by Lori M. Lee
Shadows circle me again. Sharp steel slices through the shadow snakes, which snap like stretched leather. Theyen draws his own dagger and charges. He’s even faster with his blade.
“I find that hard to believe,” I say. Metal screeches against metal as I fend him off with one sword and the shadows with the other. They swarm around me, no longer merely snakes lying in wait.
Shadowy forms rise from the earth. They don’t waver like flimsy, weak things. They’re solid and sturdy, faceless bodies of black and nothingness. My sword arms tremble as I cut through them.
The creatures are unnerving. The warmth of magic ignites inside me as the predawn sky begins to chase away the night. Theyen slashes at my head, the tip of his dagger narrowly missing my cheek. He attacks hard, fast, and unrelentingly. His shadows continue to merge and multiply, moving in perfect balance to his strikes. Black fingers slither around my arms before my blade slices them away.
“If you knew anything about the politics between Kazahyn and the Nuvalyn Empire, then you would know that I’m engaged to the Ember Princess.”
This surprises me enough that I nearly miss blocking his next attack. He’s deliberately trying to distract me.
“The Ember Princess?” I echo, dubious. My magic is a hot stone in my chest, but I don’t know how to push that magic outward.
“Surely even you’ve heard of her. Sister and future advisor to the Sun’s Heir. Soon to be the second-most powerful shaman in Thiy once her brother takes the Radiant Throne. Et cetera, et cetera. They have a ridiculous number of titles.”
I’m tempted to point out his lengthy introduction in the library yesterday, but I valiantly refrain. My focus remains only on not letting him gain the upper hand. His shadows block me in, driving me backward until my heels bump the stone rail that braces the stairs.
“So,” I say, grunting as my back hits the stone. “If you’re already engaged to a Nuvali princess, then why would you need Ronin’s help in keeping the peace between your kingdoms? Unless you want help getting out of the engagement?”
Theyen smirks and cuts upward. I slam my swords together, metal singing as the blades catch and lock around his dagger. The stone rail digs into my lower back, but I use the leverage to shift my weight and drive my knee into his gut. His grip slackens. I shove him away, plant one foot on his stomach, and flip backward onto the rail. My other foot smashes into his jaw, knocking him to the ground.
I’m on top of him before he can regain his feet. I stab both blades into the earth at either side of his neck, pinning him. A feral smile pulls at my lips. I know I’ve won as I straighten, backing off him even before his shadows leap between us.
“Am I right?” I ask, because I want to hear him concede.
He doesn’t reply. He reaches up, grabs my swords, and gingerly tugs them free. Tossing them at my feet, he stands but doesn’t attack again. We’re both still, breathing hard. His shadows fade and dissipate, scattering like wisps of smoke.
He looks to where the emerging sunlight slowly edges away the darkness and then lowers his gaze to mine. “So much for your conviction.”
In truth, the words sting because he’s right—I didn’t try hard enough to summon my craft. This match may have ended with my swords at his neck, but I didn’t win. Not the way I should have. My shoulders tense with annoyance.
Outwardly, though, I roll my eyes. “We could try again.” A single fight can’t be indicative of much, can it?
Apparently, it can. Theyen shakes his head and sheathes his dagger. “You’ve been trained to rely entirely on your physical skills, something you can’t easily unlearn. I suspect for this to work, you need to believe you’re in genuine danger.”
I snort and throw back my head. “It certainly felt like I was in genuine danger.” Despite the physical activity, the failure makes me restless. What would it take to summon my craft if a dagger aimed at my face isn’t enough? “What you did with the shadows—can most shadowblessed do that?”
“No. The Calling of Shadow isn’t limited to only three variations of ability like shamanic crafts are. There are many different crafts the shadowblessed possess.”
“Like giving life to shadows.” I retrieve my swords from the ground, wiping dirt off the blades before sheathing them again.
“An imitation of life.”
“Well, don’t feel bad, Hlau Theyen. It’s been years since anyone aside from my swordmaster has defeated me in a fight.”
