The Silver Sorceress (The Raveling Book 2)

by Alec Hutson

  Bae Ling stared into the open jaws of a dragon.

  It was Shalagan, he guessed, the servant of the South Wind. He thought that because the Hall of Celestial Tranquility had been built along the traditional north-south axis, in order to better channel the harmonious energies into the emperor seated upon his throne, and the huge dragon of wrought gold that coiled down the red pillar near where Bae Ling performed his ritual obeisance was most certainly located in the hall’s southern quadrant. A good omen, to be placed here while he waited for the emperor to see him, as Shalagan had always been the most benevolent of the four sacred dragons. Centuries ago, when the great fleet had found itself becalmed on an ocean smooth as glass, it had been Shalagan who swooped down from the clouds and filled their sails with the South Wind, pushing them towards these shores.

  Bae Ling squinted into the dragon’s mouth, which almost brushed the hall’s floor of polished jade, looking past the curled lips fringed by writhing tendrils. He frowned. A few of the golden teeth had been snapped off, he realized, near the back, deep enough down the statue’s gullet that only a careful inspection would reveal the crime. What brazen courtier or guard had risked the emperor’s wrath by stealing some of the dragon’s teeth?

  Bae Ling was so lost in his consideration of this nefarious deed that he did not stir when the heavy tolling of a gong sounded and his name was announced into the silence that followed. It took the sharp elbow of the mandarin kneeling beside him for Bae Ling to realize he had finally been summoned before the Phoenix Throne. He stood stiffly, his heart climbing up into his throat as he raised his head and turned towards the gleaming steps that led to the dais where the emperor waited.

  Dai Feng, beloved of Heaven, ruler of the Empire of Swords and Flowers, struggled to lift himself from the depths of his vast chair when he noticed Bae Ling approaching. His small head, hairless as an egg, seemed to float above a rippling sea of yellow brocade and silk. Bae Ling knew the emperor had recently celebrated his eighteenth year, but his face still retained the smooth plumpness of a much younger boy.

  And that would never change. Like the phoenix that gave the throne of Shan its name, Dai Feng had been reborn when he had donned the imperial vestments. He had given up his manhood but gained the favor of Heaven. His only desire now was to rule the empire wisely and well.

  At the base of the gilded steps Bae Ling threw himself down, pressing his face to the cool floor.

  “Rise,” the emperor murmured.

  Bae Ling stood, still keeping his head respectfully lowered. “Son of Heaven,” he said, “you called for me, and I have come. My heart bursts with the honor you have shown me today.”

  The emperor perched on the edge of his throne. “Scholar Bae. You may kneel upon the fifth step.”

  “Such kindness,” Bae Ling said, his voice nearly cracking with emotion. Slowly, he put his silken slipper upon the first step, savoring the sensation, then the second, the third, and then the fourth. Finally, on the fifth he sank to his knees, only a dozen paces away from the emperor. This was a great moment for his house; he could almost hear the excited mutterings of his ancestors’ ghosts as they peered between the veil that separated the worlds.

  “You deserve no less, Scholar Bae. Do you know why I have summoned you?”

  “No, Son of Heaven.”

  “It is because I have been brought news of an eating house that has recently opened in Tsai Yin. Not an eating house that serves delicacies to rich merchants and lords—no, an eating house where the poorest may dine even if they do not have a single tin shaerling in their pocket. Do you know this house, Scholar Bae?”

  “I do, Son of Heaven.”

  “Of course you do. For it is your wealth that keeps its pantry stocked. Your generous nature has not gone unnoticed.”

  Bae Ling felt his cheeks redden at the praise.

  The emperor clapped his hands and a black-robed man suddenly appeared beside Bae Ling, holding out a small scroll.

  “You may read it now,” the emperor said, and Bae Ling reverently accepted the gift with both hands. He undid the yellow ribbon and carefully unrolled the delicate rice-paper. It was a poem, the characters written in what he surmised was the emperor’s own thin, graceful hand.

