Before I could respond, Nyralit drew herself up, donning the full authority of a strandmistress of the Nocturnai. The lead man flinched.
“Just walk,” she said under her breath. “Men like this rarely act without being commanded. Their bluster is just to make up for their innate sense of inadequacy.”
My eyes flicked from her to the guardsmen. Nyralit hadn’t weathered years aboard the Evaeni and countless days on Ioene without learning much about human behavior. I’d trusted her many times before and never had reason to regret it. Spine stiff, I turned and walked toward the edge of the building. I heard her slippers whispering over the ground behind me.
“Now we should run,” she said as soon as we rounded the corner.
Tyrak slipped from the bounds of the dagger, enveloping me and urging my muscles and senses to higher alertness. His nearness felt like a warm quilt, but it came with a pang of guilt. What would Raav think if he knew how empty I’d felt without Tyrak’s presence?
We ran halfway across the grounds, turning along paths at random. After ducking under yet another screen of dead branches, I slowed. Nyralit came up behind me, breathing hard.
“Well done,” she said.
“Thanks to you.”
We continued at a slower pace, inspecting the terrain for possible routes out of the compound. Near one wall of the high stone fence that surrounded the grounds, the path turned and passed through a dark-iron archway. A hedge, dead now, formed a low fence around what appeared to be the Ulstat family graveyard. I stopped at the archway and suppressed a shiver at the thought of generations of Ulstats living and dying.
“How many centuries have the Ulstats ruled on Araok?” I asked.
Nyralit shrugged. “They’re one of the oldest families . . . unfortunately.”
The headstones were set in precise rows, dark stone covered with lichen. Farther back into the cemetery, the stones’ lines grew softer, harsh edges muted by centuries of sun and rain and wind. If only time could gentle the living Ulstats.
I nodded at the section of boundary wall behind the graveyard. “Looks climbable, don’t you think?”
As I turned to go around the cemetery to get a closer look at the masonry, I spotted a patch of color in front of one of the headstones. Strange. I reversed course and stepped through the arch to get a better look.
“Flowers?”
Tyrak extended a tendril of emotion, expressing confusion.
Sidestepping around the closer grave markers, I skirted the hedge to reach the grave. In front of the headstone lay a trio of pink roses, their stems tied with a white ribbon. The blooms were fresh, cut today. But the stone was ancient—time had nearly erased the inscription. I ran my fingers over the lichen-roughed lettering.
“I think it says Leesa Ulstat,” I said.
Nyralit’s indrawn breath brought me up straight. “The Silent Queen,” she whispered.
“You know of her?” I said, glancing again at the headstone and curling my lip. “Who would bother to lay flowers on an Ulstat grave?”
Though the mid-afternoon sun fell on the grounds, warming the paths enough to raise a heat shimmer from the dark stones, the graveyard still felt cold to me. I hugged my arms tight to my body.
Nyralit’s face held a strange sort of excitement. “You’ve heard of the monster-heir, right? The depraved Ulstat prime who nearly destroyed Araok in his madness.”
I grimaced. “Everybody’s heard the stories.”
A shadow crossed her face. “People remember the bad far more readily than the good. Well, centuries before the monster-heir was birthed, another monstrous Ulstat ascended to prime. He was much the same, but fortunately died younger.”
“That was Leesa?”
“No. She was his wife.”
“But you implied that she was good.”
Nyralit nodded. “According to the stories, she married the mad prime as a sacrifice. Her lover had been imprisoned by the Ulstats. The Silent Queen knew the Ulstat prime was going mad. Eventually, he'd be confined to his chambers, leaving his wife to rule the House until his heirs reached an age of maturity. She attracted his attention, and eventually his offer of marriage. She waited many years for him to go completely insane then released hundreds of prisoners locked up for opposing Ulstat cruelty.”
“Did she and her beloved wind up together?”
Nyralit shrugged. “No one knows.”
“So why was she called the Silent Queen?”
“Leesa Ulstat was mute. According to the histories, the Ulstat prime thrived on other’s weaknesses. But what he perceived as her failing was actually her strength. By watching in silence, she gained great insight into the minds of others. Her compassion was legendary.”
