Forest of Souls

by Lori M. Lee

  A face rises through the decayed bark, its mouth screaming soundlessly. I look away. They can’t tear free of the trees. They’ve been dead so long that their bodies have long merged with the Dead Wood, the branches becoming their arms and the roots their legs.

  My gaze searches for somewhere to rest that isn’t pitted and rotten, and it finds the ornate pommel of Phaut’s sword. I gesture to it. “Where did you get your sword?”

  She doesn’t look away from her scrutiny of the trees. “I made it.”

  I consider her eyes. They’re jewel green, bright against the drab gray of the woods. “What kind of earthwender are you?”

  “Forger.”

  That would explain it. Forgers can shape and bend metals with more ease and precision than any blacksmith.

  “My master, the one who taught me how to refine my craft, learned under a Kazan weaponsmith,” she says. “Kazan weapons are superior to our own. They’re forged from rare metals mined from the hearts of their mountains and imbued with shadow crafts unique to each clan.”

  Our attempts at conversation grow infrequent as the day slips by. The constant tension exhausts everyone. We gnaw on strips of dried meat and rice balls to assuage our hunger, but we don’t stop to rest. What feels like an eternity later, Ronin speaks for the first time since leaving Spinner’s End.

  “The encampment isn’t far now.”

  Relief courses through me just as the soldier behind me screams. I turn, drawing my swords even before I spot the trouble. A pair of distinctly human arms thrust out from a tree. Jagged bone tears through the black-blue skin of the corpse that’s taken hold of one of the soldiers—Audri’s her name, I think. Its mangled fingers score her throat and grip the edges of her breastplate to drag her into the tree. The other soldier grabs hold of Audri’s waist, his neck muscles straining as he pulls with little effect.

  Phaut immediately jumps forward to help, but Audri’s frantic screams rouse the other trees. My swords strike the corpse’s arms. It releases her as another body rears out from the recesses of the tree. I recoil, gasping. The new creature’s skull is crushed on one side and its head hangs awkwardly, as if its neck is broken. A rattle issues from its mouth as it wrenches Audri hard, tearing her from both Phaut’s and the other soldier’s grasps.

  Phaut nearly tumbles into the tree with her. I dive for Phaut’s legs, knocking her into the dirt. Audri’s screams grow muffled, her upper body buried within bark as we try to get a hold of her kicking feet.

  “Help!” I scream at Ronin, who isn’t even watching us. His sharp eyes dart from tree to tree.

  All around us, chunks of bark litter the roots as corpses twist and yank their emaciated limbs out from their wooden prisons.

  “Oh, Sisters,” I breathe, redoubling my efforts to free Audri. Panic sprints through my chest as the bodies move in my peripheral vision. My magic builds, bright and thrilling. My skin feels like it’s been set aflame, heat shooting through my shoulders, down my arms.

  Then Audri’s shrieks abruptly stop and her lower body goes limp. I gasp, shock dousing my craft.

  The other soldier makes a sound like a sob and a scream. Half crawling to get away, he draws his sword. Phaut helps me to my feet. I try to recover my magic, desperate to do something other than gape in horror as the rest of Audri’s body is devoured by the shriveled black stump.

  “Run,” Ronin orders curtly. None of us need any more urging than that.

  We run, terror lending speed to our flight. The trees fly by in a gray-green blur. We slash and jump and kick. Phaut is nearly dragged down twice before, at last, the branches thin and the afternoon sky appears. We burst from the trees and collapse to the ground.

  The grass cools my flushed skin. Incongruously, the sun shines brightly overhead. Phaut is on her hands and knees beside me. Her short hair falls messily over her cheekbones. Her breaths come hard, as labored as mine. We must have sprinted a mile in record time.

  “There were so many,” she whispers.

  I nod mutely, still numb with shock. We remain there a moment, silent, reliving the last few minutes; our minds remain trapped in the trees with Audri. I should have tried harder to help her, to help them all. But all I did was run. My fingers curl into the earth, grounding myself in the present. Clumps of grass tear free as I rise. I assist Phaut to her feet before noticing the other soldier has staggered ahead.

