by Lori M. Lee
“Well enough,” I say.
Cracking open the door, I peer outside. The street is deserted. Everyone’s gone to either help with the fire or watch the spectacle. I gesture for them to follow as I dart outside, crossing the street into a darkened alley. The southwest sky glows orange as the queen’s ships burn.
Although I pause at every street to assess how exposed we’ll be, the only other people are a stray drunk and a couple searching for a quiet space where they won’t have to pay for a room.
This part of Vos Gillis is more subdued than the night market. Lanterns shine from street corners and the occasional roof, but they’re for function, not decoration. My shadow stretches long and stark over the dirt before I duck into another alley.
The others follow closely just as two guards appear at the end of the alley, blocking our path.
“Sirscha.” Kudera grasps my elbow.
I raise my swords as they bear down on us. From behind me comes the distinct sound of an arrow being loosed.
There’s a gasp and a grunt. No! My mind screams as the first guard reaches me. I slam the hilt of my sword into his temple and then turn, my mind racing back to the horror of Talon’s Teahouse.
Nong lies half on top of Maiya, an arrow embedded in his back. He must have shielded her with his body. Morun clings to Kudera’s waist, wide-eyed with terror.
I can tell with a glance that the arrow punctured something vital. Nong doesn’t move. Maiya’s mouth is open on a soundless scream, her entire body trembling as she squirms out from under Nong’s weight.
With a furious cry, I knock aside the second guard’s sword. I kick him in the face, sending him crashing into the dirt. Then I shift my attention to the archer.
Kudera pulls Maiya and Morun against the wall, eyes frantic, pleading for help.
Why did you come for them, Sirscha? A voice inside me asks. Why would you try?
I came to Vos Gillis to find Kendara and to save Saengo, but why risk helping the shamanborn?
The answer is clear and quick: because I was afraid.
Not for my life. I was afraid of being invisible, a fear I’ve held close from the moment I was old enough to understand that I’d been abandoned with no true name. It’s why I so desperately sought Kendara’s approval. She is the only person besides Saengo who’s ever truly seen me. It’s why I couldn’t allow myself to be beaten in the sparring circle despite that it would have better served me to be underestimated, to be dismissed.
I’d hoped once I secured Kendara’s and the queen’s approval, that irrational part of myself—that childish need to be seen, to be acknowledged—would be appeased.
Standing in the tent at Sab Hlee, at last understanding the enormity of what being a soulguide meant and how I could never hope to measure up, I’d felt an echo of that familiar fear. And I could not bear it.
I step past Nong’s body, sprawled gracelessly in the dirt. My nostrils flare. A cool stillness settles over me as I slash at the archer’s next arrow, snapping it in half.
The archer scrambles back, reaching for another arrow. I rush him, forcing him to draw his sword instead. Our blades meet, his one against my two. My heart beats steadily, my breaths slow, my body given over to the battle calm.
The archer staggers beneath my onslaught, panic in the whites of his eyes. With a flourish, my swords rip his own from his hands. It clatters against the alley wall. I plant my foot in his gut. He falls to his knees, his chest heaving as I rest my swords at either side of his neck.
I could kill him. I could dig my blades into the tender flesh of his neck and let him bleed. His life for Nong’s.
This violence, this capacity to hurt—what was it Saengo had said? This is what Kendara had seen in me all those years ago.
Danger makes you deadly. She’d misunderstood. It had never been danger. It was fear.
The guard pitches backward as my blades close around his neck. Twin lines of red form against the skin beneath his jaw as he rolls away, gasping. He turns to flee, but I fling one sword. It stabs into the back of his thigh. He cries out and collapses. I bend over to yank my sword from his flesh and then lift my other one.
A sword cuts into my path. Our blades meet with a sharp clang. Instantly, I redirect my strike and then pull up short when my eyes meet Prince Meilek’s. Before I’ve even made the decision, I back away, putting space between us.
His gaze flits between me and the shamanborn, assessing the situation. There will be no talking this time. No bids for understanding or kindness. There are only our swords.
