Queen of Stars and Shadows (Pathway of the Chosen)

by Cat Bruno

  “I need no help to remove my leathers, Mistress,” Syrsha mused.

  “Do as I say!” the seamstress snapped.

  The old woman’s sharp words stirred Syrsha’s wolfblood, which had already been enlivened with the dark mage’s flames. With effort, she cleared her eyes, reminding herself that Min-Xi posed no threat. By the time that she found Wei, Syrsha had calmed.

  “Mistress says the gown is ready,” she explained, watching as the woman stitched tiny buttons onto a shining robe.

  Tying off her threaded needle, Wei exclaimed, “I have waited all morn for this!”

  The two hurried back to Min-Xi, who sat rubbing on wrinkled fingers. Without comment, she motioned for Syrsha to undress. Once she had stripped down to her underclothes, Syrsha nodded toward Wei, ill at ease in front of the women.

  “You sought a gown that no Tiannese woman would dare wear, yet you tremble in your nightclothes. I will not have my work ruined,” the Mistress cackled. “You must wear nothing under the gown.”

  Knowing that arguing would do no good, Syrsha pulled the ivory shift over her head. Her skin, lightened again after having become sun-bronzed by moons spent in travel, prickled, but she offered no complaint. Wei gently lifted the gown from Min-Xi’s lap, and tiptoed toward Syrsha. It was just past midday, and the skies had grayed as a storm approached from the east. Even in the darkened room, the gown twinkled, as if kissed by starlight. Syrsha had no love for finery, yet her breath halted and her life pulse thumped.

  As Wei tenderly untied the back, Syrsha watched. Even the laces gleamed, threaded with bits of speckled gold. For a moment, her eyes closed with fright, as she imagined the gown splattered with blood. Uncertain if the image was memory or worry, Syrsha gasped, unbalanced and swaying.

  Across the front of the dress, beaded with small bits of moonstone, streaks of maroon angled from neck to navel. Crimson stains rimmed the bottom of the dress, as if it had been dipped in blood.

  “No,” she mumbled, backing away from the petite, satin-robed woman.

  Not until her naked body pressed against a row of rolled fabrics did Syrsha hear Wei calling out for her.

  “Never has such a gown been made in Dengxi. You dishonor the Mistress,” Wei hissed as she neared.

  “Please,” Syrsha groaned. “I mean no harm.”

  With shallow breathing, she added, “The dress is magnificent.”

  The image vanished until the gown shone bright and untainted once again.

  “It is more than I had hoped,” she offered as explanation for her actions.

  Wei eyed her again before instructing her to kneel, so that she might slip the dress over Syrsha’s plaited hair. The textile was thin and soft, so much so that Syrsha hardly knew when it was in place. The temple robes had been lightweight, yet rough-spun cotton. Her leathers, pricey and expertly crafted, were not as heavy as chainmail or steel, yet she felt the armor still.

  It was only Wei’s gaze that reminded Syrsha of the gown’s existence. Her eyes widened, and then her lips parted. Her shining, petite teeth flared bright as she whooped.

  “Mistress, the Emperor will want you for his own once he sees the girl!” Wei cried as her fingers reached for the glimmering bodice.

  “Come closer,” Min-Xi insisted without rising.

  For the next quarter-hour, the two women examined her. Syrsha spoke little, for her thoughts were still dark ones as she tried to make sense of the memories. In a daze, she nodded on occasion and lifted her arms when told. With a shiver, she hastily dressed, checking to make sure her leathers were not bloodied. Syrsha waited as Wei wrapped the gown in crinkled parchment and tied it with simple twine.

  “You will have need for assistance to put the gown back on, Syrsha.”

  Holding the bundle in her arms, Syrsha told the younger woman, “I will have Liang come for you when it is time.”

  To the Mistress, she said, “I know not how to speak of the gown. I will wear it in your honor, now and when I am crowned queen.”

  Her words thickened as she continued, “Never has a gift been such a beautiful one. Both of you will have honored guest rights for the contest, and your seats will be near to the Emperor, if I have any say.”