  We’ve emerged near the path where I first entered the Dead Wood almost a week ago. Sab Hlee lies a short ride away.

  “Where’s Ronin?” I turn in a circle to scan the area. Phaut copies me, her hands combing roughly through her tousled hair. He told us to run but did not run with us. Was he still in there?

  Phaut’s legs jolt haltingly toward the trees, as if intending to go after him. But then Ronin’s tall figure materializes from the shadowy boughs.

  “What happened?” I ask, returning my swords to their sheaths.

  “The souls have been silenced,” Ronin says without further explanation.

  And what about Audri? I want to shout, despite that the question would be pointless.

  We follow him toward the encampment, the silence wrought with fear unabated by Ronin’s reassurance. Those had been newly taken souls. Why would they go into the trees, knowing what awaited them?

  After the horror of the Dead Wood, I’m caught off guard by the distant sprawl of the mountains far to the west. My breath catches unexpectedly at the awareness of how close Evewyn is. This strip of land outside the Dead Wood is still Ronin’s territory but beyond … just beyond that is home. Yearning throbs inside me.

  Soon. Once Saengo is healed and our safety assured.

  When we arrive at Sab Hlee, soldiers line up to receive Ronin. The soldier who’d gone ahead, looking hollow-eyed but composed, rejoins us. Ronin’s soldiers swore their oaths knowing the risks, but still … my stomach churns.

  At the center of the encampment, a group of bedraggled shamans occupy an array of dinner tables. There must be more than twenty, from elderly to children, enough to fill nearly every seat. Their eyes inspect our approach, especially Ronin’s.

  I can imagine how he must appear, mysterious and intimidating, his tall figure resplendent in the afternoon light. And there is clearly cause to fear his power after he alone quelled those newly taken souls while the rest of us ran. I bite the inside of my cheek, the pain muting my shame.

  Some of the shamans shift uneasily. Their thin bodies shrink into the shadows. For others, their sallow faces come alive, their bodies straining from their seats. I remain with Phaut, content to blend in with the soldiers.

  Ronin pauses before the tables. Dirty dishes stacked along the ends indicate a recent meal. A much-needed one by the looks of them. Their clothes are threadbare, holes patched and then patched again. How had they managed to escape the Valley?

  “How many others?” Ronin asks a soldier in a slightly different uniform from the rest.

  The officit, a windwender, says in a low voice, “They don’t know. But they say some went south instead. This is what’s left of the survivors.”

  “And those who did not survive?” Ronin asks. His words are a chill breeze in the warm afternoon that raises the recent memory of corpses strung to trees by remnants of flesh.

  “We couldn’t recover very many,” the officit says, voice heavy. “But the ones we did …” She nods to the north side of the camp.

  I squint in that direction and make out plots of freshly turned dirt. They must have been truly desperate to enter the Dead Wood. Maybe they were fleeing pursuers? The earthwender healer must have been among them.

  “What should we do about …” The officit’s voice trails off, but she’s looking at the Dead Wood.

  “Nothing can be done for them,” Ronin says, and I know the disappointed flick of his eyes in my direction isn’t imagined.

  I wince and lower my gaze. His feet whisper over the hard-packed dirt, his jacket dusting the earth as he circles the tables.

  “I can
not give you sanctuary,” he says to the shamanborn.

  Instantly, several crumple to the tabletops in despair. A more daring shaman cries out, “We were told you accept the services of any who will swear allegiance to you.”

  Ronin nods at this, to the mumbled confusion of the shamanborn. “I welcome the service of all who are free to make such pledges. You are not. You are Evewynian prisoners. To shelter you would violate standing peace treaties. You must leave for the north at nightfall.”

  North. They mean to cross the grasslands into the Nuvalyn Empire then. It seems the surest route to safety, but the queen’s soldiers will know that as well. If the group travels at night, keeping close enough to the edge of the Dead Wood where Evewyn’s patrols aren’t permitted, they might stand a chance.

  But what about Vos Gillis? Theyen said the shamanborn were being smuggled onto ships to escape Evewyn.

  “What about south?” I say. All eyes turn to me, but I focus on Ronin.