  Beyond the red lacquered door

  Rice rots and wine is left to sour

  While outside are scattered the bones of the starved

  A man is measured

  Not by whether he must knock

  But if he opens the gate

  A pale imitation of one of the ancient masters, Scholar Bae would have said if an apprentice had shown this to him. Derivative and formulaic. But this was not the fumbling attempt of just any child with delusions of profundity—this had sprung from the stylus of the emperor of Shan. Bae Ling found his hands were shaking as he rolled up the scroll and bound it again with its yellow ribbon.

  “My descendants will treasure this forever, Son of Heaven.”

  The emperor favored him with a smile. “Scholar Bae, I hope your actions will inspire others among the Thousand Voices to help the poorest and least fortunate. You have pleased me.”

  The emperor sank back into his chair and Bae Ling knew he was dismissed. With a final deep bow, he turned from the Phoenix Throne and descended the steps, then strode across the cavernous hall, his slippers whispering upon the jade floor. He did not look to either side, but he felt eyes following him, envious glances from the supplicants who still lay prostrate beside each of the four pillars.

  A gong sounded behind him, but again Bae Ling did not hear it.

  The carriage ride back to his manse passed in a daze. It seemed to last only a few heartbeats: one moment he was settling into the velvet seat-cushions, and then the next his steward, Gu Wan, was swinging open the carriage door and helping him to climb down.

  The street outside the ancestral house of the Bae family was unusually quiet for this early in the evening; there was only a single lamp-lighter raising his copper pole high to hang a lantern back on its post, and a russet-scaled galagen lizard waddling down the road on stubby legs, delivery bags piled upon its back.

  Bae Ling patted the cheek of the stone dog-dragon standing guard beside the gate to his manse, as he had done every day since he was a small boy. Behind him he heard Gu Wan leading the horse back to the stables, hooves clattering upon the wide stone path.

  He passed through his flourishing gardens, noting that the orange and purple blossoms of the elioch thorn flower had finally opened, despite the season’s unusual coolness. He pushed through the heavy wooden door to his manse.

  At once he knew something was wrong. Nothing looked out of place: the ancestor shrine across from the entrance was undisturbed, the painted face of his father regarding him with the same lack of affection he had maintained when he was alive. The celadon cups and bowls of his mother’s collection were still arrayed on low benches along the hallway, each worth a laborer’s yearly wage. The thick fur of the brightly patterned Keshian carpet did not hold the indentation of any intruder’s steps.

  It was the silence. It filled the house like incense in a temple, oppressive and choking. “May?” he called out into the stillness. “Where are you? Why do you not greet me?”

  A sob came from an adjoining room. Tingling with unease, Bae Ling stepped through a threshold, into another of the foyers where he often received his guests. A small girl was crouched against the wall, her knees drawn up almost to her chin; in her hand she clutched a long curving knife from the kitchens. Her round green eyes filled with relief when she caught sight of him.

  “M-Master Bae,” she stammered in her broken Shan, climbing to her feet.

  Bae Ling frowned and crossed his arms. “May. What is this? Why are you frightened?”

  His barbarian slave girl from the north swallowed. “Something in the house, master.” She pointed the wavering knife towards the staircase that led
to the second floor. “Up. I hear sounds.”

  Bae Ling held out his hand, and after a moment’s hesitation she passed him the knife. “Where are the other servants?”

  “Chala went market, Gu Wen with you. Only me here now.”

  “May, we’ve had problems with your racing imagination before. Remember when you thought spirits were haunting the well? And it turned out just to be the echo of croaking frogs.”

  “This not echo, master.”

  Bae Ling adjusted his grip on the kitchen knife. He had never been a warrior, but he also doubted very much that he would be called upon to fight. Burglaries here in the Tiandan District, where most of the Thousand Voices lived, were almost unheard of. Most likely some stray cat or monkey had found its way through an open window and into the rooms upstairs.

  “Come with me, May.”

  Her face paled, but she quickly mastered her fear and nodded meekly. “Yes, master.”

