Broken Web

by Lori M. Lee

  “Murdered,” I repeat, infusing the word with skepticism. “Who could have killed the Spider King?”

  The Ember Princess dabs her mouth with a linen napkin and fixes her sharp amber eyes on mine. The slashes of color on her lids look like streaks of blood. Saengo’s rising alarm rushes against my senses. The mental window I keep between us to block her emotions is firmly closed, but I feel her there, her panic fueling my own.

  “This will sound ludicrous to you, but it was the very person Ronin once defeated,” Kyshia says. Her sculpted brows lift as if daring me to argue. “The Soulless.”

  I affect a confused frown as the weight in my stomach lifts, and Saengo’s alarm slowly recedes. After a length of silence, I let out a small, disbelieving laugh. “That’s impossible.”

  “He’s been dead for centuries,” Saengo adds.

  “Actually, he hasn’t. The Spider King has kept him asleep at Spinner’s End for nearly six centuries. We’ve certainly tried to kill him, but nothing worked. To be honest, I think my predecessors simply accepted the situation as a working solution and left the problem for a future Emperor.”

  This time, my surprise is real. I throw up my hands in a plea for her to stop speaking because I’m still reeling. “Wait. You knew? You knew the Soulless was alive at Spinner’s End this whole time?”

  The Ember Princess brushes a grain of rice off her sleeve and sighs dramatically. “After centuries, we believed the danger had passed. Or if not passed, then had at least become manageable. And the secret had to be maintained to protect Ronin’s power. Without him, we would … well. We would be right where we are now, with no one to control the Dead Wood and the Soulless, who’s doubtlessly preparing to avenge himself.”

  My fingers curl into fists that I rest firmly on the tabletop to keep from doing anything rash. They knew.

  She tilts her head, tapping her finger against her chin. An elaborate gold ring sits on both her middle and ring fingers, set with a series of glimmering yellow stones. “It’s been so long since a Yalaeng has been to Spinner’s End that I didn’t quite believe it was even true. Until now, of course.”

  “Now that he’s awake,” I say flatly. Knowing the Soulless was alive, the Ember Princess must’ve suspected why Ronin was losing control over the Dead Wood. The Empire might have even surmised the Soulless was the cause of the rot.

  And yet, even as familiars continued to die, they did nothing. Said nothing—all to protect an ancient secret that would rightly destroy their people’s trust in them. I close my eyes briefly, long enough to compose myself and avoid betraying my anger. Beside me, Saengo is rigid, her blank gaze fixed at a point past Kyshia’s shoulder. But her fury rivals my own.

  Had House Yalaeng killed the Soulless when they had the chance, neither of us would be here.

  Kyshia continues, her attention focused on rolling the thin meat slices to slide them whole into her mouth. “The Soulless must be dealt with quickly and quietly. Very few people know that he’s risen. We’ve deflected questions about Ronin and what happened in the Dead Wood with half-truths. We must eliminate this threat before the secret is exposed.”

  She feeds a piece of meat to her familiar, who watches me through round golden eyes.

  I straighten my shoulders, and some of my disgust bleeds into my voice. “So let me get this straight—”

  “Sirscha,” Saengo says. A warning.

  I relax my jaw, reminding myself that I’m speaking to one of the most powerful shamans on the continent. As next in line to be the Emperor’s First Advisor, she could bring the whole of the Empire down on us if she wished.

  After her aunt, her father’s First Advisor, died last year, the Ember Princess took on much of a First’s duties, acting as her father’s voice and hands beyond court. But, due to the Empire’s traditions of succession, she’s unable to claim the title until her brother takes the throne.

  Kyshia glances up at me through the thick fan of her lashes, a smile curling her stained lips. Anger burns in my throat.

  I ignore Saengo’s heel digging into my foot and say, “House Yalaeng knew about the Soulless for centuries, did nothing about it, and now you want me to fix it for you.”

  “You’re a soulguide,” Kyshia says simply. “The first to appear since Suri founded Mirrim. And now, one of the most powerful enemies the Empire has ever faced has awoken. This is no coincidence, Sirscha. You were meant to help us. And you’ll have the whole of the Empire supporting you. You won’t be alone.”

