Broken Web

by Lori M. Lee

  “Familiar,” I murmur, thinking of Saengo. I wonder how her soul has changed. She died that night at Talon’s Teahouse. It was only the awakening of my craft that brought her back, transforming her into what she is now.

  “I understand she was your friend before she was your familiar,” he says, which makes me stiffen. “You want to keep her safe. I respect that. But it’s an illusion. So long as she is your familiar, she will never be safe.”

  I sink onto a padded bench against the wall and swallow back the bitterness of that truth. Saengo’s life is tied to mine. If I die, then she loses the only tether keeping her alive.

  “I can sense your despair,” he says. “But what if I told you that you could restore her to life?”

  NINETEEN

  My stomach processes the words of the Soulless before my head does, flipping against my spine. But then reality catches up, and I sneer. “You’re lying. That’s not possible.”

  His lips twitch into a smile. He looks exhausted, but his eyes remain determined, watching the sky deepen to a vibrant plum. “What do you know of possible? You’ve been a shaman for a matter of weeks. When I was trapped in Ronin’s cocoon, although I slept, I was aware. The spirits here, and my connection to them, allowed part of my consciousness to perceive the world around the trees, and learn from the souls claimed by the Dead Wood.”

  If he was aware inside that cocoon—even if only partially—how could he remain sane after so long in confinement? Maybe the spirits in the Dead Wood helped to carry that burden. Maybe all their rage and vengeance and violence aren’t their own. Maybe it’s the Soulless’s.

  “Then how?” I ask, humoring him. “Soulrenders only destroy.”

  “Look around us. The Dead Wood is proof that magic can bend however we wish, so long as we’re strong enough. And together? You and I could have the power to restore life if we dared to.”

  His power and his words are a spell, ensnaring my hopes. I hate myself for wanting to believe them. But in the end, I’m too much of a realist, and I don’t trust him. There’s much I don’t understand about our craft, but I do know this—we wreak too much pain to give life.

  I remember thinking not so long ago that the Soulless’s legacy isn’t mine. But if soulrenders only destroy, then what does that make me? I killed that soldier in Tamsimno. People have a right to fear me—even I’m afraid of what I can do.

  If only I’d shown Ronin mercy, then none of this would have happened. What’s wrong with me that I hadn’t?

  “I know what it is to lose someone, Sirscha.”

  I scowl, wondering what my expression gave away in my silence. “Your brother. House Yalaeng creating an army of soulrenders during the conquest. Is that what you wanted me to learn?”

  At last, a reaction. For a moment, his mask fractures, and I glimpse the bright vein of fury buried beneath the surface. Then his expression smooths over, and he’s once again an illusion of calm.

  “The Empire says I went mad with power during a battle against the shadowblessed and killed both friend and foe. As far as their lies go, it isn’t so far from the truth. But do they say why?”

  The abandoned barrack at the Temple of Light flashes in my memory, along with the echo of long-ago pain. “No. Only that your magic became too much for your mind.”

  His laugh is a dry, uncomfortable sound. “I had no particular love for the Empire. They conquered my city before I was born, though there were some who remembered a time before the Empire’s control. But my little brother wanted more than what our city could give him. He wanted glory and recognition from what he claimed would be the greatest empire in the world.”

  “So when the Empire came looking for soulrenders for their army …” By becoming Kendara’s pupil, didn’t I want something similar? After too long being discarded and dismissed, I wanted not glory but the acknowledgment of my value.

  “He jumped at the chance. Except he would only go to Mirrim if I went with him, and how could I tell him no? So off we went, two fools in search of our own destruction.”

  My heart sinks. I don’t want to feel anything for him other than hatred. Tragedy doesn’t excuse atrocity. But if I mean to kill him, then I ought to do him the small favor of knowing his story.

  “The Temple of Light taught us to channel one another’s magic, but in ways that defied natural boundaries. None of our souls were truly receptive to one another, so we had to fight to push our craft beyond our abilities.”

  “So that you could use your craft against other people, instead of beasts. Did they make you practice on …” It feels wrong to say it.

