Ascending Shadows Page 2

  Nyset bent down and scooped him up into her arms, groaning as a twang pulsed along her back. Every day he felt heavier. “Did you have a nice day with your uncle?” She rested him on her hip and peered into his peacock green eyes, marveling at the color. He stared back at her with awe-struck wonder. “Well?”

  Nyset glanced at Claw, who was rubbing his neck. She met his eyes and flashed him a smile. “Mistress.” He nodded at her. His white hair was tied back into a bun. A thin beard of the same hue crawled over his cheeks and along his neck. Ghostwalker sat dutifully on his hip, a menacing curved sword that once spoke to him before the Shadow Realm’s restoration. He wore tan trousers and a heavy shirt with the sleeves rolled up and the neck drawn opened to show the salt and pepper pelt covering his chest.

  “What do I need to do to make you let go of that formality?” Nyset regarded him with narrowed eyes.

  “Kill me,” Claw snickered, making his way over to her only chair. He eased into it, avoiding knocking over the precarious stacks of books on either armrest. It was striped and constructed of at least seven varieties of wood, each a darker shade than the one before it. “Are there any books left in the library? They seem to be breeding.” Claw raised an eyebrow at one of the stacks then swiveled his gaze upon her.

  “There are a few,” Nyset breathed. “I told the librarian if there were any requests for the books in my possession, I would gladly return them.”

  “Huh.” Claw leaned back and shimmied his shoulders against the chair back, his wizened eyes drawing circles around her office. “You should come down from your nest up here; come down with us next time. The market is a sight to behold since spring turned. Tourists coming by from all corners of the realm now. Folk are traveling again too, it seems. Besides, it’ll be good for you to get some air,” Claw spread his arms and crossed his legs. “Get out. Show your face. They need to know you’re still alive.”

  Nyset frowned at him. “My windows are always open. I get plenty of air. I appreciate your concern though, always the dutiful guard. And I appreciate you taking Gaidal, you know. I really do.” She smiled from Gaidal to Claw. “There are very few I’d entrust with his safety.”

  Claw grunted. “Give it a year or so, and he won’t need these old bones to watch over him, given his strength in the powers.”

  “Old? I didn’t know old men were capable of besting youths from the House of Arms.” She bobbed her brows at him.

  “I’ve had some good luck in the sparring yard lately. Though,” he groaned, “not without getting my share. Ribs are bruised, knees are sore.” A gust burst through the windows, sending black ash spiraling into corners.

  “Why don’t you just heal your injuries?” Nyset asked. She had known the answer before he said it: his indomitable sense of honor. She admired it.

  “Wouldn’t be fair, wouldn’t be right since they can’t.”

  “Uncie gave me sweets!” Gaidal grinned, clearly ready for her attention to be redirected at him. His eyes gleamed with mischief. They were Walter’s eyes. They were so much like his, they were sometimes difficult to look at. At times, he looked at her in just the right way like Walter once had, cracking open the old wounds. Sometimes, that was all it took to make her eyes gloss with warm tears.

  “Oh did he? He wasn’t supposed to do that, was he?” She tapped the tip of his tiny nose with her finger, and he swatted it away with a giggle, writhing against her side.

  “Just a few turnips,” Claw said, flipping open the topmost book upon one of the armrest stacks.

  Gaidal pressed against her arms, reaching for something near his leg.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  His hand strained for the bottom of his over-sized robe, grasping at the air, his tongue circling his mouth. “Oh,” he said as if remembering something. The hem of his robe floated off to his side, and something peeled from the bottom. A golden honeyed candy floated into the air and towards his eager mouth.

  “No candy before dinner,” Nyset said, tugging on a sliver of the Phoenix and overpowering him. She sent his candy into her trash barrel, filled to the brim with crumpled parchment. “Just turnips? Really?”

  “I have no idea where he found that,” Claw said without taking his eyes from the book. The corners of his lips raised with the start of a smile.

