Broken Web

by Lori M. Lee

  What would a shaman that old and powerful have to say? If the history books are to be believed, the Soulless went mad. But, knowing how the Empire has hidden the truth, I’m learning to be skeptical of what history books say when written by those with the power to alter them.

  SEVEN

  The lucky are blessed with dreams of Suryal. My dreams aren’t blessed. They’re cursed.

  The souls went quiet in the aftermath of the Soulless’s awakening. I’m not sure what that means, and I imagine part of it is the distance I put between myself and the Dead Wood. Still, after so many nights plagued by restless souls, I’ve learned to distinguish when I’m dreaming.

  It’s not like before, nebulous and dark, with hands grasping from a shadowy maw. Instead, I’m standing inside the greenhouse at Spinner’s End.

  It looks much the same, overlaid in dust and in disrepair. Fibrous webbing covers the windows in patches, and columns run the length of either side. The difference is the spider’s web at the opposite end of the greenhouse. It’s thicker and larger than before, sprawled across the ceiling and floor, thick ropes of white webbing stretching from wall to wall.

  At its center hangs the Soulless’s cocoon, half speckled with moss that has blackened into rot, shedding shriveled flower petals. A bright red stain streaks the front of my tunic. I’m wearing the same clothes from the night I killed Ronin.

  The cocoon begins to tremble. Heart pounding, I back away and reach for swords that aren’t there. All the energy and fear of that night rushes back, sending my pulse racing and thinning the air in my lungs. The cocoon’s casing stretches and distorts like something inside is trying to break free.

  Panic seizes me. I turn to run, but in place of the door is only a seamless expanse of wall, laced with cobweb. I slam my palms against the stone, skin stinging, and then turn again to face the cocoon.

  This is only a dream. Only a dream.

  The cocoon rips open. Loose dirt spills from within, cascading to the floor. Spiders explode from the tear, dozens of them, small and quick, skittering in every direction. I step back, my heel bumping the wall, as gaunt fingers emerge from the cocoon. They push at the ragged opening, spilling more grave dirt and bits of broken roots.

  A face follows, pale and hollow-cheeked. It’s the same face I’d seen when I first opened the cocoon, but within the dream, he looks altered. Long black hair, matted with earth, winds around his neck and shoulders like a tattered shawl. His veins streak green and stark beneath his ashen skin as if the dregs of Ronin’s venom still linger in his blood.

  He thrusts one arm free, and then the other. His shirt is frayed, eaten through by decay, and crusted with rot. Whatever hue it might have been has long since faded to a colorless gray.

  “Sirscha.” His voice is a whispered rasp that scrapes my nerves.

  I close my eyes and press my palms to my temples. “Get out of my head.”

  “But you wanted to speak to me.”

  My eyes fly open, something sick and sinking opening in my stomach. “No. You’re not real.”

  “As real as any dream, and I’ve known nothing but dreams for a very long time.” He climbs from the cocoon, his movements strained and jerky, as if he’s relearning his own limbs. Spiders flee from the folds of his ragged robes.

  The entire web begins to shift and extend. Threads loosen and sag, slowly lowering the cocoon to the floor of the greenhouse. When the Soulless at last steps free of his prison, his foot touches solid earth.

  He takes one slow, quivering step away from the cocoon and then another, a pale specter trailing grave dirt. Somehow, he’s more terrifying than the broken bodies spat from the depths of the Dead Wood. Yet, beneath the fear lies a tremor of what I’d felt back in Spinner’s End—the call of a nameless power, beckoning me to answer.

  I backup until my spine presses against cold stone, wishing for nothing more than the ability to flee this nightmare.

  “What do you want?” I ask. This is only a dream, yet all of my senses feel the weight of this place and of him. My boots scrape over stone gritty with dirt. A trickle of cold sweat teases the back of my neck, and there’s a bitter aftertaste in my mouth.

  The air smells dry and musty. Once, when Kendara sent me down a mineshaft in the Coral Mountains, the air smelled like this. Old. Stale. A pocket of trapped time.

  Whatever this dream is, it’s a well-wrought illusion.