A week ago, I’d balked at the mere idea of raising my sword to the prince of Evewyn.
Have your loyalties shifted? I wasn’t lying when I said they haven’t. My loyalty remains with Evewyn. With its people. Human and shamanborn alike, those forsaken by our queen. My loyalties have not shifted—they have simply grown beyond myself.
I raise my swords into the third stance of the Wyvern’s Dance. I can hardly believe my audacity as Prince Meilek frowns and lifts his own sword, copying my stance. Behind him, the injured archer drags himself away.
Kudera whispers a curse. One of the guards I’d knocked out is rising to his feet, his palm pressed against his temple. Kudera pushes Morun into Maiya’s arms as she draws the dagger from her waist. Nearby, water streams down from a gutter, catching the glow of a lantern so that it appears almost like a ribbon of light.
“Are you sure about this?” Prince Meilek says, reclaiming my attention.
“I have no desire to fight you.” But he’s given me no choice. “You claim to care about the shamanborn, and yet they continue to die because you lack the conviction to defy your sister.” He worries more about upholding his family’s power than about the lives of his own citizens, who naively thank him for helping them with one hand while holding their chains with the other.
Prince Meilek’s eyes narrow, but he doesn’t respond to my accusations. I suppose because there’s nothing to be said.
We regard each other. I draw a deep breath of air that smells of damp earth, mildew, and salt. I’ve never seen him fight seriously, but it would be a mistake to underestimate the captain of the Queen’s Guard.
I strike out, not with any real speed. I just want to see how he responds. His reaction is immediate as he knocks aside my blade, looking almost languid. He’s quick, his reflexes excellent. But no matter. The dual swords might have a shorter reach, but they’re lighter and faster, like me.
He swings his sword in a quick attack. I block with both blades and then kick out. He jumps away. I follow, my swords dipping and twirling, moving as one. He deflects my strikes with impressive efficiency, and even though the speed of my attacks should allow for little retaliation, his blade manages to whisper past my side before I knock it away.
We move down the alley, using the limited space to our advantage as the low buzz of the city and the fire fade into background noise. This is not a fight; it is a dance. I dart forward, and Prince Meilek moves with me. He spins away, and I turn with him. I slip seamlessly into a more advanced sword form—Kendara’s, one which she’s never named. Our swords meet in a clang of sharp notes, music to our strange choreography, each strike answered with a perfectly timed block.
I push him back only for him to maneuver a quick reversal, confirming that he isn’t just mimicking my form. He knows the stances, each move skillfully executed. Our bodies flow with the same effortless grace, our swords with the same lethal precision, for one simple reason that I’ve long suspected—because Kendara wasn’t just a mother figure to him. She was his sword master.
Somewhere behind me, Kudera cries out. Water splashes against the alley wall, misting the backs of my legs. I duck beneath the swipe of Prince Meilek’s sword arm, reversing our positions so I can check on Kudera. The guard has her cornered. Her dagger lies in the dirt, out of her reach. She flings a stream of water into his face. He staggers briefly and then swings his sword in a wide arc for her head.
I parry Prince Meilek’s
next attack with one sword and then hurl the other. The move leaves me exposed, but the tip finds its mark, clanging into the guard’s blade. He gasps as the sword flies from his hand. Immediately, Prince Meilek pulls his next strike, which would have sliced open my side. Before I can retaliate, though, he steps in close and slides his blade beneath my chin.
Kudera makes a broad sweeping motion with her arms. The water snaps across the guard’s face. With a grunt, his head lolls, and he crumples to the dirt. She’s breathing hard as she turns, stricken, to me and Prince Meilek.
Silence settles in the alley. Prince Meilek’s sword hand doesn’t waver. His blade is cold against my skin. My mind races for a way to get out of this, but it comes up short. His skill matches mine. I mentally curse. My only option now is to distract him long enough to allow Kudera and the others to make a run for it. They might have a chance of reaching the ship unscathed.
I open my mouth to tell them to run when the sword drops from my neck. I instantly pull away, raising my remaining sword between us.
