The Shadow Soul (A Dance of Dragons)

by Kaitlyn Davis

  She brought the curved knife up in front of her face, flicking her gaze from side to side, never taking either man out of sight.

  They were creeping in.

  The man who had saved her before was wriggling his body, trying to get free of his bindings, was yelling out to her, but she couldn't hear his words.

  Jinji's own breath filled her ears, loud and ragged. Her heart hammered with the decision to move left or right. Which man would she face and which would she turn her back on? She had to choose soon before they were both on her, unchallenged.

  One.

  She flicked to the smaller man, coming in from the right.

  Two.

  Her attention shifted to the larger man on the left, his eyes more unfocused, and his footing a little more unsure.

  Three.

  Jinji jumped and feigned right before moving all of her weight to the left. The man was slow, but his bicep rose just in time to block her blow with his forearm. The knife dug deep into the leather strapped to his skin, and though blood seeped through, it was not enough.

  She pulled, but the curved side of the knife had dug too deeply and Jinji could not get it free.

  The man reached with his uninjured arm, wrapping long fingers around her throat. He was too big. She kicked as his grip tightened. Her breath wouldn't come. His fingers squeezed, lifting her onto her toes as she tried to fight.

  Did I survive just to die like this? Could life really be so cruel—to give a glimmer of hope and then take it so swiftly?

  Over her shoulder, the other man grabbed a weapon and raised it high over his head.

  She tugged at the hand trapping her, but it did not budge.

  The other man readied his aim, preparing to lunge the metal straight through her back.

  Jinji closed her eyes, prepping for the blow, her family's faces flashing in the darkness. A new sense of failure and loss penetrated her heart.

  But the pain never came.

  Instead, pounding hooves broke into the clearing and the crunch of shattering bones sounded in Jinji's ears.

  The grip on her throat tightened.

  She opened her eyes, looking over her shoulder at the broken body under the horse's feet. The man's skull had caved in—his insides oozed out onto the grass.

  She looked forward into the fearful eyes of her captor, and knew what to do.

  His muscles held her, so Jinji jumped, using his arm as an anchor, and kicked both of her feet against his chest.

  A second later, she landed on the ground, banging her already sore head against the dirt.

  The man stumbled back, and the body of the horse soared into Jinji's view, ramming into his chest.

  The man fell, coughing up blood.

  Jinji reached for the knife that the other captor had dropped and stood.

  He was already dying, she could see. The strength had left his limbs, the knowledge of his own mortality seeped into his features.

  She arched back, brought the knife deep down into his chest, and twisted until the body stilled.

  Jinji dropped the weapon and stumbled back, shuffling her feet closer to the stools by the fire until her body fell heavily on top of one.

  Her hands were red, wet.

  She wiped them on the ground, trying to fight the sudden awareness shocking her senses.

  She had killed people. Killed them like they were food. No, like less than food. Animals at least served a purpose; they were not wasted. Their bodies fed the tribe, their skins clothed the tribe, their bones made weapons, and whatever remained was given back to the earth, to other animals that might use it.

  But these men, these four bodies were like a weight on the world. Useless and heavy.

  And why had she killed them?

  Jinji's eyes moved across the dirt, over the fire, and into the wary expression of the only other living person around.

  For him.

  For a guide.

  For answers.

  The horse had moved closer, nudging its head against the man's thick shoulder. He whispered something into the animal's ear and it stood, backing a foot away as though standing guard.

  He turned, looking through the flames and right at Jinji.

  When their eyes met, the spirits jumped into Jinji's vision, reaching out to her in a way they rarely did, making their presence known even in the darkness. And she winced at the brightness.

  Fire.

  All she saw were strands of fire, swirling and circling his body, spirits alive and constantly weaving new forms around his torso.

  It was dizzying.

  The bright red threads muted all of the other spirits, almost like he himself was a walking flame. She had never seen the spirits cling to a living being like this—they lived in the earth, in the soil and the leaves and the air and the streams, not in people.

