Broken Web

by Lori M. Lee

  I shake off my apprehension and step into the woods. The trees, if possible, seem more chaotic than before. They look less contained. Their trunks are twisted, spun in unnatural shapes as if torn apart from within. Branches dig angry claws into neighboring trees. Roots sprawl and tunnel, climbing over one another. Some trees bulge to the side, the imprint of faces screaming through the bark as if the souls trapped within are trying to escape.

  I swallow with difficulty. The souls are just as afraid of the Soulless as I am, which, if I’m lucky, means they’ll be too focused on his power to bother me. I’m not sure what that means for me when I reach Spinner’s End.

  I travel quickly, the sun a whisper of light over my head. My senses and craft remain alert, but my thoughts can’t help returning to what might’ve happened in Tamsimno. Did the queen’s navy retreat? Is Theyen’s alliance with the Ember Princess in shambles?

  I can’t help the guilt, knowing I exposed the truth of my craft at the expense of an innocent life. The queen wasn’t surprised, though. Ronin wouldn’t have told her his suspicions, not if it meant ceding power to her. But then why would the Soulless tell her?

  I suppose the disaster we’d left behind is answer enough. Even if he only intends to target House Yalaeng, sowing chaos across Thiy will benefit him. The kingdoms will be too focused on each other to pay him attention.

  And when he recovers his full strength and rises from Spinner’s End like the specter from my nightmare, the kingdoms will be so fractured that they won’t be able to stand against him. The Empire will fall.

  A quiet, wicked part of me whispers, Why not let it?

  Thiy was once a continent of many kingdoms. Now, because of the shaman emperors’ greed, only three remain. The Empire has conquered lands and destroyed lives and hidden secrets, all to expand its power. Wouldn’t Thiy be better without it?

  Maybe. But too many lives would be lost in its falling. Much as I hate to admit it, the Ember Princess genuinely seems to want peace for her people. With her at its helm, there might be a chance to avoid war. But not if the Soulless kills her and the rest of House Yalaeng.

  Something moves in my periphery, and my magic leaps against my skin, like a water serpent scenting blood. When I allowed the Soulless’s magic to channel through me, it was like a spark igniting oil, the immensity of it almost too much to contain in one person. It’s possible that he saved my life, that I wouldn’t have been able to defeat Ronin without his assistance.

  Regardless, I lost control on board that ship and killed a soldier. Whether by ignorance or the Soulless’s influence, my craft has grown wild, like the trees, and it must be brought under control.

  By the time I spot the white drape of webbing that encircles Spinner’s End, the slivers of sky beyond the branches have turned a deep plum. The Dead Wood is nearly too dark to see. The panic clawing up my ribs is kept at bay only by the reassurance of my craft.

  Lifting the bottom of the drape, I eagerly duck beneath. The castle looms before me, and I’ve never been so relieved to see it. I’ve arrived somewhere near the back, close to whatever remains of the garden maze after I set the greenhouse on fire.

  The barrier of webbing separating the grounds from the trees remains largely intact, but there are spots where the branches have pushed through, tearing holes in the material. Unease teases at my shoulders. Without Ronin, the barrier no longer provides the protection it once had. I can only pray that the troll-bone palisade is enough to keep safe the soldiers and staff still trapped here.

  The grounds are quiet, which isn’t unusual. But the torches, which the guards always kept lit through the night, are dark. By the looks of them, they haven’t been used in some time.

  The moment I pass the palisade, an awareness begins at the back of my mind—a whisper and a temptation, a blade wrapped in silk trying to wedge its way beneath my skin. I press my fist to my stomach. His presence is just as potent as it had been the last time I was here.

  Still, he’s as trapped by his recovering body as he was in that cocoon. I’ll be in and gone again as quickly as possible. Even with the dark to conceal me, there are no guards to avoid as I creep along the side of the castle. Candlelight flickers behind a few windows though—hope that those left behind are still alive.