Prince Meilek’s face is all sharp angles in the shadowy light, his eyes like flint and his mouth an angry slash. He jerks his head toward the mouth of the alley. “Get these shamanborn out of here. That guard won’t be out for long, and there are more coming.”
Warily, my body poised for a trap, I wave at Kudera and the others to hurry ahead. They don’t argue, scurrying quickly toward the next street. As I make to follow, my gaze falls on Nong’s body. I pause. My throat works as I try to swallow the lump that forms there.
“I will have him seen to,” Prince Meilek says.
What does that mean? Will he be given a proper burial? Who will sing his lifestory to the Sisters? Who will walk with his spirit, retracing the path he’d taken in life until he reaches the gates into the spirit realm?
But there’s no time for questions. I pray that the Sisters allow his spirit a place among them even without the funeral rituals. Then, keeping my gaze on Prince Meilek, I retrieve my other sword and dart out of the alley after the others.
We rush past rows of ships to Berth 15, far from the Queen’s Wharf. Phaut’s lean form is pacing on the dock, the anxious set of her shoulders outlined in soft yellow lantern light. When she spots us, she waves and sprints to meet us.
“About time,” she hisses and then draws up short when she sees the shamanborn. “Is this it? Only three?”
I nod grimly, and she doesn’t ask any further questions. She gestures toward the waiting ship. The figures of the crew scurry aboard the deck.
The ship is small in comparison to the others, but it’ll suffice. Phaut ushers Maiya and Morun up the gangplank, and I trust by the way someone readies to cast off the lines that she has settled their passage and they’ve agreed to a hasty departure. Only the captain pays the shamanborn any attention, greeting them curtly.
“Hurry.” I gesture for Kudera to follow the others.
She hesitates, twisting the hem of her shirt around her fingers. Then, to my surprise, she hugs me. “Thank you,” she whispers.
“I only guided you to a ship,” I say.
Her arms tighten around my shoulders, her bony joints digging into me. “If you ever have need of us, send word, and we will come.”
Her promise makes my throat go tight. Because it’s suddenly difficult to speak, I can only nod. Phaut and I stand watch until the darkness claims the ship’s figure and they’re in no danger of being intercepted by the Royal Army that patrols the coast.
I wait to feel something like joy or relief. Instead, I feel hollow. Kendara never appeared. I am no closer to saving Saengo than I was a few days ago. On top of that, we saved three shamanborn out of the ten who entered Vos Gillis with Kudera, out of the twenty-three who came south with her. This is not a victory.
“My sister,” Phaut says abruptly. I look at her, but her gaze remains fixed on the dark waves. “We came across a lightwender once who’d been attacked by a beast. He was a lightgiver, and he would have died, but he used his ability to transfer the life energy within my sister into himself, prolonging his life long enough for help to arrive.”
“That’s why you dislike lightwenders,” I say. No wonder she’d been determined to distrust me when I arrived.
She nods. “He didn’t even ask her permission. She almost died.”
“That was a cowardly thing to do. I hope he paid for it.”
“Some people simply can’t be trusted to wield that kind of power.” She turns from the sea to meet my eyes. “But risking your life to help these shamans … that was good of you, Sirscha. I’m sorry you didn’t find your mentor, but I’m glad we did this.”
A bit of that hollowness within me fades. “I couldn’t have done this without you.”
“You there!” a guard shouts.
“Damn it,” I mutter.
Phaut and I sprint back into the streets to make our own escape. We lead the guards through twisting alleys and stacks of crates; over bridges that rattle beneath our boots, a board coming loose and splashing into the river below; past merchants thrusting their wares at passersby and chickens pecking for bugs. The chickens squawk and startle, flapping madly and spitting feathers into the guards’ faces as their owners shout in protest.
I don’t chance more than a quick glance over my shoulder. There are too many guards. We won’t be able to lose them long enough to reach our drakes, not without heading onto the roofs, and I don’t know how well Phaut can climb.