  Jinji blinked and the spirits disappeared.

  The clearing was just a clearing, the fire just a fire, the trees just the trees. But the man was not just a man, not anymore.

  The spirits were guiding Jinji's path now—they had enshrouded her in the image of her brother, they had brought her to this man, they had circled him in fire. They were the only things left in the world that Jinji trusted, and they were telling her to trust him.

  She didn’t.

  Not yet.

  But still, Jinji stood and grabbed the knife, cutting his bindings free.

  4

  RHEN

  ~ NORTHMORE FOREST ~

  For a third time that day, Rhen thought he was going to die.

  The first, perhaps obviously, was when he had been knocked unconscious. Always check behind you—the lesson had been drilled into him since infancy, and still he had forgotten in his excitement. Idiot, he cursed as the pounding in his skull continued—the pain a constant reminder of his stupidity.

  But then he woke, bound and bruised, yet somehow alive. And he cursed his awareness, because he knew his entire family and kingdom were at risk, yet there he was, powerless to stop it.

  The second time was when the boy had been seized by the neck, his weightless body dangling from the ground as the two remaining Ourthuri tried their best to kill him. And Rhen, trained as a knight by the best Whylkin had to offer, could do nothing but watch and wait for his turn on the sword.

  But then Ember, beautiful horse that she was, swooped in to save them both with the most perfect head-bashing stomp Rhen had ever seen.

  And the third was now as the boy knelt, staring at the blood on his hands with emptiness in his eyes. He was young and the Arpapajo were a peaceful people—those four men were most likely the only he had ever killed. And sometimes, that feeling could swallow a man, could make him lose his sanity, could make him lash out at the nearest living being…which just happened to be Rhen, still bound like a babe on the ground.

  He sighed, wriggling his wrists one more time.

  If his brothers saw him now, Rhen shook his head—he didn’t even want to imagine the endless banter, the ceaseless taunts.

  Ember knelt, nudging Rhen's shoulder with her forehead as if to ask, "What is taking you so long?"

  "Well fought, girl," he whispered, returning her nudge with one of his own. Pleased, Ember neighed softly and stood alert at his side.

  When he turned, the boy was staring at him. As their eyes met through the flames, the boy winced, jerking back ever so slightly, but not breaking contact. And then those dark brown eyes, flecked with gold, illuminated by the fire, jumped wildly around Rhen's figure, circling him.

  Rhen watched, unmoving, not wanting to break the trance. What did the boy see? What had him so wide-eyed? So intrigued?

  For a moment, Rhen's eyes flashed to the fire. But it was at least a foot away, and he had not touched it, despite the pull he felt in his bones. No, he mentally shook his head. There was no way the boy could know about that. It was his own paranoia sneaking up on him.

  Movement caught his attention. Rhen pulled his gaze from the flames back to the boy, who had stoo
d. His features had hardened, resolute. He gripped the knife, stepping closer to Rhen, who leaned into the log at his back. Did he need to sic Ember on the boy? Or was he being freed?

  Sad, really, that he couldn't tell, but the boy was iron, hard to crack. Either that, or Rhen had simply lost his touch—a very poor spymaster in the making.

  No, Rhen sat up and shifted his feet. He had saved the boy, and the boy had saved him. There was trust there, thin maybe, but existent.

  And a second later, the binds around his ankles had been slashed. Leaning forward, Rhen moved to give the boy access to the ropes tying his wrists behind his back.

  Free at last.

  Rhen sighed, rolling sore bones, and stood to stretch his muscles.

  "Thank you," he said, sounding loud against the quiet night.

  Silence answered him.

  Rhen spun to find the boy sitting back down, his gaze fastened on the hilt protruding from one Ourthuri's skull. It had been a nice hit, something to be proud of.

  "Did you know these men?" Rhen asked. "Were they the ones who destroyed your village?"

  The boy twisted, looking into the dark forest and away from him, but Rhen continued, urged on by the lack of a response.