  He doesn’t appear to mind my interruption. “Even if they reach the coast, a ship can’t be guaranteed. In Vos Gillis, several shamanborn have already been captured and await transport to the prison.”

  My shoulders tense. Theyen hadn’t mentioned that. I suppose even Kendara can’t protect every shamanborn who sneaks into the port city.

  Ronin addresses the shamanborn. “Queen Meilyr has issued a decree that if any of you are caught, you’re to be returned to the Valley of Cranes for execution. Her soldiers have been given leave to take any means necessary to subdue you.” He lets his words settle, lets the fresh horror of their reality sink into their wearied bones. Then he repeats, “You must go north at nightfall.”

  My hands ball into fists. Perhaps sensing my urge to argue with Ronin’s refusal to protect them, Phaut rests a hand on my shoulder.

  A small voice says, “Suryali?”

  My head jerks, seeking out the speaker. The girl looks no more than ten years old. Unlike the older shamans, her eyes are still gray. She’s gaunt, little more than flesh stretched over bone.

  She looks fragile like a baby bird, the likeness made more striking when she cocks her head and tugs on the sleeve of the man beside her. “Is it her?”

  “That’s just a lightwender, little one,” the man says. But now that it’s been spoken, the shamanborn pass the word around in a flurry of whispers, the same word the earthwender healer uttered in my dream.

  Beside me, Phaut gives a light cough and translates in a whisper, “Little Sun God.”

  I stiffen. Are they referring to me?

  Their murmurs grow in volume as some are quicker than others to realize who I might be. Those farther back stand to get a better look, as if I’m a performer at a spectacle. I step back as their gazes flit from me to Ronin. I’m surprised when Ronin does nothing other than nod once. A confirmation.

  My nostrils flare. Is this another test? The little girl stands from the table. Others follow, their steps shuffling and hesitant as they approach. The urge to shrink into the shadows and disappear as Kendara taught me is nearly overwhelming.

  “Suryali,” they repeat in hushed voices. One reaches out. I stumble back, alarmed, and yank my cloak away from his outstretched hands.

  Phaut steps in to shield me. She has somehow transformed from guard to protector. But she is only one person. They swarm us, expressions fierce and eager.

  “Is it true?” a voice shouts out above the rest. A shaman with uneven hair cut close to her scalp eyes me with distrust. She hangs back with the more cautious of the group, most of whom have half risen from their seats.

  “Are you the soulguide?” another shaman asks.

  “It can’t be true,” someone mutters.

  “You’re shamanborn. One of us. We thought we’d have to travel all the way to Mirrim to find you.”

  “She’s just a child,” whispers someone else. Irritation blossoms in my chest.

  “We escaped for you,” says a small voice. The little girl with the gray eyes gazes up at me, awe brimming from her smile.

  I shake my head. What?

  Behind the girl stands a man with shining amber eyes, a shade paler than mine but still jewel bright. He touches the center of his chest. “Six nights ago, every lightwender in the camp felt a surge of magic within us. I haven’t felt the heat of magic in years.” His voice wavers. “It only lasted a moment. Most of us hold faith with the Five Sisters, but we also know the old shaman tales.”

  My lips compress. They had felt the awakening of my craft and suspected what it might mean. And if they believed, like Ronin, that the appearance of a soulguide was an omen, maybe … just maybe, that could have been enough to rally them, to stage a revolt big enough to allow some to escape.

  Suddenly, I can’t draw a full breath. The weight of those gazes presses around me, their hopes and expectations deposited in my arms while they await miracles I can’t perform. They escaped for me—did that make their protection my responsibility? It’s not a responsibility I want, and yet I wish I could help them. That I could be what they so fervently want.

  At the back of the group, a man rises from his seat. He’s taller than the others, but he stoops, as if trying to appear small. When he glances up at me, the glint of purple catches my attention. He’s disheveled and dirty, fidgeting restlessly as his gaze darts uneasily around the encampment. My eyes widen.

  It’s the windwender from the night of the attack. The shaman who killed Saengo.

  He realizes the moment I recognize him because he turns and runs.

  “Stop!” I shove past the shamanborn gathered around me, costing me precious seconds before I’m free.

