple grounds. The Emperor’s light stitcher will meet you there tomorrow.”
“Thank you,” I say.
She flicks her fingers as if it’s a small thing. And maybe, to her, it is. “I’m not fond of the court’s propensity to talk around a thing, or to soften a topic with pointless conversation, so I hope you’ll forgive my bluntness.”
I don’t imagine she cares if I forgive her or not, but I say, “I appreciate that, actually.”
I wonder how she and Theyen get along. They’re still engaged, I assume.
“Then I’ll get straight to it. I’m sorry to dampen the excitement of your arrival with ill news, but it can’t wait. You’ll recall what happened after the attack at Ronin’s manor house when the Dead Wood … screamed, I believe is the word my advisors used.” Her nose wrinkles in distaste, as if the Soulless’s awakening is an undercooked chicken rather than the end of Thiy.
Saengo listens while taking delicate bites of fruit, and stomps her heel onto my toes beneath the table. My expression neutral, I jerk my foot out from beneath hers.
“Has the Spider King been found?” I ask.
“In a manner of speaking. There was a fire on the grounds, but his body was recovered. Murdered.”
I push sticky grains of rice around my plate, my pulse quickening. There’s no reason to believe she knows it was me. No one knows except me, Saengo, Prince Meilek, and Theyen. Her fiancé. But Theyen wouldn’t have shared such a secret with her, not when he was at Spinner’s End to dissolve their engagement.