  I nearly roll my eyes at this ridiculous assertion, but stop myself. There’s no need to draw suspicion to the possibility I’m not a soulguide.

  Saengo saves me by saying, “Can you tell us what you know of the Soulless? If Sirscha is to defeat him, then we need as much information as possible.”

  “Did he have a familiar?” I ask.

  A line appears between her brows, and she rests her hand between her familiar’s ears. “Shamans and familiars share a sacred bond. Attacking another shaman’s familiar is a grave sin. You risk angering the gods, and your soul would wear that stain even into the afterlife.”

  It’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make if it means curing Saengo.

  “Regardless, I don’t know what his familiar was. Priestess Mia is our Scholar of History at the Temple of Light. She’ll have read any surviving texts from that time, so you’ll want to speak with her. Something Scholars have argued about, though, is whether he extracted his soul and hid it within a talisman so he couldn’t be killed.”

  Thus the title of the Soulless, I suppose.

  My fingers close around the collar of my shirt as if the mere thought might loosen the seams of my soul. The idea makes my skin crawl. I find it hard to believe the Soulless powerful enough to rip out his own soul and survive, and I’m reluctant to accept anything Kyshia says without proof.

  “Ronin was supposedly in possession of the Soulless’s talisman when he subdued him,” she continues.

  Meaning, if it exists, the Soulless would’ve recovered it. “Has anyone actually seen this talisman?”

  “We’ve only written accounts to rely on,” she says.

  I glance at Saengo, who sips daintily at her tea. Though the shamans would see it as sacrilege, severing the Soulless from whatever connects him to his magic is the best means of defeating him.

  Wouldn’t Ronin have done that, though, if it were so simple? What if the Soulless’s familiar is trapped within the Dead Wood alongside all the other souls? It would be impossible to find. One soul among countless others.

  As a sower, Ronin wouldn’t have possessed the ability to sense the Soulless’s magic, nor his familiar.

  But maybe another soulrender could.

  FOUR

  The sun has fully set by the time the Ember Princess leaves, and a servant clears away the meal.

  Saengo and I eagerly bathe in the adjoining washroom and then change into clean clothing we find in the armoire. I slip on a simple gray tunic and loose pants with matching robes, over which I knot a plain white sash. It’s the same outfit I’d seen others in the Temple wearing, but the soft fabric feels indulgent compared to the coarse fibers of our old Company uniforms.

  “Let me take a look,” I say, gesturing for Saengo to join me at the edge of her bed.

  She makes a face, fingers fidgeting with the troll-bone bracelet at her wrist—Kendara’s last gift to me. Depending on the creature whose bones are used, talismans have a number of purposes. The troll-bone talisman is meant to protect against magic, so I gave it to Saengo to help slow the rot’s spread.

  Born of the Dead Wood, the rot emerged from the Soulless’s corrupt magic that seeped so deeply into the trees and the souls trapped there that it spread to others, namely familiars. In the decades since the disease first appeared, no light stitcher has been able to cure it.

  Saengo tugs down her collar. The rot is a livid knot of bright blue veins extending from the center of her chest. The sight always makes my gut tighten with fury and fear. Sa
engo releases a soft, shaking breath as my fingers brush her skin as if I could sweep away the infection. Her soul’s candle flame brightens within me as I grasp it. She stiffens, inhaling sharply. Her hands grip my shoulders hard enough to sting, but neither of us pulls away. There’s no fear of ripping her soul free. She’s tethered to me, our connection shimmering between us, strong and sure.

  My magic flows into her, filling the cracks in her soul where the rot has worn her away. Her fingers dig into my skin, biting through my sleeves.

  At last, she sags against me before tipping onto her bed with a sigh. “I know it’s necessary, but it always feels so strange.”

  I lean over her, pulling at her collar again. The blue lines of infection have diminished into a tight bundle at her chest.

  She smiles wearily and slaps my hand away before brushing damp hair off her cheek. “Will you rest?”

