by Lori M. Lee
Kyshia wasn’t lying when she said she preferred to speak plainly. It’s certain to have earned her enemies at court. I recall my conversation with Theyen at Spinner’s End about what would happen if the Ember Princess died. She has several siblings. She might hold one of the most powerful positions in the Empire, but she can also be replaced should anything happen to her. It’s no wonder she spends all her time at the Temple of Light rather than the Bright Palace with her father’s court.
Theyen says something else, and I refocus on the issue at hand. Why does the Soulless need an army if what’s said about him is true—that he can decimate an entire battlefield with a wave of his hand? He claims to be targeting House Yalaeng for unspecified crimes, but does he mean to attack them head-on? Having removed all the shamanborn from her armies, Queen Meilyr wouldn’t even be able to enter Mirrim.
Unfortunately, I can’t say any of this out loud.
“Why bring this to us if it is Kazahyn’s border under siege? Can your clansmen not fend off such a small kingdom?” asks a shaman with a thick black beard.
Nothing changes in Theyen’s posture, but when he speaks, it’s with a slight bite. “In the past, Kazahyn has held off a much larger kingdom for far longer than a few days. Be assured that isn’t why I’m here.”
The shaman’s cheeks flush, but I smother a smirk.
“I’ve brought this before you because Evewyn’s attack in the north was against all of us, not just the Kazan. If this alliance is to succeed,” he says, pausing long enough to share a measured look with Kyshia, “Nuvalyn and Kazahyn must answer as one.”
Evidently, without Ronin’s influence, Theyen has made peace with his future marriage. Guilt pricks at my spine.
“Hlau Theyen is right. The Empire must respond swiftly and decisively,” another shaman says, a woman with hard ruby eyes and dark black hair that transitions to white at the tips. She wears a high-necked gown, giving her the look of an ostrich. The others nod in agreement.
“And we will, Lady Iya,” Kyshia says. “Let us discuss how best to proceed, and then I will take our suggestions to my brother and the Emperor.”
She pauses here and gestures to a guard in the corner. The guard moves to open the door, and then bows to me, waiting. I’m being kicked out. Possibly, Kyshia only allowed me to stay long enough to avoid making it known I’d overstepped her authority and joined her meeting uninvited.
“Hold on now,” says Lady Iya. “Is this the soulguide? We’ve not had proper introductions.”
“Introductions can be made tomorrow evening when she is presented to the Emperor,” Kyshia says.
This is news to me. My stomach immediately drops at the idea of taking my lie before the Emperor of the Nuvalyn Empire, but I don’t allow the surprise to show on my face.
Out in the hall, Saengo is waiting alone, all of the servants and attendants having cleared out. She rushes over, eyes wide.
“Well? What’s happened?” she whispers.
“Come on,” I say, pulling her back toward our rooms. “We need to get a letter to Prince Meilek.”
Saengo contains her questions until the door to our room is closed and locked. I quickly relay what I learned as I withdraw writing materials from the dresser beside my bed.
Items in hand, I move to sit beneath the pavilion in the courtyard. “If Queen Meilyr is on a ship outside a Kazan port, there’s no better time for Prince Meilek to gather his allies in Evewyn.”
Saengo paces, digesting this news as I pen a quick letter with the information. “What if he’s no longer in Luam?” “Then Millie will find him.”
Once the message is folded and sealed, Saengo takes it from me. “Last I heard, Millie was terrorizing the other falcons in the aviary. I suppose I’ll go rescue them from her.”
Millie is technically wild, so she comes and goes as she pleases, but I’m grateful for her. I couldn’t trust any other falcon to deliver the message.
It seems Prince Meilek has not yet finished in Luam. Shortly after noon, just as we’re preparing to leave for our appointment with an imperial healer, Millie returns through the single window at the back of the enclosed courtyard.
“He wishes to meet,” I say, skimming the brief message. “The evening after tomorrow if we can make it.”
“We’d have to leave tomorrow to be there in time, and I doubt we’ll be allowed to miss meeting the Emperor. Even if we snuck out afterward, we can’t be gone for two days without explanation.”