  She thanked them again before gliding from the shop, unsure where to go. The dress was heavy in her arms despite its weight. As she walked on, Syrsha remembered her time with the dark mage. Coin was owed; coin that she did not have. Only Jiang would be able to provide her with enough gold to pay off the mage, but she did not dare explain what it would be used for. From the town square, the Governor’s mansion was a quick walk, and Syrsha realized what she must do. Without delay, she raced away, only slowing when she saw the guards’ black-robed outlines.

  No longer needing to evade notice, she smiled at them as they opened the gates to allow her passage. Both took notice of her armor, but she was without weapon and posed little outward threat. And she was a woman.

  Jiang found her before long, for the guards must have sent word of her arrival. Seated on a stone bench in the courtyard, beside a wide curve in the stream, she heard his approach and looked up as he neared.

  When he was close enough to see her breastplate, Jiang teased, “My moon mistress has become a warrior overnight.”

  Laughter would not come, although she lightly kissed his offered cheek. “I am the same today as I was yesterday. I will be the same on the morrow, Jiang.”

  “None of us is the same on the morrow, Syrsha,” he declared with no attempt to shield his sadness.

  He was a good man, honorable, just, and learned. One day, he would be a fine governor as well, and, for a moment, Syrsha regretted that she would not be able to see him rule.

  “I have eaten nothing since the morning meal,” she sighed, unwilling to further her thoughts.

  “Come,” he said. “Let us see what the cooks have readied.”

  “What is it that you carry?’ Jiang asked as they entered the manse.

  “A local dresskeep provided me with wares for the fight.”

  Her reply quieted him, for Jiang had little love for the laohu battle. She let him sulk and hurried toward a large, marble slab lined with plates of fish and bread. As she ate, Jiang asked to see the clothing. Syrsha declined, but promised him that he would like it most, more so than any.

  “How unfair of you to mock me so,” he complained.

  “Those words will taste sour upon your tongue,” she laughed, kissing at his cheek again.

  Later, after his passion was spent and he lay dozing in the courtyard, Syrsha snuck away on silent toes. Her magic still flowing strongly, she hid behind a cloak of fog and searched Jiang’s room for coin. Silver pieces abounded, yet, even in sum, it would not be enough to pay Lao-Mu. At the foot of Jiang’s bed sat a locked trunk, and, with little choice remaining, she knelt in front of it. Without a dagger tip, it took overlong for her to loosen the lock, but when she finally managed, Syrsha warded the door.

  With trembling fingers, she unfolded robes, sashes, and pants, and piled them to her side. Her fingertips brushed along a hardened box, and she pulled it free. It opened just before she could set it on her lap, and gold-dipped jewelry spilled onto the floor. Many contained ovals of jade and blocks of rubies, each piece more ornate than the last. Of the collection, none would be simple enough to sell for coin. One, a bracelet etched with swirling firebirds, had no jewels inlaid, so Syrsha tucked it beneath her vest. After the trunk was refilled and the lock replaced, Syrsha ran from the manse. She did not slow until that mage’s dingy door appeared.

  Syrsha rushed into the room, surprising Lao-Mu as he sat at a small, bottle-laden table.

  Throwing the bracelet in front of him, she sneered, “Melt the gold, and you will have thrice as much as you requested. And enough to set the man free.”

  “A fine piece,” he told her as he gazed upon the circlet.

  “Unchain him,” she demanded. “Give him a robe and send him on his way.”

  “Once free, he will have the Go
vernor’s men at my door. I cannot free him yet, Syrsha. If you wish to buy the man’s freedom, then it must be after the laohu battle.”

  After a moment, she said, “So be it. But I have purchased his freedom, Lao-Mu, and you would do well to remember that.”

  “Child,” the mage whispered, “Men like him do not desire such freedom. He came to me on his own accord and longs to feed the darkness.”

  “Lies!” she cried. “None would resolve to be treated so.”

  “I will free him,” he shrugged. “As you command.”

  Lao-Mu rose and walked toward the hanging man. The shackles that were clasped high loosened as the mage unlocked them. “For now, he must remain chained, but your gold will buy him food and a mat to sleep upon.”

