Forest of Souls

by Lori M. Lee

  I lift my hand in farewell and then guide Yandor toward the abyss of the Dead Wood. Yandor growls and backs away in objection. “Please, my friend. I need you to be brave. I wouldn’t ask this of you if it weren’t of the utmost importance.”

  With an indignant shake and a few angry huffs, he lowers his head and charges into the embrace of the trees. I turn to see Prince Meilek vanish into the shadows of the property. I have to trust that Saengo will be okay, that the prince will do all within his ability to stop his sister from igniting war.

  Then I face forward, focusing my full attention on the darkness that engulfs us. We head south, riding close along the right bank of the brook. The water is murky but allows for a narrow break in the branches overhead, providing enough moonlight to illuminate our path.

  For a while, the trees are silent. I wonder if they can sense what I am and if they’re as wary of me as I am of them. Fortunately, we travel too quickly for the branches to snag us, and the roots are thin so close to the bank. But it’s not a pace Yandor can keep up indefinitely.

  We’ve made good distance, several hours into the woods, before the hairs rise on the backs of my arms.

  The trees groan, the snap of bark echoing in our wake. Yandor makes an alarmed sound. I do my best to settle him, to encourage us both to be brave. The shadows seem to grow, racing from branch to branch, obscuring their movement. Surely a trick of the moonlight and our haste.

  Yandor pants loudly. We slow down so he can drink from my waterskin, but then the roots circle his legs, and he takes off again in a panic. With every passing hour, the trees press closer, slowly eliminating the narrow bank that brackets the rocky waterbed.

  A branch drops into our path. I cry out, but Yandor roars, snapping razor-sharp teeth at the offending limb. Jaw tight, I cling to the reins as Yandor bravely charges on. I ride low on his back, my cheek pressed to the smooth scales of his neck. We tear through grasping branches that scratch at my face.

  “We’re going to survive this,” I tell him, even as his foot slips briefly, nearly pitching me from the saddle. “We’re not going to die here. I won’t allow it.” I cannot let my fears gain control again, even though they’ve been gnawing at me from the moment I realized what I did to that knife thrower.

  Despite the odds, despite that I never quite believed what Ronin said about my craft, some desperate part of me wanted it to be true. So that I could make a difference. So that I could be someone. And for what? Recognition? Prestige? I tell myself I want these things, but my heart knows the truth.

  It is not from the world that I need acknowledgment of my worth.

  Pressure rises in my chest, dangerously close to a sob, but I swallow it down. I have not cried for myself in years, and now seems a foolish time to give in.

  Yandor makes a pained, wheezing sound as he leaps high over a nest of roots converging on the bank. I kick one aside and tear at another with my hands, snapping it free before flinging it into the water. Then Yandor’s leg is dragged out from under him. I gasp as we go down.

  Pain wraps me in thorny arms as I collide with the earth and barely avoid being crushed under Yandor. He’s on his feet almost instantly, claws ripping and teeth flashing. I’m slower to rise, lashing out at the nearest root and shouting with fury at the trees and at myself for leading us into this death trap.

  Why do you keep trying, Sirscha? You’re nothing special. You always fail. Why would this time be any different?

  I haul myself into the saddle, fighting against the roots that try to drag me back down. If I die, then Saengo dies as well. Prince Meilek will have betrayed his queen and sacrificed his birthright for nothing. What did the shamanborn in the Valley of Cranes escape for if not the hope of something beyond death and imprisonment, the very things Queen Meilyr and Ronin would gift to Thiy should I fail here?

  I might be a soulrender, but I am not the Soulless, and his legacy isn’t mine. I have done things no other shaman can claim. I turned a human spirit into a familiar. I freed souls trapped within the Dead Wood. And now I’m going to stop Ronin and save Saengo from the rot. Me, Sirscha Ashwyn, a girl with no true name.

  And I am not nothing.

  TWENTY-THREE

  The moment I’m situated again, Yandor leaps into the water. His claws shred through the roots. The rocks underfoot look unwieldy and treacherously slick, but he somehow keeps his footing. I press my lips to his neck and murmur my thanks for his bravery.