When I first entered the Prince’s Company at eleven years old, I was a scrap of a girl, too skinny to lift a proper sword, which was why I chose the dual swords instead—two lighter, shorter blades that allowed for more fluid motion in combat. And despite that initial near-disaster, as training progressed, it became quickly apparent that I had an affinity for swordplay, which is why Kendara took notice of me.
“Perhaps you need stronger provocation, then,” he says.
“Bold words for someone who ended this duel on his back. Were this a real fight, you would no longer have a head.”
He crosses his arms. Dirt clings to his shoulders and hair. “I have many years left of studying the sword before I can call myself a master. Only a fool overestimates their own ability.”
“I recall you saying something about not being trained for real battle?”
“You’re good. Your swordmaster no doubt claimed you’re a natural.”
She didn’t. In fact, she told me I’m overconfident and a show-off. Sisters, I miss her.
“But once you’ve truly seen death—”
I’m already annoyed that I didn’t invoke my craft, and his condescension unleashes my anger. Before he’s finished the word death, I’ve released my sword from its sheath and nudged the tip beneath his chin. He goes still but otherwise doesn’t react.
“Don’t speak as if you know me.” Satisfaction rushes through me at the thrill of having someone with Theyen’s power at my mercy. It’s not something I’ve ever before thought possible. For a moment, I understand how Ronin might feel with his influence over three powerful kingdoms, and why he would want to hold onto it.
“Watch yourself, shaman. I am a Fireborn Hlau.” Theyen speaks softly but coolly. Now that the sun has begun to rise, his eyes are visible. They’re a vibrant shade of coral blue, rimmed in lavender, a bright contrast to his white hair and gray skin but just as cold.
“What does that matter to me? Do you think imprisoning his soulguide will win you Ronin’s favor?”
His gaze doesn’t waver. “If you think Ronin can protect you from me, you’re mistaken. Put away your ego and do your job. What do you think threatening royalty will gain you, other than a brief moment of satisfaction over your failure to summon your craft?”
My sword arm wavers. Anger vibrates through me. I sheathe my sword again in one smooth motion and turn away for the stairs. “We’re done here.”
TWELVE
Saengo and I spend the rest of the day combing through the library for books that might mention anything about soulguides. Or, failing that, the fall of the Soulless and the rise of the Dead Wood.
We sit on the hard floor, propped against the shelves, with books piled around us. It feels a little like we’re back at the Company, studying for our next exam. I roll my shoulders to relieve the ache there and notice Saengo lifting a hand to her chest for at least the dozenth time today.
“Are you okay?” I gesture at the way she’s rubbing the skin beneath her collarbones. An echo of pain pinches beneath my own chest.
She lowers her hand. “I’m fine. Just uncomfortable.”
I close the book I was reading with more force than is strictly necessary. “This is useless. Why wouldn’t Ronin focus his attention on why the trees are growing? It doesn’t make sense. He’s hiding something.”
Saengo gives me a patient look. “Sirscha, he’s a centuries-old shaman with control over an undead wood. Of course he has secrets. Everyone with power keeps secrets.”
She tucks an uneven length of hair behind
her ear. I’d offered to trim it this morning, but she’d refused. She’d barely been able to look at herself in the mirror.
“But to stop a weed from spreading, you tear it out from the roots. It’s simple gardening.”
“What would you know of gardening?”
I wave away the comment. I’ve never planted anything in my life, and neither has she, for that matter.
“Ronin’s power is waning,” I say. “Why wouldn’t he explore every possible avenue for a solution?”
“What makes you think he hasn’t? He’s not going to provide you a list of everything he’s tried and failed.”
That would be nice, though. “Do you think he already knows why the trees are growing?”
“It would make sense. He’s ruled the Dead Wood for as long as it’s existed.”
“So he doesn’t want me to know, then.”