  When I spy a way into Ronin’s study on the third floor, I use the stone of window traceries to climb. Fortunately, the window to his study is open. I push aside the heavy drapes and climb inside.

  The sliver of moon provides little illumination, but I can make out an oversized desk set near the window. More tables and shelves line the walls. Weaving around furniture, I cross the room toward the door.

  I listen at the door for a moment, but there’s only silence. A small brass key rests inside the lock, left by a steward no longer concerned with their duties. I twist the key to lock it, and then return to the desk and the lantern sitting at its corner. Within seconds, warm, golden light fills the room.

  Ronin’s study is, as I expected, exceedingly neat. Paintings of snow-covered valleys, glaciers, and frozen mountain peaks hang from the walls. I realize with a strange sort of feeling that those must be what Ronin’s homeland looks like. He came from the far north, where massive ice spiders build nests in the mountains and the earth never fully thaws.

  Framed above the mantel is a map of ancient Thiy. Unlike the one on the library ceiling, it’s in excellent condition, considering how old it must be. I recognize none of the borders. Nuvalyn is but a minor kingdom to the east, centered around the shining capital of Mirrim. Evewyn appears as a sliver of country to the southeast, and the wilds of the north were not yet tamed by the Drake Queens.

  A richly detailed forest covers the land where the Dead Wood now sprawls, cut through with rivers and streams and a smattering of villages. At its heart rests a single castle surrounded by a small town. No evidence remains of that town now, nor any of the villages taken by the Dead Wood. But the castle’s bones were claimed by Ronin for Spinner’s End.

  Neat stacks of parchment, books, and other things sit on various bookshelves alongside dead plants left unattended after Ronin’s death. The idea of Ronin keeping plants would seem strange if I wasn’t aware he’d been a sower.

  Saengo said he kept his ledgers in his desk, so I begin there. I’m not looking for his historical records just yet. While my main purpose for being here is to acquire information about the Soulless and how to destroy the talisman, there’s something else I need to know too.

  From his desk drawers, I withdraw stacks of books bound in aged leather. Opening the one on top, I note the neat penmanship and the carefully stitched pages. It’s a list of monthly supplies, which isn’t what I’m looking for. I need his guest logs.

  Flipping quickly through the others, I find some potentially interesting financial records, but still not what I need. I open more drawers, rummaging through countless ledgers that go back decades. Tucked behind a pot, I find a thick book and lift the cover.

  On the first page is a list of names and dates. My heart jumps against my ribs.

  The first name listed is dated three decades ago, and when I skip to the back of the book, the last names precisely entered are mine and Saengo’s along with the dates of our arrival and departure to the north. He even recorded the dates I left with him to Sab Hlee and returned from Vos Gillis after freeing the shamanborn. A meticulous man indeed.

  I work backward, paging through dozens of names until I find the years when my mother might have been here. I don’t know her name. I doubt Kendara would’ve told me, but I never even asked. Part of me hopes I’ll recognize something—that it’ll spark some long-buried memory, or … I don’t know. Anything. But as I scan the names, none of them stand out. My heart sinks.

  My eyes close in frustration. I was so young when Kendara left me at the orphanage. Any memories from before that time have corroded with age. What if the Soulless had been lying about another soulrender? What if it hadn’t been my mother at all but some other soulrender run
ning from the Empire’s persecution?

  But where else would Kendara have taken her? Spinner’s End is remote and well protected. Ronin refused to take in the shamanborn who escaped from the Valley of Cranes, so he couldn’t have known the truth about my mother’s status as a fugitive and soulrender.

  How Kendara even managed to gain his cooperation is a mystery, but she is a spymaster. Maybe she knew secrets that would ensure his aid and discretion. Or, whoever she’d been in her old life still held influence.

  I lean over the pages, the lamplight flickering across the neat strokes of ink. Every passing second is a waste of precious time, but I can’t stop. I have to know if she was here. It’s the only tangible proof I’ll ever have that my mother existed. With her family dead, and all knowledge of soulrenders erased by the Empire, all that lives of her now are Kendara’s memories. And as much as I love Kendara, I no longer trust her to be truthful with me.