  She followed him as he climbed the stairs to the second-floor landing. The corridor here was decorated by one of the paintings his father had done before his death: a small red bird, bright as a jewel, perched upon the bare spidery limb of a tree in winter. A poem about the changing seasons was written in his father’s austere hand. There were three doors set in this corridor, but two were always locked. The third led to Bae Ling’s own bedroom.

  He heard muffled sobbing coming from behind that door. May whimpered, her fingers tangling in his robes.

  Brandishing the knife in front of him, its handle slick in his sweaty palm, Bae Ling pushed open the door to his bedroom. Slowly, it creaked wide, and he edged closer, peering within.

  The room was darkened, but enough of the wan early-evening light filtered through the latticed windows that Bae Ling could see the strange scene laid out before him. Upon his bed, behind the silken curtains stirring in the breeze, a naked man had been tied, ropes running from his wrists and ankles to each of the four curving columns that supported the wooden canopy. He was gagged by a gray cloth, and his eyes were panicked. Panicked, and round like May’s. He was a northern barbarian as well, from across the Sea of Solace.

  The man thrashed frantically in the bed when he caught sight of the knife in Bae Ling’s hand, but his bonds held and he soon subsided again, chest heaving.

  Bae Ling stepped into the room, his gaze flickering to the shadowed corners. He felt May’s presence behind him, and her hand clinging fiercely to his robes.

  From the darkness, something stepped. A small boy, dressed in ragged clothes like a beggar child might wear, tangled black hair covering his face.

  May gave a sharp intake of breath when she caught sight of it as well. Without hesitating, Bae Ling turned and plunged the knife into her chest, slipping the point between her ribs and piercing her heart. May’s brilliant green eyes widened in surprise, and her mouth fell open.

  “Oh,” she managed, and then she slid to the floor, lifeless.

  Bae Ling let the knife fall. Then for the second time that day he knelt in obeisance.

  “Master, you have returned,” he whispered hoarsely, joy swelling in his chest.

  slave

  The word echoed strangely, spoken in the rasping voices of many children.

  it is good you remember us

  “We never forgot, master,” he stammered, the words tumbling out too quick. “We have kept the dream alive for a thousand years.” Bae Ling’s pulse thundered in his ears. He was talking to a god! How he wished his father had lived to see this day!

  your ancestor was bae fan

  Bae Ling nodded, his head still lowered. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed May’s blood creeping towards him across the wooden floor. “He was, master.”

  the one who first cut us

  Bae Ling’s mouth was suddenly dry. “Yes. And my family has been trying to atone for that sin ever since.”

  Small, cold fingers brushed his cheek. have you kept it

  “Yes.”

  bring it to me

  Bae Ling stood, averting his gaze from the Chosen, and slowly backed out of the room. Outside in the hallway, he pulled a black iron key from his pocket and with shaking hands unlocked one of the other doors. The fetid smell of stale blood washed over him as he passed into the small shrine where his family had worshipped the Raveling for all these centuries, ever since the first Shan had settled in these lands. The walls were covered in black cloth without any markings, and the room was empty save for a white stone altar. Russet stains covered its scratched surface and reached with red fingers down its sides.

  An ancient glass container shaped to look like a cavorting demon had been placed in the center of the altar, clouded black from its contents. How many times had Bae Ling prayed here for this very moment to arrive, when the Chosen were again free to work their will in the world?

  Reverentially, he lifted the container and retreated from the shrine, locking the door behind him. Gu Wan was also of the faithful, but the new cook Chala—like May—knew nothing of his family’s secrets. She would have to die as well if she returned while the Chosen were in the house.

  Or if she found May’s body, Bae Ling thought, carefully stepping over the sprawled corpse of his servant. As a northern barbarian she would not have known what the Chosen were, but if she had described what she’d seen an educated Shan would have realized at once of what she spoke.

  And then they would have come to his home with fire and swords.