“Think about this logically. Ronin knows how precarious his position looks to the kingdoms. The more the Dead Wood grows, the more Thiy’s leaders will look for someone to blame, and Ronin is its self-proclaimed ruler. He wants to fix this. He wouldn’t withhold important information if he thought it’d help you. My father—” She pauses as the skin around her mouth tightens with pain. I look down; the guilt that always perches at my shoulder digs its claws into my skin. She clears her throat and continues. “My father says that there are some in each of the kingdoms who’ve tired of him reining in their ambitions.”
That her father should know this makes me wonder if he’s one of them. “When did he say that?”
“A few months ago, when I went home for my mother’s birthday dinner.” She says it casually, but only highborn students are given leave from the Company for something as mundane as a birthday. I certainly wouldn’t have received the same accommodations.
Knowing this makes me more curious about Theyen’s engagement to the Ember Princess. Why would the Nuvalyn Empire agree to bring a shadowblessed into their royal house? With the exception of a brief fifty-year period when they were temporarily usurped, the Yalaengs have ruled since the founding of the Empire, the longest dynasty in Thiy. And they’ve been enemies with Kazahyn for much of that time.
The enmity between humans and shamans is a childish spat compared to the feud between shamans and shadowblessed. It’s difficult to believe that such a union was even considered.
But an alliance between the Fireborn Queens and the Yalaengs could be enough to renew the old peace treaty. The fact one should even be needed, however, indicates Ronin might no longer be able to hold the peace on his own.
The Dead Wood runs vertically down Evewyn’s eastern border and both the Empire’s and Kazahyn’s western borders. But nothing separates Kazahyn in the south from the Nuvalyn Empire in the north. Only Ronin’s power and legacy—his defeat of the Soulless and the memory of that devastation—keep the two kingdoms in check.
Around midnight, we concede at last and agree to resume our research in the morning. But I don’t want to return to our room with nothing to show for the day’s efforts. I look down the empty aisles and then at a narrow window where moonlight spills over the frame into a silver puddle on the tiles. Not once has anyone disturbed us in here, not even Saengo’s guard, who’s even more rigid than Phaut.
“I want to look around the grounds without our guards hovering behind us.”
Saengo follows me to the window, the only source of natural light this deep in the library. I rap my knuckles against the glass to test its solidity.
“What do you think you’re going to find?” she asks as I search for something to break the glass. Books are all that’s readily available.
I’m far enough from the doors that Phaut isn’t likely to hear glass breaking, but in the utter silence, the sound could carry. “Not sure. You said Ronin’s study is at the back of the castle?”
She nods. “Top floor.”
“Then that’s where I’ll go. My gut is telling me that he already knows why the trees are growing. But he must not want anyone else to know. Maybe I’ll find some answers there.”
I’ll have to risk the noise. Nearby, a narrow table is pushed up against the end of a bookcase. A strip of cloth runs the length of the tabletop, set with an unlit candle in a glass lantern.
I hand the lantern to Saengo, then gather up the table runner. Next, I search through the nearest shelf for the heaviest book I can find. There are plenty of options, but I want something that no one will care much about if it’s accidentally ruined. I settle for a tome on the history of cutlery and napkin folding. That seems a useless-enough topic. Why would anyone care about the history of eating utensils, and why in the names of the Five Sisters is the book so thick?
Saengo watches, brown eyes caught between amusement and worry, as I wrap the book in the cloth. Then I heft the weight in my hands to get a solid grip. If I were caught, what would Ronin do to punish me? At the Company, I knew what was expected of me, what was allowed and forbidden, and how I would pay penance. Here, I have no idea how far I can push.
My fingers tighten around the book. I didn’t excel as Kendara’s pupil by playing it safe. I suppose I better not get caught.
I fling the book against the window. The glass shatters with little resistance. We both cringe. The book falls to the ground outside with a heavy thump. I wait a moment, just in case, but there’s only silence. When I’m certain Phaut isn’t rushing through the aisles in search of me, I use the tablecloth to break off any remaining shards clinging to the window frame.
“Keep watch,” I say. “If Phaut comes to check on us, make up something.”