“Maybe we don’t have to be gone for two days,” I say, feeding the message to the lantern that sits on the pavilion table. The flames devour Prince Meilek’s words within seconds.
Saengo’s lips twist to the side. “A shadow gate would be perfect, but do you think he’ll help us? After what happened at Spinner’s End?”
“Only one way to know for sure.”
The following day, Priestess Mia and a veritable army of maids arrive to help us prepare for our evening at the Bright Palace.
They draw us baths of scented water and rub oils into our skin and hair. Afterward, the maids sit us before two large mirrors they’d hauled into our rooms along with an endless assortment of pots, brushes, and lotions. Laid out on our beds are gowns I’m only allowed to glimpse before Priestess Mia nudges my head, forcing me to turn back to my reflection.
“When you arrive, you will be presented to the Emperor and Empress,” Priestess Mia says. She clasps her hands at her waist where a shimmering gold sash is knotted. A bright red streak slashes across her lids, and a single amber jewel adorns the corners of her eyes to accent her irises.
At her words, my gaze finds Saengo. She’s across the room, her back to mine, but our eyes meet through our mirrors. She tries to smile, but her anxiety presses through me, seeping past the mental window between us.
We’d met with the Emperor’s healer yesterday as planned, but even an experienced imperial healer, with years of studying human anatomy and pushing the boundaries of her craft, couldn’t stave off the rot. I expected this, but the disappointment still hit like a wave, dragging me under, made worse by the despair lurking behind Saengo’s eyes.
If nothing else, at least we now know for certain that the only path forward is to eliminate the source of the rot.
Priestess Mia continues in that steady, cool voice. “You must not speak unless spoken to and address the Emperor only as ‘Your Imperial Majesty.’ Look only at his feet, and excuse yourself as quickly as possible. There will be many others who will want the honor of the Emperor’s attention.”
I nod as a maid gently dries my hair. Another removes the lids from several pots before dipping a brush into one. The dark bristles come away coated in shimmering gold dust. I close my eyes as she applies the dust to my lids. Someone else grasps my hands, tutting softly at the calluses and scars. I do not have the hands of a pampered reiwyn lady. They’re the hands of a warrior, every mark hard-earned.
Something cool touches the tips of my fingers. A quick peek reveals she’s applying oil to my nails. When the maid doing my makeup clears her throat, I close my eyes again.
“Priestess Mia,” I say. “I’ve some questions I was hoping you could answer.”
The priestess has been scarce since she brought us here two days ago, making it difficult to do much more than sift through the stacks of scrolls and bound parchment in the Temple of Light’s archives. Everything was written in Nuval, which neither Saengo nor I can read.
On top of that, only a handful of people within the Temple of Light can speak Evewynian beyond cursory greetings. Simply trying to find the archives was an adventure.
“Of course,” she says, but there’s a new edge to her tone, a wariness.
I open my eyes again to catch her reaction. “Princess Kyshia says you’ve read all the surviving texts from the time of the Yalaeng Conquest.”
Her shoulders go stiff beneath the crisp white of her robes, but only for a heartbeat. “That’s true, but very little has survived. The conquest was nearly a th
ousand years ago. The Scholars then didn’t prioritize preserving such texts. Unfortunately, we simply don’t have as much information as we would like.”
“Even so,” I say pleasantly. “What can you tell us about the Soulless?”
At his name, all the maids go still, their eyes widening a little. Priestess Mia doesn’t hide her distaste. Her lip curls, and her chin jerks higher. She clears her throat pointedly, and the maids quickly resume their work. “Not much is known of who he’d been before he became an imperial soldier. But he went mad during the war against the Kazan and turned against his own.”
“And what of his familiar?” I ask.
Her brows lift. “To my knowledge, such a detail was not recorded. He must have had one, of course, but no soldier would march into battle with their familiar. Whatever it was, he kept it well hidden, well enough that it’s been forgotten to time.”
“And the Dead Wood?” Saengo asks for me, as the maid is now painting my lips with a deep stain the color of pomegranate seeds.
