Soulwoven

by Jeff Seymour

  Cole fought the urge to fly at a big, fuchsia-haired Sh’ma with his bare hands as it dropped his brother’s unconscious body into a long canoe.

  “Hey!” he shouted instead, but no one was paying any attention to him. Two brown-cloaked Sh’ma loaded sacks into the canoe’s black innards from a low, round building near the edge of the Lumos. Tsu’min talked quietly to Quay. Everybody else was moping around by the water, looking depressed.

  For the past two hours, Cole had skulked wordlessly through the crystalline back ways of Soulth’il. After the river had exploded, the Sh’ma had pulled themselves from the water, freed him and the others, dragged Litnig onto land, and prodded everyone into following as they moved north under the nearly full moon. The big Sh’ma had carried Litnig across his shoulders the whole way.

  Cole had limped behind.

  “You are heading north. These replace what was taken from you.”

  A turquoise-haired Sh’ma handed Cole two daggers in plain leather sheaths. She was just taller than he was, green-eyed, and freckled. She would’ve been beautiful, if her eyes hadn’t been cold as the night sky.

  “Thanks,” Cole grumbled, and the Sh’ma caught him with the same you’re-not-fooling-anyone look he’d used to get from his mother.

  Truth be told, Cole’s days in the White Forest had shown him little to love about the Sh’ma. They could burn, for all he cared.

  They might, said his conscience, but he studiously ignored it.

  The Sh’ma were handing out weapons and talking to the others as well. Cole didn’t care. He stepped into the black canoe and sat near his brother, and he began arranging Litnig so that he was lying more comfortably. Litnig had a nasty-looking shiner growing under his left eye. His nose was the size and color of a rose pear. Dried blood covered the bottom of his face. Every few seconds, he twitched.

  The canoe rocked as someone else stepped into it, and then Dil was dripping water from the edge of her cloak onto Litnig’s face and rubbing the blood off with her thumb. Cole dipped his sleeve into the river and laid it over Litnig’s bruised eye.

  Dil gave him a reassuring smile.

  He did his best to return it.

  As he and Dil worked over his brother, he heard other voices speaking in Eldanian and Sh’ma. The canoe rocked frequently. A mast went up. A large black sail unfurled. The wind gusted sudden and sharp from the south.

  And then the sail filled, and the canoe began to move forward, northward, upriver. The last outbuildings of Soulth’il slipped by. The brown-cloaked Sh’ma melted into the moonbeam shadows on the forest shore.

  Cole was tucking a spare bedroll underneath Litnig’s head when someone squatted down beside him. He saw a scuffed black boot out of the corner of his eye and knew the foot within it would belong to Quay.

  “They still have to call the dragon into the world,” the prince said. “We’re going to try to stop them.”

  Cole snorted and helped Dil undo another bedroll to spread over Litnig’s body. “Us and whose army?”

  Quay didn’t respond. The southern wind grew stronger, until the sail was taut and humming. The canoe sent spray flying from white-capped waves as it plowed a furrow in the river on its way north.

  “I need you to do me a favor,” the prince said.

  Cole came up rolling his eyes, ready to remark that he was just about fresh out of favors.

  And then he saw something on Quay’s face that scared the hell out of him.

  Fear.

  “Dil, you too.”

  Dil stopped dabbing at Litnig. Her eyes shone dull yellow in the moonlight.

  “I need you to stay alive.”

  Cole took a deep breath.

  “The other Sh’ma are staying behind,” Quay said. “I don’t know exactly what that means, but it’s not a good sign. Someone needs to tell my father what’s happened, and what he’s up against if we fail. Leramis and Ryse have other loyalties. So do Tsu’min and Len. You two are the only ones I can trust with this.”

  Quay’s eyes flicked toward the shadowy shore, then returned to Cole. “I’d send you now, but you’d never make it through the White Forest without help that Tsu’min isn’t willing to give.”

  Cole could feel the warmth of Litnig’s body against his legs. “You didn’t mention Lit.”