  “Yes. But every shaman has their limitations, and some were simply not meant to wield more power than their own, or to use their craft against another human soul.”

  “What happened to them?” I ask.

  “It was like a fire burning too fast and too hot. It was too much. Their souls burned out. We were nearly depleted. I wanted to leave, but my brother saw it as a challenge to prove himself. When we were at last ordered to battle against the shadowblessed …”

  He trails off, and I wait, the back of my head against the wall as the light gradually dims.

  “Maybe the strain finally became too much,” he says. “Maybe his soul finally fractured beneath the weight of all the souls he’d ripped. But he began killing everyone around him, even our own soldiers. I could see it in his eyes—he was undone. Something inside him had broken, and wherever my brother had gone, he was no longer in control.

  “But he was still a powerful soulrender. In the chaos, our armies scattered and the shadowblessed were gaining ground.”

  Because the last conversation I had with Saengo has been haunting me for days, I suspect I know what he did. A weight settles in my chest.

  “You killed him,” I whisper.

  His eyes harden, amber chips faintly glowing in the last dregs of sunlight. “I tore his soul from his body. And it broke me.”

  I ball my fists at my sides, knuckles digging into the bench cushion. I think about what it felt like on that ship with so many souls crowding around me as my control crumbled. It would have been easy to rip every single one of them from their moorings.

  If I’d been in the Soulless’s position—if I’d just killed the one person I loved most—then I might have done it without remorse. If I was already a monster, what would it matter anymore?

  Saengo would be disappointed in me for having that thought. Saengo always thought the best of me. Even when no one else believed in me, she did.

  “When my grief had run its course, the battlefield was empty of the living. But in my bitterness, I refused to release the souls still gripped within my craft.” His gaze slides to mine. The fury bleeds from his voice like a wound run dry. “The Empire paints me as a madman because that absolves them of their part in my creation.”

  The Empire committed a terrible crime against their own people, and House Yalaeng doesn’t deserve the power they built by taking from others. Their secrets should be exposed. Even so, allowing the Soulless his revenge isn’t an option.

  “Why not let them go now?” I ask, head tilted. “Is it like channeling another soulrender’s magic? Do the souls make you stronger?”

  He takes his time contemplating a response before saying, “I couldn’t release them even if I wanted to. They’ve been a part of me for too long. While I was imprisoned, every soul taken by the Dead Wood allowed me to glimpse how the world has changed. I learned what the Empire had done to all soulrenders because of me.” A line appears between his brows. “And then I felt your craft awaken. I have not felt such power in a long time. It’s not every soulrender whose magic resonates with other lightwenders. That was rare even before the conquest. Now, I imagine few people understood the truth of it.”

  Ronin must have, though. He’d known a time before the Soulless and the Dead Wood. How ironic that the Empire’s own efforts to eliminate knowledge of soulrenders played in my favor.

  Although he doesn’t move, the So
ulless’s magic is a constant, sinuous presence. It wraps around my shoulders, my neck, looping ever tighter. “We will right the wrongs that began with House Yalaeng. If the world will not allow us to exist, then we will forge a new one.”

  I continue watching the sky, feeling the weight of his gaze—his certainty.

  “You see. We are not so different,” he says. “We both wish to know a home again.”

  I shiver. His magic is a siren luring me to sea. I focus on Saengo’s candle flame, letting her light guide me instead.

  Strangely, I don’t hate him. Not in the way I loathe the queen for how easily she discards the lives of her people. The Soulless lost his brother in the worst way imaginable, but I am at risk of losing Saengo if I don’t stop him. So long as he exists, so long as his magic infects the Dead Wood, Saengo will never be safe.

  I stand, uncomfortable with doubting my goal, even for the span of a heartbeat. “I’ll think on your words.”

  He watches me leave, and I don’t relax until I’m well away from his rooms. Then I slump against the wall, my fingers digging into fibrous patches of spiderweb. I need fresh air.