  The oil in the lantern burns low as I skim through unfamiliar names, my hopelessness growing until—

  “Kendara.” There’s no surname, but it must be her.

  I find her name numerous more times over the next three years, with anywhere between weeks to months in between. She must’ve checked in often on my mother. I flip back to when Kendara’s name first appears, and right below is the name ‘Sewae.’ No surname, either. She’s only listed once, but the date of her arrival matches Kendara’s first visit, and the date of her departure is marked three years later.

  She was here for so long. My finger passes over her name, marveling at it. It might not even be her real name, but that doesn’t matter. Here is proof that she existed, despite the Empire’s efforts to erase her.

  And proof that the Soulless told me the truth.

  I glance again at the year she left, and something stirs at the back of my thoughts.

  I don’t know my birthdate. It wasn’t information passed onto the orphanage. I know only the approximate year because I was young enough that I couldn’t be older than two. The date of my mother’s departure suggests she left at the end of the year before I was born.

  I shove away the disquieting thoughts wriggling for purchase. It doesn’t mean anything. The year the monks gave me could be wrong, and a year is a long time. Twelve full months, longer than the period of pregnancy.

  Except Kendara said that the last time she came to check on her, she found “the fool girl pregnant.” My pulse quickens as I skim her last year at Spinner’s End. Numerous guests came and went, too many to mean anything. She could’ve taken a liking to any of them.

  I close my thoughts to any other possibility.

  It doesn’t matter. What matters is, for the first time ever, I can piece together a bit of my past.

  Sometime after Kendara took my mother away from here, Ronin must’ve discovered that she was a soulrender and that she’d had a child. Knowing that soulrenders were hunted, he would’ve assumed my mother either left the continent altogether or hid in Evewyn where, at the time, humans and shamanborn lived peacefully. And to further keep me from notice, so long as I never bonded with a familiar, I could pass as human—once my ears were clipped. I touch the nearly invisible scars lining the tips of either ear.

  It took Ronin a long time to find me. Kendara hid me well. But her mistake might’ve been in making me her apprentice. He would’ve remembered her connection to my mother, and he would’ve kept an eye on those around her.

  It’s all speculation, of course. But it matches what Kendara said in Mirrim. Once he learned the truth of what my mother had been—of what I might be—he conspired with the queen against us.

  I set the guest log aside and begin a different search of his study. I flip through every book, every ledger, and every scrap of parchment. His ledgers go back decades, but I need the records that go back centuries. I explore the walls, feeling for seams to secret passageways. I tap the bottom of drawers and the backs of bookshelves for hidden compartments. I even scrutinize the ceiling and the floor for possible hidden nooks.

  By the time I finish, the lantern has nearly burned out, and sunrise is only a couple hours away. Wherever Ronin is keeping his archives, it isn’t in here. Exhausted, I settle onto the floor beneath the window. I remove my swords and set them beside me within easy reach, then pull the book with the guest logs into my lap. Opening the pages, I once again find my mother’s and Kendara’s names.

  My fingertips rest over the old ink as I close my eyes and focus on the warm flame of Saengo’s candle, assuring myself that she’s safe. I stay there until the lantern burns out, and sleep finally overcomes me.

  SEVENTEEN

  Footsteps disturb the quiet. By the time someone rattles the doorknob to Ronin’s study, I’m wide awake and strapping on my swords.

  Light creeps in through the open drapes, so I haven’t been asleep for long. I’m out the window and climbing above the frame just as the door slams open with the crack of splintering wood.

  “She was here,” someone says, as two pairs of boots rush into the room. I press my back to the wall, fingers clinging to the stone as one guard’s head appears out the window. If he looked up, he would see me.

  He doesn’t, though. He scans the ground, shakes his head, and then disappears again.

  “We have to find her,” a second guard says. Her voice is high and thin with fear.