“At least not every Ulstat was cruel.” As I spoke, I thought of Ashhi. She didn’t seem so bad either.
“But here’s the thing, Lilik,” Nyralit said, a smile teasing her lips.
“Yeah?”
“The Ulstats didn’t want anyone to know about the prison. They built it deep in an abandoned mine with an overgrown entrance. But they still needed guards and supplies down in the lower levels, so they dug another tunnel.” Nyralit shaded her eyes as she scanned the desolate gardens. “The tunnel entrance was within the Ulstat grounds—better to hide it from the commoners. As far as I know, it’s never been sealed.”
If we could find it . . . Tyrak said.
“We could sneak out during the night and return before dawn,” I said. “We could get help. Gather enough people to take down the Ulstat guards.”
“We just have to find the entrance.”
I stared at the headstone. “The flowers are fresh. I think someone was trying to leave a signal.”
Nyralit nodded. “But who?”
Chapter Seven
I RETURNED TO the house as the sun sank toward the horizon. After hours of searching, I’d found no sign of the tunnel, this rear cellar, or the person who’d left the flowers. Tomorrow, Nyralit and I would take turns watching the graveyard and searching for the tunnel. But we needed more options.
Back in my room, I dug through the pile of clothing and pulled out a padded jacket with a pocket on the inside. I’d need to practice pulling Tyrak out without cutting myself, but it was better than trying to sheath him inside my pants. After laying the jacket across the foot of the bed, I ran eyes over the walls, imagining hidden eyes watching me through cracks between the stones. Most of the gaps between stones were too narrow to do anything about, but I could at least try to plug the larger ones. Grabbing a handful of thin linen shifts, I stuffed the undergarments into the widest cracks. It might do no good, but it made me feel better.
I didn’t need to pretend to be exhausted but yawned anyway as I slipped out of my shoes and crawled under the covers fully clothed. I left the lanterns burning; House Ulstat would feel dark no matter how much light entered, but the flickering orange glow softened the starkness of the room. I tugged the covers tight to my chin, the rough wool itching the sensitive skin of my neck. Next, I pulled Tyrak from the waist of my pants and tucked him beneath my pillow. At least the hard stuffing would keep the metal from jabbing the back of my skull.
Teach me more about my magic, I said, fingers tracing the lines of the dagger’s hilt. I want to know what I’m doing when it’s time to use my advantages.
I really just know the basics. When someone like you harnessed the energy of the nightstrands, we called it duskweaving. Or sometimes spiritbinding. My channeling talent isn’t nearly strong enough. I never experienced it—very few channelers could.
Then tell me the basics. I didn’t have any control of the magic the other times. It just happened. If I’m going to use this . . . duskweaving, I need a better understanding of what I’m supposed to do. The term for my ability felt both strange and entirely natural as I rolled it around in my thoughts.
You don’t control it. The spirits of the dead respond to your Need—that’s how it’s supposed to work.
You mean I can’t
decide what the effects are? I asked.
Not precisely, no. Your Need decides.
But how do the nightstrands know what I need?
Tyrak let me feel his consternation, a knotted tangle of emotion. That’s where I get confused, too. The spirits don’t learn the details of your Need either, at least not until after the duskweaving is finished. The ability relates to the flow of aether and chance and how they interconnect—honestly, I was never really good at the theory stuff. Anyway, you weave their spirits with yours, and somehow they just know what to do.
So anytime I try this, I won’t know what will happen?
You can guess. You’ll probably be right most of the time. But sometimes what we actually Need differs from what we think we need.
On the ceiling, the heavy timbers made strange shadows in the dancing light of the lanterns. I ran over Tyrak’s explanation in my head. It made sense . . . mostly. But I’d imagined I’d have more control.
Well, right now, my Need is pretty clear. I need to get out of House Ulstat, ideally with a small army ready to sail for Ioene.
Tyrak brushed me with a thread of amusement. Then maybe that’s what you’d get.