  The Soulless doesn’t move, but his bloodless lips stretch into a smile. Everything about him is pallid and unnerving, save for the vibrant, crystalline sheen of his amber eyes. He makes a small gesture to the room. “In my position, what would you want?”

  “To rest in peace?”

  He laughs, a dry scraping sound. “How can I rest in peace when the people who created me still hold power in the Empire?”

  Created? My thoughts snag on the word, and suddenly, terror transforms into purpose.

  If this is really happening, if he’s somehow speaking with me and this isn’t just a wild concoction of my imagination, then I’d be a fool not to take advantage. Determination straightens my shoulders, shaking loose from the grip of fear.

  I push away from the wall, fists clenched. “What do you mean by that? What is House Yalaeng to you?”

  “They’ve ruled for as long as Nuvalyn has existed. You don’t hold on to power for that long without a few buried skeletons.”

  “Skeletons like you,” I say. His magic scours lightly at my mental walls, hooks dragged over flesh just waiting to catch. There are secrets hidden within that power, teasing the unknown. I lift my chin, willing away the sensation.

  A tremor races through him, and his form ripples like a pebble disturbing still water. I blink to clear my eyes, wary. His jaw tightens, the veins bright and ghastly beneath his skin. Then everything realigns, and he’s whole again, those amber eyes fixed on me.

  Realization strikes. He is weak. Weak enough that he’s struggling to maintain this illusion, this dreamscape fashioned by the bridge of our craft.

  When he speaks, his voice is barely above a whisper. But his gaze is intense and consuming, like I’m the sun and he’s been starved of light. “Ask yourself why House Yalaeng kept my presence here a secret. Do you really think an Empire built on conquest, again on the brink of war, did it to keep the peace?”

  “Because Ronin lied about killing you. But he was the only person who could control the Dead Wood and keep you asleep. They had to uphold the lie.”

  “That would make sense if you knew little about soulrenders and House Yalaeng,” he says.

  “Then enlighten me.”

  My sarcasm seems to amuse him. He tilts his head. A crust of dirt slides from the tangle of hair that twines around his neck. “Most soulrenders aren’t strong enough to rip human souls. The power is rare, and every time we do, it costs a little bit of our own souls. Our craft was never meant to be used against humans. But House Yalaeng has never accepted that they couldn’t do something. They have always seen our powers as a weapon of war.”

  The only human soul I’ve ripped was the knife thrower’s, back at Ronin’s northern holding. I hadn’t done it intentionally—he’d been strangling me at the time. But had taking his soul cost a bit of my own? The thought is unsettling.

  “History says you ended the Yalaeng Conquest when you turned against your own side and gave the kingdoms a common enemy. You went mad with power and killed every person on that battlefield, friend and foe. If that was a fabrication, then tell me what really happened.”

  The scholar in me can’t help the small thrill that shoots down my spine at hearing from a direct source. But I remind myself that the Soulless isn’t a reliable one. Whatever story he chooses to spin, the only person who could have refuted or confirmed it was Ronin.

  “Maybe,” the Soulless says, “when you’re ready to hear it.”

  “That’s convenient.”

  He smiles again. Even ravaged by time in that cocoon, there is something distinctly disarming about him.
His magic is a corruption of our craft, and yet there’s an allure that seeks purchase in my darkest, weakest thoughts. A promise of unmatched power. Of never again fearing that I am not enough.

  I shake my head and press one hand to my chest, thinking again of the piece of myself I ripped away when I took that knife thrower’s soul. I know my worth. I do. Yet, fear is not a river, crossed once and then overcome. It is a sea, and every storm weathered is armor gained against the next to come.

  “I can’t trust anything you say.”

  “Then trust in what others might tell you. Ask the Ember Princess how the Empire created me. See what version of the truth they give.”

  I sneer at the challenge. I mean to seek the truth not to prove him right but to defeat him. I have to know who he was.

  He takes one unsteady step toward me. His eyes are clear and bright, and the knowing edge to his smile makes my shoulders bunch. “Ask them,” he says again, “about my brother.”