  Shadows explode in our path. I gasp, yanking on the reins. Water splashes my legs as we skid to a stop. The shadows amass into a blackness so impenetrable that even the surrounding trees look hospitable in comparison. I turn Yandor, heels kicking into his sides, although he needs no encouragement to run. A figure with snowy hair emerges from the darkness.

  Startled, I shout for Yandor to stop on the bank. Around his feet, shadows leap into the night, shielding us from the trees’ attacks.

  I whisper, uncertain, “Theyen?”

  “About time,” his voice snaps as he steps into the moonlight. “I’ve been trying to get your attention for hours now. I almost resorted to knocking you off your damned beast.”

  “Sisters, save me,” I mutter, breathless with relief.

  “No, that was me,” he says, gesturing to the black doorway.

  “How are you here?” The roots rustle underneath despite Theyen’s shadows. Yandor dances to the side, snorting impatiently to get moving again.

  “Shadow gate. It’s how I’m able to travel to and from Spinner’s End without needing to pass through the Dead Wood.”

  At that, I study the shadows anew. The very center of the gate is solid black, absorbing all light. The edges tumble and simmer in liquid black motion.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask, wary again.

  “Enjoying the scenery.” He glares at me. “I’m helping you. Why else would I be here?”

  “I don’t know if I can trust you.”

  His lip curls, but he says in a clipped tone, “I saw you ride out from a seclusion of trees with the Evewynian prince. Thought it was a tryst, but too many dead bodies. Unless you’re hiding some bizarre tendencies, in which case, keep them to yourself.”

  “Theyen,” I begin, impatient, but he continues.

  “I overheard something about an attack and figured you were in trouble, so I followed. Does that satisfy you, or would you like a full itinerary of my day?”

  “I don’t have time for your condescension right now.”

  “Then you’ll have to trust me. I don’t offer my help to just anyone. By the way, you look even more atrocious than normal. Were you strangled?”

  I throw up my hands. “You’re impossible.”

  “You must know that you’ll never make it to Spinner’s End before the trees find a way to grab your beast.”

  The branches scour through his shadows, splintering the amorphous beings. They re-form quick as lightning, but even Theyen looks nervous.

  “You can take us directly to the castle?”

  “Yes, but not more than one at a time.”

  I dismount. “Yandor first.”

  He opens his mouth to argue and then changes his mind. “Fine. Hand me your pack mule.”

  Yandor huffs and stomps as I give Theyen the reins. Within moments, they disappear into the gate. The shadowy doorway disperses in their wake.

  One thick root shoots past Theyen’s shadows. I slam my boot down on it. It recoils, sinking into the earth with the dry hiss of shifting soil. A boulder sits a few paces into the water. Gripping the stone, I climb onto its rough surface.

  The shadows break apart, too far from Theyen now for him to maintain control over them. Roots lift like legs, shedding layers of papery skin. My breath comes shallow and quick. The trees moan as their crooked trunks warp, stretching skeletal branches at my head.

  Something tugs at my sleeve. I spin around, but the boulder doesn’t allow much room to maneuver. I don’t want to use my craft unless absolutely necessary. Doing so could
hurt Saengo.

  The trees crowd ever closer. Fingers protrude from their innards, stretching the bark like a wet membrane ready to rupture. I imagine them breaking free, decomposed bodies clawing out from their earthen prisons. I immediately regret the thought. Something thin and cold scratches my forearm. I swipe out, breathing hard, and try to make myself as small a target as possible.

  Where in the names of the Sisters is Theyen?

  Roots slide through the water, circling the boulder like riverfiends converging on their prey. I hop onto another boulder, a larger one, but that brings me too close to a waiting knot of branches. They clamp onto my arms like barbs.

  Magic races along my skin, eager to be used, but I hold back. Faces surface from every tree, screaming noiselessly. It takes a moment for me to realize they’re all moving in terrifying unison: Run.

  Shadows burst between us. A swirling black mass materializes before me, blocking out the trees.