Will you help me try a duskweaving? I asked.
Do you feel strong enough? Earlier, you said it was a struggle just to keep your walls intact.
I think I have to be. So many people are counting on me. Paono. My family. Raav.
At the mention of Raav’s name, Tyrak fell silent. Lanterns flickered in the drafts swirling through the room. Even with the larger holes plugged by my spare underclothes, it felt like the walls breathed. Most of the currents carried musty household smells, but occasionally a small puff entered from near the windows, scented with burning coal and evening cookfires.
I took a deep breath. All this talk of my ability was moot if there were no nightstrands on Araok Island. That was something I could investigate even when tired. My fingers ran over Tyrak’s hilt as I prepared myself then lowered the walls between my mind and Araok’s aether.
The strands surged into my mind, filling me with wailing, shrieking, incoherent pleas. Anger. Madness. Rage. And beneath it all, a tide of sadness, the melancholy spirits of sane Ulstats who’d watched their loved ones die raving and angry.
Immediately, I slammed my walls home. My throat clamped down over a surge of bile. My teeth chattered, and a cold sweat slimed my hairline. So much hate . . . And so much sadness. For hundreds of years, the malevolence of the Ulstats had poisoned this island’s aether. I wondered if it could ever be cleansed.
They are so angry, Tyrak said, voice quiet and pained.
I didn’t respond. There was no need. But I tucked the dagger’s hilt into the cradle of my palm and squeezed, feeling him close, a shield against the evil and hatred.
But there’s power in anger, right? I asked.
Yes, but . . . Lilik, wait—
Too late. I might not make allies among the nightstrands here, but I could still channel their energy, bind them to my need. Throwing my barriers wide, I willed my spirit to press through my scars and into the aether. But the instant a tendril of my being escaped its physical boundary, I shrieked.
The pain was like nothing I'd experienced. My body was being flayed and turned inside out. I screamed and screamed again, clutching the dagger. I wanted to plunge its blade into my heart to stop the agony. And then Tyrak was there, covering my scars, defending me, growling as he shared my hurt and shoved my spirit back toward my body.
The struggle lasted hours. Or seconds. I had no concept of time. Only the feeling that I was being torn apart. Shredded. And the whole time, Tyrak was there with me. Within me. He was the shield between me and certain death, eternal anguish. And from somewhere far away, like the singing of a distant choir carried by a trick of the wind, came a wave of peace. Comfort. The aurora?
With the last of my sanity, I drew from that calm and shoved my barrier in place. Tyrak slumped atop me, the weight of his body as real to me as if he were flesh and blood. I trembled beneath him while he buried his face in my hair.
Don’t ever do that again, he whispered. They were going to rip you apart.
Shivering, coated in freezing sweat, I couldn’t respond. I lay beneath him, wanting to feel nothing but Tyrak, his body protecting mine. Eyes closed, I circled him with my arms. He felt as solid as any human would. But closer, as if we were one person.
When a knock came at the door, Tyrak retreated into the dagger, taking his warmth with him. The door burst open, and Raav rushed into the room.
“Thank the tides,” he said. “I thought someone was hurting you. What’s wrong?”
I coughed, searched for my voice but couldn’t find it. Raav ran to my side and laid a hand upon my forehead. Licking my lips, I tried to reassure him, but I still couldn’t talk.
“You’re sick,” he said. “Feverish.”
I shook my head and finally squeaked out the words. “Bad dream.”
He didn’t believe me; I could see it on his face. But before he could argue, Nyralit followed him into the room, her hair mussed from her pillow and eyes glassy from sleep.
“You need to go,” she said to Raav. “Trader Ulstat wouldn’t approve. You heard what he said. For her sake, you must obey.”
What was this? Something else from the meeting between Raav and Trader Ulstat? I tried to force the question out, but no words came.
Raav opened his mouth to argue, but Nyralit silenced him with a glare.
“You’ll take care of her?” he asked.
“I won’t leave until I’m sure she’s okay,” Nyralit said. With that, she climbed under the covers beside me and pulled me close, pillowing her head on the crook of her arm.