  He moved the linked shackles lower, until the man collapsed onto the dirt floor. Syrsha rushed toward him and covered him with a flea-eaten blanket. When the iron cuffs were attached to a post on the ground, the man rolled to his side, more dead than living.

  “Give him water and rice, small amounts at a time,” she told the mage.

  As Syrsha made her way back to the temple, she thought on Jiang’s words in the courtyard.

  None of us is the same on the morrow.

  *****

  21

  Moon years before, he had swung sword under the swooping branches of the same willow tree. Jarek had been a novice then, young, untrained, and weak compared to the Covian swordmaster. Each night, he would rub a mint-scented salve onto his aching muscles, one that Caryss had prepared. His memories of his time in the Tribelands often clouded his thoughts with sorrow, and today was no different.

  Blaze handled a sword well enough, although he excelled with the longbow. Blaidd was easily beaten with both, but his skills were improving now that he had little else to do and no women to charm. Azzaro spent much of his time in correspondence, sending word to his captains and requesting that half sail north, through the Sea of Mist. The other half would make way to the Cove and gather Asha’s army before joining them all in the western Tribelands. When once Azzaro believed that he would depart the Tribelands, now he had chosen to remain.

  All told, their numbers would swell to as many as three thousand, a respectable amount, despite not being near to how many Delwin commanded. The latest report was that he marched with twice that many, which still numbered far less than had remained in the King’s City. Jarek knew that the Royal Army alone housed nearly twenty thousand men, although not all loyal to the ruling king.

  Unable to focus on his midday training, Jarek leaned against the tree and commended Blaze for his work.

  “Your face betrays you, Jarek,” the Islander stated. “I take little comfort in today’s victory.”

  Their disparate crew had no real commander, and Jarek had begged the High Lord to oversee the men who would arrive soon. Conri had declined, as had Azzaro, who admitted to having no knowledge of warfare, and even less on the ground. Thus Jarek had been forced to act in the role, at least until Syrsha arrived.

  “Has there been any word from the fennidi about Gregorr?” he asked.

  “Blaidd would know more than I,” Blaze confessed. “You fear that the girl will not come.”

  “In two moons time, most likely more, aye, she will come.”

  “Are there not ways to delay combat?” Blaze asked.

  “Many in fact,” Jarek told him. “But King Delwin might not agree.”

  Into Blaze’s laughter, Jarek added, “For now, we must defend the Tribe, and save striking until our numbers increase.”

  “What of the tallora?”

  His laughter had ceased, for they both knew what could come as a result of the poison.

  “Kennet tells me that the fennidi have shown him an antidote. Yet their supplies are limited, and he must try to recreate it.”

  “How limited?” Blaze queried.

  With a grunt, Jarek said, “A handful of uses.”

  “How do they have so few? tallora has been no secret to them, and they are masters in poison.”

  Hurriedly, Jarek answered, “Rarely do the fennidi seek to assist those who they have felled.”

  “When was the last time you tried to find the girl?” asked Blaze as he sharpened his sword’s edge.

  He was young and bold in his youth, for the others, even the High Lord, refrained from asking the same. Nonetheless, Jarek answered.

  “A half-moon ago or more.”

  “Blaidd does little, and he needs days to recover and strengthen his earth magic. Look how he rests,” Blaze groused, pointing toward where the half-breed lay upon a bench.

  “It would be unwise to call upon the earth magic when we are watched closely by the Dark One,” he mimed, remembering his discussion with the High Lord.

  Throwing his sword to the ground, Blaze cried, “You think he does not know of it by now? Let him challenge the Great Mother; he will fall at her feet, as we all must.”

  Jarek cared little for the gods, any of them, but he did not argue. Instead, he listened as Blaze made a case to use Blaidd’s earth magic to call for Syrsha. For a quarter-hour, the Islander spoke, adding that between earth and element, finding Syrsha would come quickly. Without an argument against his words, Jarek acquiesced.

  After rousing Blaidd, Jarek detailed what Blaze had suggested, reminding him that he would only need to pull on small reserves of his magic.

  “It will be no different than the dream weaving, and, in truth, Syrsha might be too far to hear my call.”