  Theyen leans out, hand extended. “Let’s go!”

  I rip my arms free, wincing as the branches tear through clothes and skin. He catches my hand and drags me through the gate.

  Silence encloses us. The darkness is absolute. My body feels suspended, like I’m floating or flying. Theyen’s arms encircle me, my only anchor in this sightless, soundless nightmare. My fingers dig into his back, terrified of being lost within the emptiness.

  Something shimmers ahead, and he tugs me forward. I take a step, and my foot suddenly finds the ground. Gasping, I clutch at him until the world rights itself and the shock of the shadow gate fades.

  “That was horrible,” I croak as I uncurl my fingers from his tunic.

  He makes a patronizing sound. Although we’re still in the Dead Wood, we’ve emerged near the white curtain of webbing that surrounds Spinner’s End.

  It isn’t until we’re clear of the trees and just shy of the webbing that I allow myself to breathe easy.

  “What took you so long?” I ask, peeking past the curtain to check for the night patrol. The gates are empty. I learned from my time here that the soldiers don’t take guard duty very seriously, and why should they? The Dead Wood does all their work for them.

  “The shadow gate scared your dim beast worse than the trees did. It took off the moment we emerged. I had to chase after it and then get it secured inside the castle grounds before coming back for you.”

  “But he’s okay?”

  “Yes, yes. Left him with a servant and orders to get him fed and cleaned up.”

  “Thank you.” I push aside the white curtain and step past its shield. With most everyone in bed, the castle is still. Low burning torches illuminate the entrances. Moonlight edges the roofs in silver and bleaches the bone palisade ivory.

  We stop first in the armory, which is simple enough to break into. I’m not going to kill any of Ronin’s soldiers, but I’d rather not face a giant spider with only my fists. I locate a pair of dual swords and strap them to my back. The weight of the weapons improves my mood immensely.

  On our way out, Theyen says, “Whatever you mean to do next, I can’t go with you. I won’t be any more involved than I already am.”

  I’m disappointed but not surprised. “You saved me just now. I can’t ask anything more of you.” I squint at his head and the shining circlet adorning his white hair. “Except for a hairpin.”

  His pale eyebrows pull together as he removes a slim silver hairpin. Thank the Sisters for his vanity.

  “Sirscha,” he says sharply, gripping my arm as I slide the pin into my own hair. “You must understand that I helped you as your friend, not as a Hlau of Penumbria. I don’t quite know what’s going on, but it’s better that way. I won’t have the Fireborn Queens dragged into war.”

  The word friend surprises me. Guilt pricks me for suspecting him of trying to kill me. I don’t want his clan forced into a war, either. I don’t want anyone getting caught between Queen Meilyr’s hatred and Ronin’s machinations.

  “You should know this at least,” I say. “Your people are in danger of attack. Prince Meilek should have already begun warning everyone, but the camps might be better convinced to hear it from you as well.”

  Although I can tell he’s uncertain, he only nods. “I’ll come back for you. Good luck.” He crosses the courtyard and adds, “Try not to do anything too foolish.”

  I creep from shadow to shadow, my feet a whisper over stone. Rather than go through the gardens, I scale the surrounding wall, which gives me a better vantage point. There isn’t a single soldier in sight now that Spinner’s End has been emptied of its guests, but I remain up high, shrouded by the castle towers that lend their shadows to the deeper regions of the maze.

  Before long, my boots fall on the arches dressed in webbing, and the pull of that dark magic squeezes around me. Here, I grip the edge of the stone and swing myself down onto the curved path. The power of Ronin’s familiar weighs against my shoulders, a cloak woven of iron. It sinks hooks into my skin, reeling me toward the columns where webbing brushes ghostly fingers over the top of my head.

  More webbing clings to the wooden door at the end of the garden. I tear away the bits of white. A heavy padlock secures the door shut. Brandishing Theyen’s hairpin, I crouch and take the padlock in hand. The lock clicks in less than five seconds. I silently thank Kendara’s obsessive training.