  In his bedroom the child-god had clambered up onto his bed and now crouched on a satin pillow beside the head of the bound man. Pale fingers tangled in the barbarian’s brown hair, brushing aside a stray strand that had fallen across his face. Sweat glistened on the man’s forehead, and he watched the Chosen with wide, terrified eyes. He was not struggling anymore; it seemed like his will had melted away, like a mouse trapped in the gaze of a Keshian hooded serpent.

  we have returned to this city of our imprisonment looking for the sword of cho

  Of course.

  “Master, I had heard Lord Cho was slain in the north, hunting for you.”

  his sword accompanied his body south, to his estate near tsai yin

  “And there it will stay. There is no one left to wield it, master. My father had the only son of Lord Cho poisoned; the boy survived, but he can barely lift his hand, let alone bear the sword.”

  there is another. a daughter

  Bae Ling suppressed a smile. “A girl?”

  she has taken the blade. our other servants tell us she trained with the daisun monks, in the place called red fang

  “But certainly a woman –”

  Searing pain shot through Bae Ling. He cried out, writhing in agony, the container falling from his fingers. The Chosen appeared beside him—he hadn’t seen it move. It held the bottle in its small hand, stroking the dark glass.

  so long as the blood of cho carries the sword we are not safe

  “Yes, master,” Bae Ling gasped.

  The child-god returned to the side of the bound man. Gently, it unwound the cloth covering his mouth. The man watched him, his chest heaving, but he did not cry out. His eyes were glazed now. Empty.

  The Chosen unstoppered the container and held it up, seeming to consider its contents. Bae Ling’s breath quickened.

  this man we found at the docks. he can travel in the barbarian lands with ease. he will find the cho girl and kill her and return to us with her heart

  The child-god tipped the bottle and a thick black liquid poured out, slipping between the man’s parted lips.

  The blood of gods, drained in their last mortal moment.

  The man spasmed, straining against the ropes that held him. The wood of the posts creaked and began to buckle with the force of his thrashing.

  Something rippled beneath the man’s skin, like an eel sliding along the water’s surface. It flickered down
his throat, pressed against his ribs and then dove deeper into his body. He coughed violently, blood flecking his bare chest. His eyes rolled back into his skull and his back arched as he flung himself back and forth.

  Then, as quickly as it had begun, the fit passed, and the man sagged once more into the bed. The Chosen leaned close, whispering in its chorus of lost voices.

  kill the cho girl

  Pale blue eyes found the child-god, and the man nodded.

  Keilan crouched beside the hearth, enjoying the rolling waves of warmth coming from the blazing fire. The damp and cold that had seeped into his bones was finally being drawn out, and he rolled up the sleeves of the dry shirt he’d been given, enjoying the prickle of the heat crawling along his arms.

  The chamber door opened behind him, and he twisted around to see who had come. It was a servant girl, carrying a silver tray laden with steaming cups and strange foods. She set her burden down on the low, wide table in front of the ornate velvet couch where Nel was swaddled in a thick blanket, then glanced shyly at Keilan and went to stand in the corner, her face lowered.

  Nel leaned forward to better see what had been brought. Keilan rose and approached as well, suddenly aware of the hollow ache in his belly. On the tray was a ring of honey-glazed pastries speckled with small red fruit, and in the center a bird carved from spun sugar looked almost ready to take flight.

  Keilan chose one of the pastries and tried a tentative bite, unsure what was inside, but he was pleasantly surprised when he found the filling to be sweet jam. Nel extricated her arm from the blanket, then plucked the sugar bird from the tray and popped it into her mouth. She sank back into the couch, chewing blissfully.

  “Delicious,” she sighed after swallowing. “Even in Herath, where the trade ships from the Sunset Lands unload their holds, sugar is expensive. I think we’ve become honored guests of the archons.”

  Their accommodations had certainly improved greatly. Keilan remembered the barren cell in the palace where he’d first been brought before his audience with the Council of Black and White, and it was a far cry from the chamber they were in now: rich Keshian rugs covered the stone floor, the gilded furniture was carved from gleaming black and red wood, and the fireplace was large enough to roast a sheep, for which Keilan was especially grateful.