  My pulse jumps beneath my skin. This is the first I’ve heard of the Soulless having a brother. In fact, the history books never mention anything about who he’d been or what family he might’ve had.

  However curious I might be, whatever game the Soulless is playing is only a distraction. I need to know what he has planned.

  “How do you plan to strike at House Yalaeng when you’re here, one person in the middle of a dead forest, and they’re at the other end of the continent, protected by the largest army on Thiy?”

  He flicks dirt off his fingers and says, “You’ll see soon enough.”

  That sounds ominous.

  He turns away slowly, and I catch the scent of earth and decaying leaves. The edges of our dreamscape begin to blur.

  “What about the rot?” I ask quickly. “Can you cure it?”

  “I might be the source, but I am not the cause. You can thank Ronin for that.”

  “Can you cure the rot?” I repeat, louder.

  “Possibly. Ask me again the next time we speak.”

  My fists clench, and I shout at his back. “What’s the point of coming to me if you won’t answer anything I ask?”

  “I didn’t come to answer your questions, Sirscha Ashwyn,” he says evenly. The greenhouse begins to fade, dissolving into formless gray. “I came only to hear them and know where your thoughts lie. And now I have.”

  I straighten. Heat surges in my chest. He’d given me no answers, and yet my questions had provided him everything he needed to know about my intentions. I’d allowed him to manipulate me like a complete imbecile. Kendara would be incensed.

  “We’ll meet again,” he says, and then he’s gone.

  I gasp awake, blinking rapidly to focus my eyes. Early morning light brushes gold over the ceiling mosaic and the silks draping my bed. My hands are clamped around the sheets at my side, and there’s a slight ache in my temples.

  Bent over me, Saengo nudges my shoulder. “Sirscha. Wake up. You need to see this.”

  I follow Saengo, my mind still split between the unsettling dream and the urgency in her steps.

  Our slippers are quiet over the marble floors as we dart up a flight of stairs. I recall the temple’s floor plan and how it resembled a figure lying on their side. We’re somewhere along the lower spine, but the next corridor takes us toward the shoulder and then the upper arm.

  A balcony overlooks the main courtyard, which is lined with statues and topiaries in the shapes of cranes. The stone balustrade resembles flowering ivy. Every few seconds, the blossoms shrink into tight stone buds before slowly unfurling again into full bloom, revealing a gleaming jewel hidden within the flower head.

  It’s still early. Two shallow saucers of hammered brass hang from hooks at either side of the balcony, cradling flames that burn without oil.

  “What were you doing up here?” I ask as Saengo tugs me onto the balcony.

  “I couldn’t sleep. But look who just arrived.”

  I rub away the last of my drowsiness and lean over the balustrade to see the courtyard below. It’s filled with people and drakes. Sun warriors stand guard as servants wait beside several finely adorned dragokin. A small procession of mounted warriors in light armor takes up most of the courtyard. All of them have snowy white hair and gray skin. Their cloaks bear the symbol of a burning crown: the Fireborn Queens.

  “Theyen.” I scan the group of warriors, but he isn’t among them. He must already be inside the temple with whoever arrived on those dragokin. “Come on.”

  We rush from the balcony, heading toward the main prayer chamber with the large statue of Suryal. There are few guards within the Temple of Light as, this early, only the priests and priestesses have risen for morning prayers.

  Voices drift down the corridor, and I grab Saengo’s wrist, pulling her through an open door. We wait, backs against the walls, as a flurry of booted feet pass. I recognize Theyen’s and Kyshia’s voices. For Theyen to be here in person, their meeting must be urgent.

  Once they’ve passed, Saengo and I follow discretely. Kyshia and Theyen, flanked by Light Temple guards and attendants, are speaking in Nuval. Frustration pinches at my temples. I need to speak with Priestess Mia about finding someone to help teach me and Saengo the language here.

  Even from the back, Theyen and Kyshia make a glittering pair. Despite the hour, the Ember Princess is resplendent in layers of gold silks that trail behind her. Her hair is woven into a crown of gilded leaves and crimson rubies, and gems drip from her around her neck, matching the glint of red in her ear cuffs. Beside her, Theyen is dressed in blue with silver embroidery at his wrists and collar. A silver sash is cinched around his waist, over which rests a belt of interlocking silver links encrusted with white gems that match his crown.