  “I know.” Quay ran a hand through his hair. It had grown long and unkempt, and there was stubble, of all things, on the prince’s once impeccably groomed face. “I don’t know what to make of him anymore. There’s something off about him, Co—”

  “He’s my brother.”

  Quay looked at Cole.

  And for once in his life, Cole didn’t look away.

  Quay pulled his hand from his hair. “Of course,” the prince said quietly. “Litnig too then.”

  Quay fell silent. The canoe swung around a bend. The wind followed it. Its mast just cleared a white tree limb that hung shining over the water.

  Cole sighed and rubbed his temples. “If you don’t come back with us,” he muttered, “someone will probably just chuck us in prison.”

  If we’re lucky, he added to himself, but there was no point in telling Quay or Dil that.

  “Don’t underestimate my father,” Quay said. “And give him this.”

  Quay reached into his shirt, tugged on something that came away with a tiny snap, and dropped a small silver ring into Cole’s hand. The band was set with an oval of white jade and tied to a leather cord. Cole had seen rings like it before. Nobles gave them to one another to celebrate births, or birthdays.

  Cole looked up from the ring and found Quay staring at him. The prince produced a tiny metal cylinder from his shirt pocket and pressed it into Cole’s palm. The cylinder was just large enough to hold a small piece of parchment.

  Quay closed Cole’s fist around the ring and the cylinder.

  “Don’t lose them,” he said. “And good luck.”

  And then Quay was gone, off toward the back of the canoe, probably to give the others their marching orders.

  Cole leaned against the canoe’s dugout inwale and shut his eyes. The wind tickled his face. Spray misted on his hair. Dil sat down next to him and wriggled her head under his arm. He smiled and hugged her close.

  The ring was still in his fingers, and he held it up to look at it again. The moonlight glinted off its polished sides. It was still warm from Quay’s chest.

  Behind it, the constellation of the Scythe hung low over the trees.

  Cole had never been one to put his faith in the stars, but he knew what those stars meant.

  Death. Death for one or more.

  He slipped the ring and the message into his trouser pocket. He’d tie them around his neck for safekeeping later.

  In the meantime, he closed his eyes and held Dil tighter.

  FIFTY-FOUR

  Len sat in the back of a long canoe.

  The sky filled with dark oranges, bright reds, and thick purples. The sun glowed over a sea of sweet-scented wild grass to the east. To the west, plains the color of burnt sugar gave way to a line of massive, hazy sand dunes that stretched to the horizon.

  And to the north, a range of mountains perched on the edge of the world with its jaws open.

  There was wrong in Len’s bones. He felt as if the world was a platter hanging from a tall tree by a thread, and the wind had set it swinging, and any second it would flip over or the string would break and he would be flung screaming into the abyss.

  It was the same feeling he’d had just before discovering his father’s body thirty years before, when his eyes had found the open door at the top of the steps.

  Back then, the feeling had proven painfully accurate.

  Len’s wrists were chafed from the chains that had bound them in Soulth’il. His shoulders were sore from his arms being wrenched behind his back. There was enough spray flying up from the sides of the canoe that his eyebrows were dripping.

  He hadn’t slept in days.

  When he closed his eyes, he saw the fa
ce of the dragon. When he opened them, he watched a red-haired Sh’ma named Tsu’min weave some magic that kept a constant wind in a big black sail.

  Len’s thoughts drifted northward again.

  In Aleana, they spoke of three kinds of mountains: Chel Keldt—round, soft, open prominences that invited one onto and under them; Chel Rorcht—larger, balder, uncaring, away-faced peaks that hung caked with rock and snow; and Chel Ardrt—angry mountains—rigid, sharp, dangerous knives of rock that would do everything they could to take one’s life if one was foolish enough to offer it to them.

  The mountains ahead were Chel Ardrt.

  Their tops were razor thin, carved by wind and snow into bladelike edges that looked sharp enough to bleed the sky. At their bases, charcoal-gray blocks of rock as big as small towns hung over narrow valleys strewn with slips and debris. No signs of life stirred in the shadow of the mountains. Not one speck of green broke the grays and whites and blacks. Not one fish leaped from the river.