  Phaut is close beside me as we sprint through the encampment, around tables and tents, following the frantic flight of the windwender.

  Ronin’s soldiers draw their weapons but hesitate, uncertain whom to assist. I don’t pay them any attention, my gaze fixed on my quarry. Fury burns through me, chasing away any remnants of fear from the Dead Wood and the shock of discovering why the shamanborn had escaped. My teeth are clenched tight. The wind screams in my ears as my boots devour the distance between us.

  We’re nearing the edge of the encampment when an arrow sings past me. It pierces the windwender’s back, sending him sprawling into the dirt.

  “No,” I gasp, digging in my heels.

  In seconds, I’m on top of him, dragging him up by his collar. His eyes roll back in his head, but I give him a violent shake.

  “No! You’re not dying until you tell me why you attacked us at the teahouse. Who sent you to kill the queen’s Shadow? Speak!”

  “Sirscha,” Phaut says, horrified.

  “Tell me!” I demand.

  The windwender coughs. Blood spatters his chin. “B-betrayed,” he manages to say in a garbled whisper. “P-promised … safe … ty.”

  “Who promised you safety?” My knuckles are as white as his face. Anger pushes my breaths out in quick, thin pants.

  “The q-queen,” he says thickly.

  “The queen?” I echo, confused. “Queen Meilyr?”

  He nods, eyes fluttering shut.

  I shake him again. “What are you talking about?”

  But it’s no use. The man’s bright eyes don’t open again. A moment later, he goes slack.

  “No!” I slam his limp body to the ground, then shove to my feet, brushing off Phaut’s quiet murmur of confusion. My fingers furrow through my hair. My legs are unable to remain still as I prowl around the dead windwender, nearly giving into the urge to kick his corpse.

  Ronin’s soldiers close in on the body. I have no idea which one shot him, but I want to punch something. What did he mean that the queen had promised them safety? He had to have been lying. The queen wouldn’t have promised them such a thing unless she’d been the one to send them, which is ludicrous.

  She wouldn’t have sent assassins after her own Shadow. It didn’t make any sense.

  Yet, what reason would a dying man have to lie?

  Ronin puts me in a te
nt to calm down so that I don’t upset the other shamanborn. The tent is sparse, with nothing but a cot to fill the small space.

  Phaut hovers near the entrance, one hand braced on the tent flap as if preparing to leave. She doesn’t, though.

  “You all right?” she asks uncertainly.

  It’s just too much. All I have are questions piled upon questions. How can I believe that Queen Meilyr sent shamans after her own Shadow? How am I supposed to help Saengo or the shamanborn when I couldn’t even save Audri from the trees?

  “Do you believe what they say about soulguides?” I demand, perhaps more harshly than she deserves.

  Her lips twist to one side, like she’s deliberating how best to answer without making me angry. “I’d never given it much thought before you arrived, to be honest. I’ve not had the best experience with lightwenders.”

  “You mentioned something like that before. What happened?”

  She shifts on her feet and lowers her eyes.

  I shake my head. “Never mind. I shouldn’t have asked. Can I just—” I tug at my braid. “Can I be alone for a minute?”

  She nods at the exit. “I’ll be right outside.”

  The sunlight knifes across the ground as she leaves, before the tent is once again immersed in shadows. The low murmur of the shamanborn penetrates the tent. I push loose hair roughly behind my ears, my fingers once again finding those thin scars, proof that what and who I am cannot be so easily erased. Maybe Ronin is right. Maybe I should’ve been practicing my craft instead of wasting time trying to unearth the Dead Wood’s secrets.

  If I’d practiced more, dared the dangers of the Dead Wood more, fought Theyen more, maybe I could have saved Audri. Maybe I could heal Saengo. Maybe I would actually deserve the faith these shamanborn have placed in me.

  With a groan, I cover my face and listen only to the sounds of my breaths. In and out.

  Facts, Sirscha, I tell myself. Focus on the facts.

  Audri’s death is a grim reminder that the Dead Wood must be dealt with. I could free Audri and the other trapped souls. I need only learn how. And to save Saengo, I must remove the source of the disease. I need to find Kendara and learn what she knows about Ronin and the Dead Wood.