Eyes anguished, Raav nodded and turned for the door. It shut behind him with a click.
Chapter Eight
I WOKE FROM a dream that Trader Ulstat had carried my brother to the top of a high, Araokan crag. I’d tried to get there in time. But I’d failed. As I watched the man throw Jaret from the precipice, I’d screamed. Moments later, I jolted awake.
The lanterns were still burning; firelight licked the ceiling above me. Nyralit had left my room, probably after I’d fallen asleep. Maybe she’d decided I’d recovered enough, or maybe an Ulstat servant had forced her to leave. In any case, I was glad. Because the dream had clarified something for me.
I couldn’t sleep under the same roof as Trader Ulstat.
Slipping from beneath the covers, I visited the lanterns one by one and doused their flames. Even if someone were watching through a peephole, the darkness would hide my movements. I slipped into the padded jacket and retrieved Tyrak from beneath the pillow. After sliding the blade into and out of the pocket enough times to feel comfortable with the motion, I tiptoed to the door.
Over the last day, I’d continued to limp even though my ankle felt better. It gave the servants a reason to pity me, and possibly to question their master's integrity. Plus, as long as Trader Ulstat assumed my leg would slow me, he’d be less vigilant about my movements. Or so I hoped. But now, I walked with assuredness.
Care to inform me about your plan? Tyrak asked.
I’m taking care of our problems.
I’m not sure I like the sound of that. Have you thought this through?
I’ve considered the alternatives, and I don’t think we can risk any that involve waiting.
You haven’t even finished searching the gardens.
I can’t depend on finding something out there. I said. This tunnel may be nothing more than a legend. And as for my family, Trader Ulstat might be a touch insane, but I don’t think he’s stupid enough to leave them unguarded.
For what it’s worth, I don’t think the Ulstat madness infects him. I can’t say the same regarding their cruel streak.
Then I’m doing the world a favor by helping eliminate it.
That’s what I was afraid of, Tyrak said before falling silent.
The hallway was empty, and just a single lantern bu
rned near the intersection with the manor’s main corridor. It seemed most of the guards who’d been patrolling the house by day were either asleep or relocated to positions along the outer wall to keep watch through the darkness. Even so, I slipped along the wall to remain as hidden as possible. When I reached the opening, I peered out into the corridor. Beside the front door, a sentry sat slumped in his chair. His eyes were closed, but his breath lacked the evenness of slumber. Resting. I needed to remain silent.
Ducking back into the side corridor, I slipped out of my shoes. At the feel of bare stone against the soles of my feet, my first lesson with Tyrak surfaced in my memory. I imagined the slick cobbles in fountain square, the spray of water droplets glinting like stars falling all around. The jacket’s pocket lay over my heart, and I felt it beating against the rigid metal of Tyrak’s dagger.
With a deep breath, I stepped into the hall. Creeping toe to heel and watching every placement of my foot, I slipped along the corridor and entered the hallway leading toward the Ulstat bedrooms—I’d figured out that much about the house layout earlier. Fortunately, Trader Ulstat didn’t bother to set a guard outside his door. Or at least, I assumed the most massive entrance led to the master bedroom. Heavy ironbound doors sealed the room. With a glance left and right, I tried the latch.
Locked.
Dismayed, I slouched against the wall and considered my options. Most gutterborn learned how to pick a lock at some point in their lives. With the proper tools, I might manage it. But I doubted I could do it silently.
As I chewed my lip, casting about for ideas, the sound of heavy footsteps in the main corridor sent a lance of fear through my chest. The footfalls couldn’t be Ashhi’s—the reverberation was too loud. It had to be a guard or the prime trader coming to bed. I leaped from the shallow alcove outside Trader Ulstat’s room and sprinted on tiptoes for the end of the hall. It was a gamble. Ashhi’s brother was still hostage in Istanik. If the placement of the bedrooms reflected heir status, the young boy’s would be at the end of the hallway. Ducking into the alcove outside the last, narrow door, I slammed my back against the wall and waited, breath held.
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