  "Did they fight you? Surprise you? Is there anyone else alive? People who were away, who might have run from the fire? People who fought? Anyone we need to find?"

  "Please," the boy said, his voice ragged and scratchy, still high pitched due to his youth, "no more."

  Rhen sat still. His mouth had run away again. The urgency to save his own family, to gather as much information as possible, to fill this painful silence—it had stolen his common decency.

  It was a boy. Only a boy. And his silence assured Rhen that he was definitely alone in the world.

  "I'm Rhen, from the Kingdom of Whylkin. Do you have a name?" He reached out, touching a bony shoulder, but the child flinched away. Rhen pulled his hand back and settled it on his own lap.

  He waited, very much against his instincts, until the boy glanced one wet, lost, crinkled brown eye over his shoulder.

  "Ji—" he started and then paused. "I am called Jin."

  "Jin," Rhen said, stumbling over the strange word before nodding. "Well, Jin, it seems we're stuck together, unless you have some place better to be?" He raised an eyebrow in question, hoping to lighten the mood even the slightest bit.

  "No," Jin said, turning his body to reflect his word, placing himself very much in the camp with Rhen.

  "Do you know why these men were here?"

  Jin shook his head.

  "Would you like to hear my theory?"

  Jin nodded, still too wary for words.

  "Do you know the histories? Did anyone ever teach them to you?"

  "I know some," Jin said, his voice meek and quiet. "The newworlder who visited told us stories."

  The newworlder who visited? Rhen thought, confused. And then he remembered. The emissary sent on behalf of the crown. Once a year he visited the tribe to ensure they were obeying the laws created by Whyl the Conqueror ages ago, the rules that forced the Arpapajo to give up their own language and customs to conform to those of the land.

  A nauseous feeling stirred in Rhen's stomach.

  The Arpapajo or oldworlders, as some called them, were a fantasy, a people he learned about but never saw, never interacted with. They never entered his mind once the lesson was over.

  But looking at Jin, Rhen had to face his own ignorance.

  No matter how many years ago, it was his family, his blood, who had torn their identity away. Jin spoke the king's language very well, but still, it sounded foreign on his tongue, as though it wasn't really supposed to be there.

  There were many lands in this kingdom that Whyl the Conqueror united, many cities and peoples he had merged into one, but all of them looked and lived alike—the differences were so few and far between that uniting was almost natural.

  But not the Arpapajo.

  They were outsiders, myths—at least to everyone but that sole emissary sent by the king.

  Rhen felt the urge to apologize stir on his lips, but what could he say? Stealing a way of life was not something an I'm sorry would really fix.

  And now Jin was alone.

  His culture would fade completely away, dust in the wind.

  Rhen was staring, dumbstruck.

  He didn’t realize it until Jin shifted his brows and leaned forward, inquiring, "Your theory?"

  "Right!" Rhen jumped into motion. There was nothing he could say to make up for the past. Better to befriend the boy and keep him safe—safe enough to keep the Arpapajo alive.

  His hand went to his waist, searching for his sword, but of course it was gone. Sighing, Rhen turned to Jin. "One minute."

  He walked to the pile of weapons, searching for the gold hilt of his sword. Being a prince did have its perks, and his weapon was one of them—made from the finest metals by the finest blacksmith. He did not want to part with it.

  He scanned the dull gray blades.

  Not there.

  He stood, hand on hip, searching and feeling like an imbecile as Jin's gaze grew more and more doubtful.

  There.

  He spotted it across the fire, unscratched.

  Picking the sword up, Rhen walked back to his spot next to the boy and drew a large circle on the ground, then a smaller one in the middle of it.

  "This is the Kingdom of Whylkin," he said, pointing to the outer circle. "Over here is the Northmore Forest, where we are now." He shaded in a spot on the upper right of the circle. "This," he said, outlining the smaller circle in the middle of Whylkin, "is the White Stone Sea, named because there is a great mountain range in the center of the water composed of a pearly rock, so all of the sands in the sea are bright white. And down here is my home, Rayfort, commonly called the King's City because it is the home of the royal family." Rhen poked a deep circle in the dirt on the lower left bank of the White Stone Sea—the motion mirrored by a stabbing pressure on his heart. His home, the one he wanted—no, needed—to protect. "Do you understand?"