Saengo gives me an irritated purse of her lips. But she doesn’t stop me from shimmying through the square of space with a nimble ease that would make even Kendara snort in approval. The glass broke in large fragments, so I gather as many shards as I can from the ground, fold up the bundle, and hand it to Saengo along with the book. I scatter dirt over what slivers remain to conceal them from passing servants. An open window is far less suspicious than a broken one.
I flash Saengo a reassuring grin. Then I hurry along the side of the castle until I reach the perimeter of the bone palisade. I’ve seen very little of the rear half of Spinner’s End, but it can’t be that difficult to find Ronin’s study. At this time of night, the grounds are deserted.
I follow the bones. Outlying walls and buildings stand a good distance from the palisade and the trees just beyond. I pass a large yard filled with animal pens. Most of the animals are asleep, but a few sniff and dig through the dirt. One rolls on its back in a puddle of mud. My nose wrinkles at the smell.
Past the animal pens is a high wall with drooping weeds half clinging to the stone. An arched doorway leads inside. What lies beyond surprises me. It opens into an enclosed garden overrun by weeds.
A cobbled path winds beneath a series of stone archways into another walled space and even more intersecting avenues. It’s like a maze. Fascinated, I turn in circles, taking in the meandering pathways and secluded gardens. The arches are beautiful, the stonework chiseled into symmetrical flourishes and fantastical creatures. When these gardens were flowering, they would have been breathtaking.
Maybe I should return to the library and bring Saengo back here in the morning to explore more fully. I turn back just as an awareness awakens inside me. There’s a presence somewhere in these gardens. It becomes an ache in my joints, a pressure building inside me like a scream that needs release. The skin on the backs of my arms and neck prickles, although the air is warm. Something about this presence feels familiar, although I can’t place it.
Brushing the hair from my forehead, I stare in the direction of the path to my left. There are four paths in all, one leading back to the exit, and three more branching off into places unknown. But the arches over the left entrance are dressed in spiderwebs.
I haven’t taken more than a step before I freeze. A clicking sound fills the silence—something heavy striking stone. The space beyond the arch darkens with an encroaching sh
adow. The clicking grows louder, more hurried, like snapping pincers or … numerous legs over the cobbles.
I spin on my heel and rush back the way I came. My face feels hot, but shivers creep across my shoulder blades and breathe icy plumes down my spine, urging my feet faster. Once I’m out of the gardens, I launch up the wall onto the nearest ledge, unable to shake the sensation of multiple eyes watching my retreat.
I’m halfway across the ridge of a roof when a quiet whistle sounds behind me. Dropping, I grip the ridge with one hand to keep from sliding and flatten my back to the tiles. A knife soars past me, moonlight catching the blade in a flash of silver. I’ve only a second to wonder if what I’d sensed in the garden followed me out before a shadow rises in my periphery and a sword swings for my neck. I roll, using the momentum to slide off the roof. The curling eaves slow my descent long enough for my fingers to catch the edge of the roof and swing myself over.
My attacker is fast on my heels as I shimmy down a corner column and drop to the ground. The moment my feet touch dirt, I shove away from the stone to avoid another swipe of a long blade.
I edge backward, toward the bone palisade, as my attacker lands in a crouch on the ground. As the figure straightens, his silhouette appears to be that of a man’s. He’s tall and wiry, concealed head to toe in formfitting black. I can’t even make out facial features. He attacks again, shockingly fast, and I only barely dodge. The night helps to disguise his movements.
My neck stings as his blade kisses my skin. Then he grunts and staggers back. Embedded in his upper arm is a knife, the same one he’d thrown at me. My gaze flicks up to see Saengo crouched on the roof, braced against the side of a nearby tower. She slips behind the tower and out of sight again.
The darkness of my attacker’s disguise wavers long enough to reveal luminous white hair. Shadowblessed.
He isn’t wearing black. He is wearing shadows. They settle seamlessly over his form again as he fades into the shadows of the castle. Only his slight movements reveal where he is. Even his sword has been stained a dull finish that doesn’t reflect the light.