  I make my way toward the courtyard where Theyen tried to invoke my craft. I’m grateful now that I failed, or else I might have killed him. I suppose that’s what Ronin wanted. Irrefutable proof of what I am, and a dead Kazan prince to start a war between the kingdoms.

  When I reach the balcony overlooking the courtyard, movement from above catches my attention. My gaze snaps to the figure of a small brown falcon sweeping into the tower aviary. At once, I turn on my heel, my legs already in motion. Unless the Soulless has other secret allies, only one person could have sent that falcon.

  I rush through empty hallways and take the stairs two or three at a time until I reach the tower. The aviary door, usually kept latched, is wide open, and it’s immediately clear why. Aside from the arriving falcon, the aviary is empty. A servant steps into view with a scrap of parchment in hand. Sweat slicks his forehead. Seeing me, he startles so violently that he drops the message.

  I scoop it up, tucking it against my palm. “Hello. If it’s all right with you, I’d be glad to deliver this to him for you.”

  He blinks as if my words make no sense. His mouth opens and closes soundlessly before he, at last, manages to say, “Please do.”

  “I had a feeling you wouldn’t mind,” I say, offering him a kind smile. He wipes his forehead, looking like a man spared from execution.

  Once I’m out of sight, I unfurl the parchment. It isn’t signed, but the message is clearly from Queen Meilyr. She is awaiting the arrival of her northern ships before returning to Kazahyn. She doesn’t anticipate much resistance this time, given the Kazan clans have shifted most of their attention to their northern borders and the Empire.

  I crumple the parchment, my thoughts racing. If she’s waiting for more ships, then that means one of two things. Either she’s taking an even larger navy than before to claim the Xya River, or her ships were so heavily damaged in the battle against the Kazan that she needs reinforcements while the ships are repaired. Either way, this means she’s back in Evewyn.

  But not for much longer.

  Once she’s on a ship again, she’ll be nearly impossible to reach undetected. I have to get to her—and to the Soulless’s talisman—before she leaves Vos Talwyn.

  I came here looking for information on how to defeat a monster. Instead, I found glimpses of the man buried beneath.

  Time is running out. I skim volumes on the history of talismans, when shamans first discovered bones could be fashioned into weapons and wards. I page through crudely bound books about famous talismans such as the Inferni’s Rib, which could render the wearer impervious to fire crafts, and the Weaver’s Crown, which amplified magic and was, allegedly, lost at sea.

  The sun has begun to set when I, at last, stumble on a passage in a stack of loose parchment. It’s an essay of some sort written by a shaman Scholar, arguing the theory that magic is an exhaustible resource.

  Every shaman and shadowblessed carries within them a remnant of the fallen sun god and the power gifted to them when she fell. As those possessed of magic grow in number, those remnants are not duplicated for successive generations. They are divided, diminishing the strength of our crafts.

  In the earliest ages of Thiy, the Callings of magic held sway over the very foundations of the continent, awakening the ancient spirits of the elements. Crafts were more potent. Even the talismans created during this time were more effective. Most have either been lost to the centuries or collected by Scholars for research, as none can be destroyed. Only magic equal to that which created them can destroy them, and such wells of power are long dry.

  I skim the rest of the essay, but there is no other mention of talismans. It doesn’t matter, though. I have my answer, and my heart sinks at the simple and inescapable truth—I can’t destroy the talisman because I’m not powerful enough.

  But maybe I could be. I abandon the dusty bookshelves, retrieve my swords from my room, and then make my way outside to the courtyard.

  As I approach the bone palisade, it’s eerily quiet. I miss Saengo. Except during breaks at the Company, we were rarely apart for more than a few days.

  Up ahead, a section of the webbing hangs in shreds. The roots have gained ground past the barrier, but so far, the troll bones have held fast, warding off the trees. My footsteps are silent as I pass through the gates.

  The Soulless’s magic rears within me, sinking hooks into my gut. He’s trying to latch onto my soul, but maybe, as a soulrender as well, I can resist his craft so long as I’m not standing before him. Perhaps he knows that, which is why he tortured his guard to force me to go to him.