  Somewhere in that mire of angry rock, D’Orin Threi was waiting for him. Tsu’min had said that the Duennin and their helpers would be gathering in the ruins of Sherdu’il. The birthplace of the Duennin.

  Len shut his eyes. The dragon was there in an instant, hanging in the darkness behind his lids with its black teeth bared and its red-orange whiskers flickering toward him like whips of flame. He couldn’t abide it, and he couldn’t keep his eyes closed.

  For the first time, he felt like he understood the power that D’Orin Threi had fallen for.

  Across Len’s lap lay an ax. Not two axes. Not his axes. Those had been taken from him in Soulth’il, and he knew he would never see them again. Except for its head of solid steel, the ax on his lap was made of the crystal the Sh’ma seemed to make everything out of. The weapon’s blade was sharp, but it was long and heavy, and it was covered in carvings that meant nothing to Len.

  It wasn’t the ax he had meant to kill his son with.

  Len focused his bleary eyes on the children. They huddled in bedraggled knots toward the rear of the craft. Cole and Dil talked quietly against one side near a dozing Litnig. Leramis and Ryse rested against the other. Quay sat alone, just in front of Tsu’min.

  Len shifted his weight from leg to leg. The Sh’ma and the Duennin had managed to make the children seem so powerless, so small.

  And me as well.

  He felt like a helpless graybeard.

  Len ran his hands along the shaft of the ax in his lap. His world was ending. The dragon was coming. It would burn Aleana—his family, his people, his history, his future. His life would end as one long list of failures.

  There was one duty left for him.

  He could only pray that he wouldn’t fail at it as well.

  FIFTY-FIVE

  Litnig lay on his back and breathed through his mouth.

  His body was sore. His nose was swollen and full of dried blood. He was the only one in the Sh’ma’s black canoe who had the space to lie down, and while a part of him was ashamed of that, he was mostly just grateful.

  He felt so, so tired.

  The moon had set an hour before, but a thousand points of light still filled the sky. The Lumos splashed a low tattoo against the side of the canoe next to Litnig’s head. The air felt cold and smelled of wet grass.

  Litnig was glad for the bedroll on top of him, and for the one behind his head.

  Cole sat against the canoe’s inwale at Litnig’s feet. His chin rested on his chest. His arms were crossed over his stomach.

  Litnig hoped he was sleeping. Tsu’min had said they’d reach Sherdu’il the following day. He’d said they’d confront the Duennin there, again.

  He hadn’t said how the confrontation would turn out any differently than the one in Soulth’il had.

  Litnig made the mistake of trying to breathe through his nose and snorted a chunk of dried blood into his mouth. He spat it out in the bottom of the canoe, but the taste lingered. Blood trickled down the back of his throat.

  He swallowed and bore it.

  Ryse hadn’t offered to heal his body. Neither had Leramis. He didn’t want to ask them to.

  Inhuman. Unnatural.

  He shut his eyes and thought about the red-eyed woman and man.

  Twice, the red-eyed woman had offered him a kiss. Twice, she’d put him through hell and spared his life.

  Why do you want me? he wondered.

  Litnig’s eyes landed on Ryse again. She was leaning her head against the side of the canoe across from him. Leramis sat a few feet away from her.

  And why don’t you?

  Cole shivered. Dil, tucked against him, opened her eyes and tugged the blanket they shared over his chest and arms. Her eyes gleamed gold in the low light of the stars.

  She smiled at Litnig before she closed them again.

  Litnig returned the gesture, but his heart beat a little faster.

  Wilderleng, he thought. In spite of the warmth beneath his bedroll, he shivered.

  He wondered what it was like not to be human. Not to have a brother who would look after you through the end of your days.

  But only briefly.

  Inhuman. Unnatural.

  He pushed the words aside. Cole stirred against his feet. In Litnig’s memories, their mother smiled.

  You were born on a rainy night in Twelvemonth. Your father was out, but old Mrs. Bettins was in, and she helped. It was an easy delivery—much easier than with your brother. Do you remember his? I was so happy to have you, Litnig. I still am.