“The Dead Wood as we know it didn’t exist until after his death. Since souls are the source of our magic, some Scholars believe the Soulless could use them as you would a talisman, growing his power. He bound them to a forest surrounding the ruins where Spinner’s End now stands.”
As soon as the maid sets down the brush, I ask, “How?”
In Evewyn, we were taught that the souls took root in the trees of their own accord. Unlikely, given the Soulless never died, as we believed.
Priestess Mia hesitates for the barest of breaths before saying, “I don’t know. The Soulless’s magic wasn’t like other soulrenders. He wasn’t bound by the usual restrictions.”
Ronin once said that when a shaman reaches a certain level of power, the limitations of shamanic crafts begin to bend. The Soulless, and Ronin himself, is a clear example of that phenomenon. Still, Priestess Mia’s hesitation makes it clear she knows more than she’s letting on.
Two maids paint my nails with gold lacquer as another dusts my shoulders and collarbones with shimmering powder, and yet another pins up my hair, weaving the strands through a magnificent headdress of golden rays. As Priestess Mia speaks, they cast nervous glances at one another, visibly uncomfortable with our conversation.
“After his death, the souls had no escape. With every year, the forest died even as it continued to grow, claiming new souls and creeping outward, impervious to all attempts to destroy it. No one but Ronin could control it.”
It’s been six hundred years since Ronin defeated the Soulless. A very long time for the Dead Wood to become a danger, not just to travelers but to all of Thiy.
“I’m afraid there really isn’t much more I can tell you,” she says as the maids step back to allow me to stand.
“But there has to be more than that,” I say.
“You’re free to explore the archives for yourself,” she says, which annoys me.
“They’re written in Nuval.” Which she certainly knows. “Are there translations?”
“The Empire doesn’t make a habit of sharing our historical accounts with neighboring countries.”
That’s a no then. Frustration pinches at my temples, but I push it away for the time being and allow myself to admire the exquisite spidersilk gown the maids bring forward.
Hand-sewn crystals swirl across the bodice. Layers of translucent gold robes edged in gossamer lace drape my shoulders, and a maid ties a brilliant emerald sash around my waist. She knots it in an elaborate style I’m unfamiliar with, but that I certainly don’t deserve. When I glance at Saengo, I find her similarly garbed, her robes embroidered in swooping silver falcons as a homage to her House.
As they affix two small, perfect sunflowers into my hair at the base of my headdress, Priestess Mia lightly rolls her shoulders and says, “I must excuse myself to finish my own preparations for the evening. I’ll see you again soon.”
Unless I’m mistaken, she seems eager to take her leave.
When the maids set me once again before the mirror, I’m momentarily breathless. But the small thrill dancing along my spine is quickly chased away by the reminder that all of this is for the Emperor.
Suddenly, all I can see is the lie, a pall that dims the grandeur. I’m wearing a costume, nothing more, and if I’m to survive the evening, I’d best play my role.
The Bright Palace is possibly twice the size of the Grand Palace in Vos Talwyn. It feels like an extravagant fortress, with a massive gate and high, white stone walls enclosing the grounds.
Elaborate lanterns of blown glass in the forms of fantastical beasts hang above our heads as Priestess Mia leads me and Saengo through a glowing colonnade. Beyond that is the imperial gardens, which have been lit with what must be hundreds of magnificent lanterns. A massive expanse of manicured grass stretches before us, with sculpted hedges, stone fountains, and flowering trees strategically placed throughout.
Shamans dressed in layers of silks and lavish jewelry stand at either side of a path created entirely of rose petals in sunset hues. Their familiars lounge in the grass or the trees, filling the branches with luminous round eyes and vibrant feathers. The path runs the full length of the vast gardens, leading up to a marble courtyard and a glittering deck where two figures stand.
At my side, Saengo straightens her back and lifts her chin, likely drawing on every lesson she’s ever received as the heir to a reiwyn house.
I repeat the instructions given to us earlier. Don’t speak unless spoken to. Address the Emperor as ‘Your Imperial Majesty.’ Look only at his feet. Excuse yourself as quickly as possible.