  There are no familiars present. Despite their alliance, trust is still a fragile thing between them.

  At the end of the corridor, guards open a door into a large circular chamber. Kyshia and Theyen step inside alone. All of their attendants bow as the guard makes to shut the door after them. Beside me, Saengo gives me a shove.

  “Wait,” I call out, hurrying past the attendants.

  The guard pauses, giving me a puzzled look, likely due to the fact I’m still wearing my nightclothes. At least I’d thrown on a loose linen robe as well and a hastily knotted sash. The guard hesitates and then pushes the door open again, allowing me through.

  Inside, the room is larger than I expected, with full-length windows spanning half the wall and framed with heavy vermillion curtains. The ceiling overhead is a glass dome, revealing a brightening sky streaked with wisps of clouds.

  Five other shamans are seated at a table, and each of them stands to bow at Kyshia and Theyen’s arrival. Judging by the elaborate quality of their clothes and the fact that each shaman in the room bears a different eye color, I can assume these are the High Priestesses or Priests from other temples. This must be an important meeting indeed.

  Kyshia moves to sit at the head of the table and spots me just as she finds her seat. She doesn’t react other than with the rise of a single perfectly arched eyebrow.

  The others note my presence, murmuring to each other in Nuval. Since Kyshia hasn’t objected to my presence, I pretend like I’m meant to be here. I lean against the wall and relax my shoulders. Theyen’s back is to me, but he glances over to see what the others are looking at. Surprise flits behind his eyes for a heartbeat, and he turns away again without a word.

  “Thank you for coming on such short notice,” the Ember Princess says in Kazan, likely for Theyen’s benefit, but I’m grateful to understand the conversation. She smiles, that same irritatingly amused smile she wore at our first meeting. The room falls silent. She commands the instant attention of even Mirrim’s elite. “Hlau Theyen has come with urgent news.”

  She nods to Theyen who says something in Nuval, a greeting of some sort. Then in Kazan, he says, “I won’t leave you in suspense. Evewyn’s navy has surrounded a Kazan port at our southern border. Queen Meilyr is demanding access to the Xy
a River that will allow her ships to pass through the mountains and into the Empire, putting her within a day’s march of Mirrim.”

  EIGHT

  The shamans listen, grim-faced, as Theyen details their numerous attempts to communicate with the queen and turn Evewyn away without bloodshed. The queen has not yet responded to their falcons.

  You’ll see soon enough.

  Could this be what the Soulless meant? Without Ronin, would Queen Meilyr have made a deal with the Soulless instead? If so, by allying with Evewyn, he has an army at his command.

  How many in this room know about the Soulless? Somehow, I doubt Kyshia has shared her knowledge with the other temple leaders. She might be a fellow High Priestess, but she is the Ember Princess first.

  “Where is His Imperial Highness?” a sapphire-eyed man asks Kyshia. The High Priest of the Temple of Water is a middle-aged man with dark brown hair graying at his temples. He slams his palm onto the tabletop, his thick bracelets jangling loudly.

  Kyshia replies breezily, “My brother has already been apprised of the situation.”

  Judging by their mild reactions, His Imperial Highness’s absence must be customary. I vaguely recall Kendara mentioning how the Empire’s current heir lacked political acumen. I suppose it’s safe to assume that between the two siblings, the Ember Princess wields the true power.

  “This cannot be allowed to stand,” the High Priest continues. “We should have marched on Evewyn the moment they attacked in the north. You see how our inaction has been met? She grows too bold. We must retaliate.”

  The High Priestess of the Temple of Wind, a young woman with amethyst eyes, nods her agreement.

  “Do you plan to join our soldiers in battle, Lord Elwyn?” Kyshia says. “If not, don’t be so eager to endanger Nuvali lives.” There’s a bright lilt to her voice at odds with her words. Lord Elwyn sits back, lips pressed tight. The hand he removes from the table curls into a fist in his lap.