  Although I’m tired, after speaking with Kyshia, my thoughts are too restless to find sleep. I kneel beside my things on the floor. Phaut’s sword, still wrapped in cloth, is tucked beneath my bag. I pick it up, hefting its weight. Brushing back the cloth from the pommel, my fingers find the ornate curls and rivets of the metalwork.

  I’d found the sword near the riverbank where Phaut died. I could’ve sent it on with the party who returned her body to her family, but it hadn’t felt right. Her death is my responsibility. I need to return the sword to her father, even if that means facing his judgment.

  Prince Meilek, who recovered Phaut’s body, assured me that her family would be informed of the circumstances. She died defending the soulguide, a worthy end for a warrior and an honor for her family. But I doubt her family viewed it as such. In their position, I wouldn’t. Phaut should not have died in the first place. I should have protected her.

  Standing, I grip the sword and turn to face Saengo. At the sight of it, she slowly sits up.

  Her brows pull together, pain and regret tightening the skin around her eyes. “Do you think she would have forgiven you for killing Ronin?”

  In truth, I don’t know. Phaut had been my friend, but she was also loyal to the Spider King. I’m not sure she would have believed me had I told her the truth of his plans.

  “Doesn’t matter now,” I say quietly, wishing it were otherwise. “I couldn’t save her, but I can do this, at least.”

  Saengo nods and slips on her boots. I do the same, tucking my pant legs into my knee-high leather. Then, I strap my swords to my back and belt Phaut’s at my waist.

  Although we’re forced to take a pair of Light Temple guards with us, no one objects to us going into the city. That’s something, I suppose. Part of me wondered if they meant to confine us to the Temple of Light.

  Phaut once mentioned that, after she pledged her service to Ronin, her father sold the farm and moved to Mirrim with her sister. She described a view of the Temple of Wind and how her father found work as an assistant to a cartographer. While the Light Temple guards aren’t familiar with the cartographer, they know how to reach the Temple of Wind. They guide us through the city’s winding streets, illuminated by the soft glow of lanterns.

  Although the sun has set and the crowds from earlier are gone, the city hasn’t yet quieted. Carriages clatter past, pulled by drakes. Soldiers bearing the Nuvali sun on their breastplates patrol in pairs. Shamans on a corner perform a show with streams of glimmering water and ribbons of fire, as onlookers toss coins into a metal tin. Familiars scamper between feet and along rooftops, moving freely through a city that reveres them. Shopkeepers haul their wares indoors, closing for the evening as taverns and teahouses throw their doors open in welcome.

  In our Light Temple clothing, no one seems to suspect who we are. We’re generally ignored as we pass beneath bridges lit by floating lanterns and trees strung with tiny silver bells that sing every time the wind shifts.

  “What did you think of Kyshia?” Saengo asks. She’s squinting at the shining dome of the Bright Palace that rises above the curling roof tiles.

  “Criminally beautiful,” I say, quiet enough that the Light Temple guards won’t overhear. Saengo suppresses a grin. She’s probably blushing. “But I’m certain she uses that to her advantage. I think she likes catching people off guard to see how they’ll react.”

  “With all this talk of war between the kingdoms, I can’t imagine the Nuvali will embrace a Kazan prince as her husband. They seem like they would have a … volatile marriage.”

  I laugh. “They would murder each other within a week.”

  Saengo shrugs one shoulder. “Maybe they wouldn’t. Maybe they’d grow to respect one another. Or even fall in love.”

  The idea of Theyen and Kyshia falling in love is so absurd I almost snort, but I catch the wistful twist of Saengo’s mouth. So instead, I reach out and hook my arm around hers.

  “Once you’re cured—”

  “Don’t,” Saengo says, pulling away. She averts her face, letting the short ends of her hair shield her eyes. “Who would have me as I am, Sirscha? I’m not even real.”

  The guilt that hangs ever around my neck coils tighter. “Don’t say that. Of course you are. And anyone with a heart would have you. The Ember Princess herself would be lucky to have your attention.”

  Saengo begins to shake her head, but then one of the guards says, “There’s the Temple of Wind.”