Easy enough, if not for the way my heart hammers at my ribs. My palms go damp. We step onto the rose path, our slippered feet crushing petals in vibrant saffron, lemon, and coral. The flowers catch in the trains of our robes.
Shamans watch us pass, murmuring to each other as they lounge beside fountains of water that spin and dance in unlikely patterns. Some point and whisper behind their hands as they flock beneath the fan-shaped leaves of ginkgo trees strung with golden lanterns. Our arrival was already announced, so there’s no doubt that every person here knows who I am.
I draw a slow breath through my nose and paste a pleasant smile on my lips. My stomach churns, my craft racing in time with my pulse, but I keep my head high and meet their gazes. These are the most influential shamans in the Empire, and I refuse to shy away from their stares. Instead, I search their ranks, seeking a familiar head of white hair.
As a visiting prince, there’s no reason why Theyen wouldn’t be present. I told Saengo that the best time to speak with him would be this evening, assuming I’m not exposed as a fraud and immediately imprisoned. Saengo was not amused.
I spot Theyen’s guards first. There are four of them, all dressed in shining silver tunics to accent their gray skin and white hair. They stand apart from the Nuvali, clustered beside a stone bench, curved like a bow. Lounging on the bench, looking perfectly—and likely deliberately—at ease is Theyen. He’s as immaculate as ever in a deep moss green tunic with silver embroidery and matching sash.
His eyes find mine and I hold his gaze hoping he understands I need to speak with him. All too quickly, we pass him and the other shadowblessed, and I look ahead again.
The march through the gardens is both excruciatingly long and over too quickly.
We stop before the marble courtyard. At the other end, overlooking the whole of the imperial gardens from a high stone deck, stands Emperor Cedral and Empress Lyryn. They’re dressed in gold and crimson, with magnificent crowns of twisted metal and crusted jewels nearly twice the height of their heads. Standing over their right shoulders is a man I assume is the Sun’s Heir, Emperor Cedral’s eldest child. To their left is Kyshia.
More of their children and advisors stand at the back of the deck, along with an impressive guard of sun warriors in full armor. I want to linger a moment on the exquisite metalwork in their breastplates and spaulders, but with so much attention on us, it’s impossible to f
ocus on them for long.
An attendant gestures to the other end of the courtyard and says something in Nuval, presumably permission to approach because Priestess Mia bows her head and leads us forward. The area is lit by more lanterns, each more delicate than the last.
My fingers, painted in swirls of shimmering gold, clutch at the layers of spidersilk. I school my breathing to a calm, even pace. Everyone here believes I’m a soulguide, and I can’t give them any reason to doubt that.
We pause at the end of the marble courtyard. As instructed, we keep our eyes down, which is easy with the Emperor and Empress standing well above our heads.
Priestess Mia lowers to her knees, and Saengo and I follow suit. My gown pools around me in a sea of lace and spidersilk. I bow over my knees until my forehead nearly touches the ground.
“You may rise,” comes a low, resonant voice from above. To my surprise, the Emperor speaks in Evewal.
I stand again, glad for Saengo’s nearness as she edges closer to me. Her fear underscores my own, the tension thickening the air.
“Welcome, soulguide, to the Bright Palace. You honor us with your presence,” says Empress Lyryn.
“The honor is mine, your Imperial Majesty,” I say, demurely. Priestess Mia gives me a tiny nod of approval.
The Empress continues. “Suryal shines her light upon us with this gift. The Nuvalyn Empire has not seen a soulguide since the time of Suri. This blessing speaks to the Empire’s might in victories to come.”
I force my muscles to relax despite the way her words put me on edge. They remind me of what Ronin said when we first met—stories about soulguides have been passed down from the time of Suri, but that one should again appear could only be taken as an omen. If the Empire knew the truth, they would pray for Suryal to strike me dead.
“We’ve heard the story of how you saved your familiar from the rot, recounted by a sun warrior who witnessed the miracle,” Emperor Cedral says. “She spoke of how your familiar glowed as if she contained the light of the sun beneath her skin. It’s said that Suri could also illuminate the souls of others simply by touching them. We would be honored if you could provide a demonstration of your craft on the priestess.”