  She’d told the story on his birthday every year that he could remember. If there was one thing Litnig was certain of, it was his humanity.

  If there was a second, it was his brother.

  FIFTY-SIX

  Keep peace…

  The Lumos shallowed rapidly. The scent of smoke streamed through the air on a cold gray wind. It smelled dense and dark and rocklike, as if it came from a thing long dead pressed into use against its will. The stench scraped against the back of Ryse’s throat and left it feeling raw and poisoned.

  As the canoe rounded a bend in the river, Ryse spotted a boat drawn up on a pebble beach. Its sail flapped emptily in the wind. A set of tracks led from it toward a cliff with a thin gray path scratched up its face.

  She’d wondered how the Duennin had escaped Soulth’il.

  Behind Ryse, Tsu’min stood at the canoe’s tiller and guided their boat through a field of narrow, toothlike boulders that stood between it and the shore. He’d been weaving for four days to keep the wind in the boat’s sail, and he didn’t even look tired.

  He glanced at Ryse as the canoe ran onto the pebbles.

  I could teach you, his eyes seemed to say, but you’re not worth the time.

  Ryse shivered. She knew that look. Knew the feeling that accompanied it. She’d hoped becoming a soulweaver would free her from both forever.

  She dropped from the canoe onto a bed of pebbles and was startled to see her breath misting in front of her. Her hands were stiff. Her clothes were damp. She hadn’t realized it was quite so cold.

  A hand squeezed her shoulder, and a black-robed man moved past her toward the cliff face.

  Ryse took a deep breath.

  She hadn’t forgiven Leramis.

  There were other things to worry about. Somewhere above her, the end of the world was about to be brought into existence. The monsters responsible had already shown that neither she nor anyone with her could stop them. Litnig was a Duennin. Len had been acting strangely. Quay had been treating her and Leramis with suspicion.

  She wanted to stay focused on that. She wanted to think about how in the world she was going to counter the kind of soulweaving she’d seen in Eldan City, and Du Fenlan, and Soulth’il.

  But she couldn’t.

  All she could think was that things were wrong between her and those closest to her, and that she didn’t have time to fix them.

  She bit her lip. She hadn’t done that since her first year in the Academy.

  B
e strong, she told herself. Be…

  The words broke apart in her mind.

  As the sky had darkened the night before, Ryse had done what she’d always done in times of need. She’d prayed.

  And nothing had happened.

  No wisdom, no warmth, and no sense of belonging or love had filled her. She’d reached for Yenor and found nothing, and that scared her even more than the towering cliffs above, or the smell of death on the wind, or the steepness of the path ahead.

  Keep peace with those around you, she’d learned long ago, and Yenor will keep peace with you.

  Ryse started up the cliff-face path in silence. Within minutes, she borrowed one of Cole’s daggers to cut her robe off below the knee.

  The climbing was difficult enough with her legs unhindered.

  Close to an hour later, Ryse pulled herself up a cleft of chunky black rock into the sky atop the cliff. The riverside and the boats sat like tiny wooden models hundreds of feet below her. Teeth of wind tore at her face, her hair, her clothes. The smell of smoke continued to clog her nostrils.

  Ryse leaned into the gusts. Her thighs burned. Her breath was ragged.

  The others were huddling behind an irregular round boulder on a sloping field of sand and pebbles ahead of her. Beyond them, the cliff top slipped downward for a few hundred feet and then dropped away into a deep gorge. Crumbling peaks jabbed into the sky to Ryse’s right and left. Behind one of them, the valley she’d climbed out of turned and met the gorge beneath the gray, jagged shelves of a glacier. The white cap of the ice was pocked with blue lakes.

  The wind shrieked. Someone called Ryse’s name.

  Ryse tightened the hood of her cloak around her face and missed the warmth of her robe on her lower legs. She could see a few hundred crude structures clinging to the striated face of a mountain across the gorge. The buildings seemed organized around a steep central boulevard. In places, they canted dangerously over the void. Above them, a yawning black cavern spewed the stream of putrid smoke into the air.