  Sure enough, a wooden gate blocks a path leading up to a temple nearly the size of the Temple of Light. Its roof tiles are arranged in undulating waves, ebbing downward from a central spire. A statue of a woman, her hair and clothing caught in an invisible wind and arm extended toward the sky, stands in the courtyard. A massive bird of prey is perched on her forearm, wings outstretched as if preparing to take flight.

  “The statue is of Cua,” one of the guards says. “She was a member of Suri’s inner circle of shamans from each Calling. Together, they founded Mirrim and established each of the temples. It’s said that Cua could fly on wind currents and ride the clouds.”

  Magic must have been more powerful then, back when it could animate the elements and bring to life the spirit of a mountain.

  “Can windwenders still—” Something flashes at the edge of my vision, and I turn in time to catch the glint of serpent scales and the curve of a pommel before the cloaked figure, and their familiar sword, vanishes into shadows. It isn’t my imagination this time. “Stay here.”

  “Sirscha?” Saengo calls, but I’m already moving.

  I dart across the street, leaping onto the nearest ledge and then up to the roof. Behind me, the Light Temple guards shout, darting after me, but they’re too slow. My boots whisper over the ridge of the roof. My heart pounds.

  When I reach the lip of the building, I turn in a circle, scanning the alleys below, my breath loud in my ears. A shadow slips behind a gate, and my feet race into motion again. I swing from the roof, finding purchase on a terrace before dropping to the ground. Then I’m running, the darkness a familiar friend as I burst through the gate to see the flutter of a cloak vanish around a corner.

  Breathless, I give chase, frustration building with every turn, every dead end, every alley, empty save for the rustling of nocturnal birds.

  Finally, I collapse against a brick wall and slam my fists into the stone. My heart climbs up my throat. With a furious inhale, I hiss the name I’m too afraid to hope for: “Kendara.”

  “Hello, idiot girl.”

  FIVE

  A figure stands at the end of the alley, her hood lowered around her shoulders.

  “Took you long enough,” she says in that beloved rasp. My throat closes, emotion rising hot in my cheeks. “I thought I taught you better.”

  The meager light from a distant lantern outlines the crown of her head, where her hair has been pulled tightly back. As ever, the upper portion of her face is concealed beneath a black handkerchief. The rest of her is obscured in shadows save for the gleam of her favorite swords at her waist. She’d been in the crowd earlier today, watching our arrival.


  I swallow thickly, a myriad of emotions bubbling in my gut. Joy. Pain. Anger. My fists remain balled at my sides, still stinging from striking the wall.

  “Are you going to say something or just stand there like a buffoon?” she asks, stepping closer.

  The tightness in my chest is unbearable. I want to hug her. I want to scream at her. I do none of these things, as even now, I know she wouldn’t tolerate it.

  I somehow manage to speak with only a slight waver of my voice. “When you fled Evewyn, you came here?”

  You left me, a voice inside me shouts. It sounds small and childish. You left me to deal with all of this alone. You were supposed to look after me. You made a promise.

  I press my lips tightly to contain the words. Get it together, Sirscha.

  “Obviously,” she says, crossing her arms. Despite her years, she stands straight and tall, her strength as unwavering as it has always been. Yet, everything about her, who I believed her to be, has changed.

  Even the handkerchief concealing her face and the barest edges of scarring beneath takes on new meaning. Kendara’s blindness isn’t a façade. But has she always been blind? Or did she give up her eyes—the irrefutable proof of a shaman—when she left for Evewyn? If I dared to look, I’d probably find scars along the curves of her ears, much like my own.

  “Who … who are you? Really.” What was her Calling? Her craft? Did she have a familiar, or did she give that up too? Kendara is more than capable without magic, but did she miss it while she was in Evewyn? There’s so much I don’t know about her.

  Kendara snorts in disgust. Part of me wants to lower my head and apologize, to please her even now. But she’s no longer my mentor and has no control over my future or my choices.

  “Wouldn’t you rather know about your mother?” she asks.

  I close my eyes, only for a moment, hesitant to look away should she vanish again into the night. I do want to know about my mother, but I need other answers first.