  “How did she even get into Spinner’s End?” There are muffled sounds, like the guards are rearranging all the things I moved in my search. “No one can do that without a gate except Lord Ronin.”

  “She almost made it the first time she was here, remember?” the second guard says. “Do you think … do you think she could get us out with her?”

  The trembling hope in her words makes me wince with sympathy. Would it be possible? I wasn’t even sure I could get here, but now that I have, could I help them escape?

  There are too many still trapped here. I wouldn’t be able to protect a party of that size in the Dead Wood. Not even Ronin traveled the woods with more than a handful of people at a time. It would take weeks to get everyone out, and that’s only if the Soulless didn’t catch wind of what was happening.

  But do I owe it to them to try?

  Maybe once I’m done here—if I can somehow get the word through to the castle staff.

  There’s a cry of pain, and then the heavy thud of a body hitting the floor. Moaning fills the room as the second soldier shouts, “We don’t know where she is!”

  Fury wells within me. They don’t know, but likely the Soulless does. If he can sense my soul, then he knows where I am. My teeth clench as the guard screams again.

  Cursing, I climb down, gripping the window frame, and slide back into the room. Inside, one guard lies on her back on the floor, fingers clenched around the fabric at her chest. Her head is thrown back, neck muscles straining. The soldier kneeling over her looks up at my entrance. He startles back, reaching for his sword.

  “Get back,” I say as I sink to my knees beside the gasping woman. Although her eyes are squeezed shut, the point of her ears tells me she’s a shaman.

  The other guard hesitates a moment, uncertain, before backing away. Grabbing her shoulders, I loosen the leash on my craft, which surges forward. Her soul is held tight in the Soulless’s grasp, and no matter how my magic tries to wrench her free, it’s useless. The shaman cries again, her face flushed. Sweat beads at her temple.

  With a growl of frustration, I shove to my feet. “Where is he?” I demand.

  The other guard, a human by the looks of him, glances helplessly between us. His skin is waxy and pale, his cheeks hollow, and dark shadows bruise the skin beneath his dark eyes. He looks like he hasn’t slept in days.

  I push past him and out through the broken door. The Soulless’s magic sharpens around me, the weight of all that power closing in like the threads of a tightening cocoon. With a jerk of my head, I force it away, my own magic hot and frenzied beneath my skin.

  Following the lure of his magic, I rush dow
n the corridor and descend a flight of stairs. Soon, I pass beneath an arched entrance leading into a closed garden. My feet slow on the cobbles, only for a heartbeat.

  This garden isn’t like the maze with its overgrown weeds and abandoned flower beds. This one was nurtured until not so long ago. Slim trees thick with leaves cluster in the corner and stand sentinel beside a cobbled path lined with sagging bushes. Swaths of ivy dressed in purple blooms cling to the brick walls. But like the plants in Ronin’s study, the neglect is evident. The flower beds have wilted, weeds crowd the soil, and the path is littered with petals that have dried and curled.

  It’s a peculiar feeling to know Ronin surrounded himself in his private spaces with green growing things and paintings of his home in the north. What sort of man had Ronin been before the Soulless’s magic corrupted him? What sort of man willingly sacrificed his humanity to save everyone else?

  I wince as the shaman’s faint screams quiver through the open air. I quicken my pace. The path curves around a grouping of trees that part to reveal a massive throne against the far wall. My stomach lurches at the familiarity.

  Instead of from rotting trees, this throne was built from stone. Whoever created it sculpted creatures into the wide base and the arms, but the details have been lost with the centuries. Thick webbing stretches across the back and the brick wall, coating the ivy in ghostly white gauze.

  I think of that little town surrounding a castle on the map in Ronin’s study. This might have been a secondary throne room once, an open courtyard to receive guests for whoever once ruled here before Ronin. Before the Dead Wood. Before the Yalaeng Conquest.

  I shuffle to a stop. The Soulless reclines on the throne, and part of me wonders if I’m dreaming. His skin has lost its green tint from when I first saw him in his cocoon, but it’s ashen after long years sealed away from the sun.