  Jin nodded. Rhen took the silence as a sign to continue.

  "Over here," he drew a series of small ovals to the left of the circle that represented his kingdom, "are the Golden Isles, or the Kingdom of Ourthuro. And the men who attacked your village, these men you just killed, are Ourthuri—are from those islands. See how their skin is darker, slightly olive, and their hair a thick black? That's one way to tell. But more obvious," he leaned down, picking up the wrist of one of the dead men, "all Ourthuri are marked at birth with their station. These men all have one thick band tattooed on each wrist, a very simple design. It means they were from the outer isles, most likely farmers, or workers of some sort."

  He dropped the arm, letting it thunk back into the dirt and paused, taking a second look at the design. It was definitely the simple design of a commoner—not the more intricate dot and striped design of an Ourthuri warrior.

  But what would they be doing in Whylkin? Why farmers and not soldiers?

  "And why were they here?" Jin asked, thinking the same thing.

  Rhen grinned. Finally, the boy was showing some interest, some life.

  "I think they were here as a scouting team, to see how difficult it would be to make land without my king knowing. I think they were here to prepare for war."

  "War?" Jin scrunched his face. The word sounded ugly on his lips, like something he never thought of, let alone said. Something foreign he didn’t understand.

  "Yes, war." Rhen said. The word, he noticed, sounded much smoother on his lips, much more familiar. "Ourthuro was once the most powerful kingdom in the world. We call their lands the Golden Isles because the soil is practically made of the stuff. They had riches that no one in this land could ever understand. It was before the time of Whylkin, when our kingdom was divided and composed of many different cities and kings constantly fighting with each other.

  "But almost three hundred years ago, one of those kings,
King Whyl of Rayfort, conquered the land and united us all under his name, creating the Kingdom of Whylkin—to be ruled forevermore by his blood, the family of Whyl."

  The words rolled off Rhen's tongue.

  Whylrhen.

  His name. His blood.

  This tale was his personal bedtime story, the one his mother had told him over and over again until he didn’t even have to think to repeat it.

  Rhen looked up from his drawing, and Jin looked away quickly.

  But not fast enough to hide the bitter edge to his gaze. The boy knew this part of the story—the part where a lot of his people were killed and their culture stripped away.

  Rhen skipped ahead.

  "Throughout history, the Ourthuri have mounted attacks, trying to regain their former power, but nothing has worked. And I think they are trying again, here and now."

  "But why?" Jin asked. "Why?" He repeated, a slight shake in his voice.

  Because it's what they do, Rhen thought, but he kept silent. Somehow the answer didn't seem like enough.

  "Because power is everything," he said instead. Another lesson drilled into him from infancy.

  "Not to the dead," Jin whispered.

  Rhen had no reply. Instead, he watched Jin, watched him take a heavy breath, watched him bite his lip, watched him furrow his brows. The boy was smart, smarter than his years. There was more going on inside of that head than he let on—a puzzle Rhen intended to solve.

  But not tonight.

  Tonight, he intended to sleep off the ache in his muscles.

  "We should both rest. We've a long day's journey ahead of us tomorrow." Rhen stretched his arms high above his head, creaking like an old man. But, he shrugged, that's what getting knocked out will do.

  Not a word to his brothers, he sighed, not a word. And definitely not one to Cal—Rhen was in no state for another lecture. The bump on his head was quite enough.

  There was a tent across the fire with his name on it—all he was hoping for was a sleeping mat, something soft for his sore, royal behind.

  "Where are we going?" Jin asked.

  The sound surprised Rhen—the boy was becoming a regular chatterbox.

  He eased his weight back down. Sleep would have to wait.