  My eyes scan the courtyard again, ears straining for anything unusual. There’s only silence. I draw the blades at my back, slowly, so that the sound of metal sliding from its sheath is no more than the wind whispering through the old castle stones. I nudge the door open with my foot. It doesn’t creak.

  There must be a separate entrance for the Spinner. Nothing larger than a person could get through this one. I cross the threshold into a wall of white. My feet touch stone, but I can’t see where it leads because webbing stretches in thick layers from ceiling to floor.

  Fear prickles my skin as I pierce the webbing with both swords and then slash downward to cut a hole wide enough for me to pass through. The hole reveals the collapsed wall of a small foyer. Dust clings to the heels of my boots. Broken boards and bits of wood lie piled in the corners.

  That weighty power beckons to me. I move slowly, every part of me hyperaware that somewhere ahead, a giant spider awaits. I’ve fought all manner of beasts, from serpents to rock scorpions and spiny boars, with their half-dozen tusks. I pray it’s prepared me to face a Spinner.

  Beyond the wreckage are the ruins of an immense greenhouse. The ceiling soars high above, but very little glass remains. Instead, all the windows are completely sealed over with webbing. Columns marbled by age and decay stand in two lines at either side.

  A series of lit lanterns adorn each column, illuminating the space and the enormous spiderweb that stretches floor to ceiling across the back wall. My stomach drops at the sight.

  Caught within the web is a large cocoon.

  I grip my swords tighter. Has the Spinner been feeding? What, exactly, does a spider twice the size of a drake even eat?

  But the condition of the cocoon doesn’t look new. The web is patchy and old, shriveled gray overlapped in white as if it’s been repaired countless times over countless years. Moss climbs the taut strands, startlingly green, and encases half the cocoon like the speckled shell of a large egg. The entire structure is strangely beautiful, completely at odds with the magic emanating from within.

  Nothing else but a Spinner could have woven the massive web, but why would its power be inside a cocoon?

  Standing before it, the wrongness of this magic is impossible to ignore. Compared to the blazing purity of my craft, this strange magic is like oil spilling over water. It pulls at me. I have to know what’s inside.

  Sheathing my swords, I cross the greenhouse until my hands close around the thick threads of the spiderweb that span the height of the room. I climb. The moss provides a gentle cushion for my palms. Each strand of webbing is sturdy and taut. I’m nearly thirty paces off the ground when I at last reach the e
normous cocoon.

  I draw one sword and carefully pierce the thick webbing. Dragging the blade downward, slowly, I slice through the first few layers. I tear away what I can and then repeat the process. At length, I sheathe the sword and dig my fingers into the last layers, wrenching the webbing roughly aside.

  Within the cocoon is a face. I recoil and almost lose my grip. My fingers seize the web, hanging on as my heart pounds. I stare, dumbstruck. It’s a body.

  Perplexed, I shred away more webbing, tilting my head as more of him is revealed.

  He’s … bizarrely beautiful, with high cheekbones and a regal nose. Long black hair twines around his neck and shoulders. His equally dark lashes cast shadows against his cheeks. His ears taper into a sharp point, like all highborn shamans.

  There’s a greenish tint to his skin, but not the foul green of decay. The body is perfectly preserved. The green adds an almost vibrant sheen to his pale skin, as if he has become a part of the moss that’s overtaken his tomb. A small puncture wound darkens the skin at the base of his neck, like from a spider’s bite. A clear liquid seeps from the wound.

  This shaman has been here a very long time.

  Swallowing uneasily, I lean in so that his mouth almost touches my cheek and then hold utterly still. Not a hint of breath. He’s dead.

  And yet, his power continues to press around me, a distorted oiliness that wants to catch in the flame of my magic. What kind of shaman could possess a power so immense that even death can’t silence it?

  One who has been blackened by unnatural magic, whose soul was so shattered that he defied death by living off the souls of others. I shake my head, reeling.

  The Soulless.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Impossible. How can I be staring into the face of the most powerful and terrible soulrender Thiy has ever known? He lived six hundred years ago, as old as Ronin.