  He must be worried I’m leaving, knowing that I could do so at any time. The way he spoke of what we could do together, the temptation of giving Saengo back her life, the past he hadn’t needed to share to gain my sympathy—he doesn’t want to keep me here with threats and forced promises. He wants me to stay by choice.

  But I won’t. Saengo needs me, and I have to get to Vos Talwyn before Queen Meilyr’s northern ships arrive. Still, how can I become strong enough to destroy the talisman when I can barely control my magic?

  The trees groan as I push back the tattered remnants of the white drape, and I remind myself not to let my thoughts wander in their presence. My pulse quickens, fear searing in my veins. If I can master my fear, I could learn from the trees, just as I tried the last time I was at Spinner’s End.

  Then, I had Phaut to watch my back. That familiar pain strums within me. This time, I’m alone with the souls, their anguish and rage palpable even without my craft. Magic rushes hot and eager to my fingertips, even as the hooks of the Soulless’s power continue to wrench me backward. I grit my teeth, letting my own magic course through me, building in gradual waves until I feel like I’ll burst from it.

  For the first time in weeks, I’m completely alone without the risk of ripping any living souls. If I relaxed my control, just a little, what might happen?

  The Soulless’s strength isn’t tempting for the power alone. The allure is in forcibly carving myself a space where I’ve never before been welcomed. And in my desire to heal Saengo and right the wrong I did her.

  If I embrace my craft rather than leash it, would it change anything?

  I glance over my shoulder at the silhouette of the castle, just visible in the descending dark. It’s already halfway to becoming a ruins again.

  Then, blood rushing in my ears, I step deeper into the trees, glaring at the roots whenever they threaten to snag my ankles. The branches twitch, mimicking my trembling hands. Impressions of faces shift in and out of the bark, there and gone again before I can focus on them.

  I shake out my fingers and roll my shoulders. Then I close my eyes. Unlike last time, when I could barely stir the embers of my craft into flame, the moment I will it, my magic blazes to scorching life. It burns hot in my belly, a cauldron on the brink of boiling over. The
souls surrounding me shiver into clarity, spots of light that press against all my senses, making my lungs constrict in my chest.

  With a slow, controlled exhale, I let it loose.

  My magic escapes from me like a current. The souls shrink away. The trees shriek, lashing out. A branch stings my cheek. Another rakes the back of my hand. I don’t flinch, ignoring it all as I will my magic to spread through the trees like a spider building a web, ensnaring every soul within my grasp.

  Then, with only a thought, my craft shears through the tether that binds them to the Dead Wood. I don’t open my eyes, but their relief shudders through me like a collective gasp.

  I don’t release them yet, though. The Soulless said the souls here were a part of him. They’re connected to him. And although he didn’t answer my question, I suspect some of his strength comes from the sheer number of souls he’s bound to the trees.

  The Soulless, who seems to have realized I’m not escaping, has loosened his hooks. But then his magic slithers to my shoulder, dripping poisonous temptation in my ears. If the souls make him stronger, then they could make me stronger as well. I could become powerful enough to heal Saengo. Maybe even to restore her life—to give back what I took from her.

  But the steady flame of Saengo’s candle illuminates the truth: using these souls means embracing the monster lurking within.

  Even so, I hesitate. Ronin said that I’m destroying the souls when I free them from the Dead Wood, but maybe he was wrong. Maybe releasing them will allow them a true death so that they might find their way back to the Sisters. There’s no way to be certain.

  The longer I grip their souls, the more I realize I can feel them—their emotions, like how I can sense Saengo’s. Anger and sorrow filter through my magic and my defenses, making my breath catch. Is this the danger of being connected to other souls for too long? How does the Soulless manage it?

  The world begins to compress. All my senses narrow down to the rising flood of their agony. I grit my teeth as their rage tunnels deep, dragging my own from the depths of my mind, all-consuming. The ground falls away. I can no longer feel the earth beneath me or the air in my lungs or the wind against my skin.