We head east, skirting the southern edge of the night market, where the strains of a reed pipe haunt the dirt-packed paths despite the night’s activity. Seconds later, we hit a wall of bodies—spectators who’ve crammed into the streets to watch the blaze of the Queen’s Wharf. The fire rages on, setting the night sky aflame. We elbow our way through the crowd, earning a few curses.
“Make way!” the guards shout from behind us. Their command is drowned out by the commotion.
A manic laugh escapes me when I see that Phaut had set fire to all four of the queen’s ships. Efforts to put them out have subsided. Instead, the fire crew watches along with everyone else as the ships burn, collapsing into the sea.
Within moments, we break free of the crush and dive back into the shadows of an alley. An arrow strikes the wall beside my head with a loud thwack.
At the next intersection, Phaut veers left in the direction of our drakes, but I clutch her sleeve and drag her with me to the right. We rush past a pile of refuse, and then the cramped towers of buildings abruptly end. We plunge into thigh-high grass. The field ripples under a sharp sea breeze, each blade of grass brushed gold from the glow of fire.
“Hurry,” I shout as Phaut stumbles to a stop.
She drags in two wheezing breaths, then jumps into a run again when an arrow lands near her feet. “Our drakes?”
“We’ll never make it!”
We cut a line straight through the field, heading directly for the twisted black shape of the Dead Wood.
“Are you sure about this?” she shouts. Another arrow sings through the air.
“No other choice!”
Taking the rowboat we’d stolen would be too slow, the canals too congested for swift movement. Even were that an option, the waters between Kazahyn and Evewyn are closely patrolled. If all shadowblessed have eyesight as sharp as Theyen’s, our boat would be easily spotted. We can’t risk returning to our drakes and being chased north, either. We might lead them straight to Sab Hlee.
It’s dire indeed when the Dead Wood is our best option. This far south, the Dead Wood is at its narrowest. If we’re quick, we can cross in fewer than two hours. Once we’re in Kazahyn, we’ll make our way north to Sab Hnou. Ronin’s eastern encampment, the sister camp to Sab Hlee, sits between the borders of Kazahyn and the Nuvalyn Empire.
The Dead Wood looms ahead, a silent menace. Phaut begins to falter, her pace slowing. There’s no going back now, so I pull ahead and plunge first into the darkness.
We don’t go far. Once we’re concealed, we
crouch low to the earth and watch the soldiers who linger just beyond the reach of the trees. There are almost a dozen, arguing loudly. Most seem opposed to following us, insisting the Dead Wood will finish us off. Prince Meilek arrives a moment later. His dragule cuts a large swath through the grass.
The soldiers spread out to watch the perimeter, but Prince Meilek remains nearby, glowering into the gloom. Despite our fight in the alley, the sight of him makes guilt rattle around my ribs. I know, reasonably, that he doesn’t have the power to free the shamanborn, even as the queen’s brother. But that doesn’t mean he’s powerless, and he knows that.
I frown, struck by a sudden realization.
Kendara isn’t in Vos Gillis. She never was. The person in the queen’s circle helping the shamanborn escape is Prince Meilek. He would have the resources. He’s so loyal to his sister and to his duty that it didn’t even occur to me.
But as soon as his guards were either gone or knocked out, he let us go. Sisters, I’m such an idiot.
Something rustles to our left. Phaut hisses my name. Her voice quavers.
“Right,” I whisper. “Let’s go.”
We run. This far from the heart of the Dead Wood, the trees stand farther apart, their limbs not quite so tangled. Moonlight brightens our path. I tune my ears to the crackle of dry bark and the hiss of the earth when the roots rise, sloughing dirt.
I tell myself that the hard part is already over. Kudera and the others are freed. But Phaut draws a thin, high breath, reminding me I still have someone else to keep safe before this night is through.
“Once we’re in Kazahyn, how far to Sab Hnou?” I ask.
“Hard to say. Three or four days? I’ve never been this far south before.” She sounds distracted, her focus on the trees.
I recall what she said about her familiar yesterday. Guilt pricks at my conscience because it’s true that I haven’t asked much about her. Of course, that was because Phaut wanted nothing to do with me, but I’d like to think it’s different between us now.