  “What of the High Lord? He should be told,” Blaidd interrupted.

  Lowering his voice, Jarek said, “I will inform him later. Will you do it or not?”

  Carelessly, the young Tribesman asked Blaze for use of his dagger. With no further discussion, the men began. Here, in the Tribelands, his power was strong. Even as a child he had been able to call for the storm with ease. But Syrsha had traveled far, further east than Cossima, and beyond his reach.

  But this time was different.

  As Blaidd kneeled at his side, Jarek pulled at the warmed air around him, closing his eyes as the image of the girl fluttered. He could not see what it was that she wore, but her eyes, green gems rimmed in thickened, black lashes found his own.

  “Syrsha,” he gasped, falling to the ground beside Blaidd.

  Around her face, her hair waved, midnight tresses untamed and unbound. Her edges, tipped with silver flickers, burned with power, tasting sour and strange against his lips.

  “What have you done?” he uttered, spitting out bitter dribble.

  Her words echoed, loud enough for all in the Tribelands to hear.

  “I only do what I must, Jarek. As you did, for moon years.”

  The accusation was one he heard often from her. Now, he noticed that she wore armor, blackened leather, tightly fitted and smooth. Another look showed the wolf-head that blazed from her chest. Bloodless and without scar, the armor gleamed, suggesting that it was not battle-worn.

  Syrsha was no child, no longer. But she was not like her father, either. Jarek could make little sense of what had become altered.

  “You are with my father,” she jeered, amusement unhidden as her shining gaze searched the courtyard.

  Unable to swallow his annoyance, Jarek stated, “I build your army, Syrsha. I have been named traitor for your cause!”

  “And you have saved my cousin and Asha’s son. My gratitude is yours,” Syrsha said, with some sincerity now.

  “Why have you called?” she asked, as if she had little time.

  However, her image was strong, whole and clear, although his own quaked and grayed. He had little time remaining. Even with Blaidd so near, Jarek could not hold her long.

  “Word was sent to Gregorr. The King marches and is within days of the Tribelands.”

  Nodding, she told him, “I will return. There is one thing I must first do in Tian.”

  “Syrsha!” he cried. “You must make haste. Tell me that at least you have passage readied.”

&nb
sp; “Aye,” she agreed. “It was secured soon after I learned that I must depart.”

  It would have to be enough, Jarek concluded.

  “What would you have me tell your father?” he asked with wind-whipped words.

  When she smiled, Jarek’s arms began to lift and the skies grayed.

  “Tell him to not be too angry with me,” she quipped.

  The Elemental dropped to his knees, steadying the storm and leaning onto Blaidd. Grasping at the soft, Eirrannian grass to force his arms to descend, Jarek haltingly asked, “What will you do?”

  “I will come home. And bring with me a weapon like Cordisia has not seen.”

  She played with him now, vague and teasing.

  “You have traveled far to be so foolish still,” he warned.

  “And you sound much like Otieno and Aldric. And a handful of other men who think they are my keepers,” she growled.

  With a flick of her hand, Syrsha’s image began to dissolve, but her voice remained strong.

  “I will come. Tell them all to ready.”

  With that, she was gone.

  Jarek was, much to his surprise, no weaker for the magic spent. With a hurried look toward Blaidd, he realized the Tribesman fared fine, unaffected and without fatigue. Syrsha’s power had grown, enough so that she had kept them both safe and guarded. In truth, she had not pulled at any of the offered magic.

  “You found her!” Blaze exclaimed.

  “Her visit was brief, but the girl appeared well,” he replied, knowing not how else to describe her.

  “Does she return?” Blaidd asked, pushing himself upright.

  “She comes and sends word to the High Lord.”

  As they all walked toward the manse, in search of Conri, Blaidd inquired about what it was that Syrsha desired and what message she begged to relay.

  Sighing, Jarek answered, “She pleads for understanding. And for Lord Conri to show no anger.”

  With thought and a more serious tone than he often showed, Blaidd mused, “I wonder what I will think of this cousin once I meet her in the flesh.”

  Jarek, his lips still salt-stained and burning, could not answer. He knew not what she had become.