  Gaidal’s closed his eyes, wound them down tight, and his lips turned down. “No, Momma! I want it!” he wailed, reaching towards the barrel a few feet away.

  “I’m sorry, but you can’t have it.”

  He buried his face against her breast and sobbed. “But I want it,” he cried, his voice suppressed against her silk.

  “My boy, you will eventually learn that life does not give you what you want,” she whispered into his ear. He smelled faintly of earth and grass.

  Claw put the book down with a slap, letting the pile spill onto the floor.

  She glared at him, but he took no notice.

  He meandered over to her map of Tigeria and crossed his arms, still well-muscled despite his age. She saw his eyes go wide and supposed she had some explaining to do.

  Gaidal screamed into her chest. Nyset let out a heavy sigh and peered up at the ceiling as if the answer to her child’s tantrum might somehow be found there. She felt his body tingle with heat. “Do not use the Dragon or any of the powers.” She pulled him away so he could see the gravity of her command. “Do you understand me?”

  Gaidal pouted, and his cheeks glistened with tears. He jerked his arms around his body in a self-hug.

  “Listen. If you be a good boy, I’ll show you how to do something marvelous later.” Nyset shifted him into the crook of one arm and brought her open hand before him. “Are you ready?”

  He nodded a few times, his mouth dropping open and his eyes glued to hers. It always amazed her how his range of emotions could change so quickly. Had she just walked in, she wouldn’t have believed he had just been sobbing. “Are you sure?”

  He nodded with vigor, his wispy eyebrows arched. He looked down at her hand, waiting.

  “Watch carefully.” She snapped her fingers, and a spark of red electricity danced on the air, buzzing for a second.

  “Wow,” he cooed. A few sprigs of his hair floated on the air. “Teach me, Momma!” He reached out with both hands and tugged on her collar.

  She closed her fist, dismissing the red bolt. “Later. Your uncle and I have some matters to discuss. Go to your room and play with your toys. I’ll be with you in a bit. Okay?” She set him down and put her hands on her hips. He looked up at her, determination written in his eyes. He licked his lips and looked at Claw, at the barrel, then back at her again. He turned and ran for the door, legs awkwardly kicking out to his sides. “Bye, Momma!” he threw over his shoulder as he slipped through the doorway.

  Claw gave her a weary look, then set his gaze back on the map. “That boy is going to be trouble when he’s older, knowing so many spells at such a young age. Hope for your sake he doesn’t go through the rebellious phase.”

  “He won’t. Did you not see how sweet he is?” She gestured back at the door.

  “Yeah, he won’t.” Claw nodded and grinned. “Just like all boys don’t.”

  Nyset groaned at the thought. “Perhaps I should refrain from teaching him my best spells, for a time,” she muttered.

  “A fine idea to me.” Claw sniffed and leaned over the map, his countenance growing dark. He traced his finger along her marked points, smearing a red line from her latest mark in the south to the last in the northeast. “She makes a path of blood.”

  Nyset slipped over to his side with her lips pressed into a line. “I was going to tell you.”

  “When?” he asked, his voice edged with a hint of anger.

  “When I knew… for sure.” She swallowed and felt warmth filling her cheeks. He was right. She had promised she would tell him as soon as she knew anything about the Shadow princess’ location. But she didn’t and couldn’t say why. Maybe it was shame. Maybe it was her stubborn prid
e not wanting to admit her faults and mistakes.

  Claw closed his eyes and drew out a long exhale. She could see his anger melting away in the way his shoulders relaxed. “When did you know for sure?”

  “A few months ago. I sent scouts to Tigeria, thinking it a fruitless effort. Had to try.”

  “Told you it wasn’t, Mistress.”

  “Right, I know.” She nodded and bit her lip. “I’m sorry. I should have told you—”

  “Can I see the letter?” Claw turned and squared his hips to her. His jaw worked as if he were chewing a tough piece of meat. His right hand rested on his sword’s pommel.

  “Of course.” She snatched it from her scroll bag and held it out to him. “Be careful with it.”

  He wiped the remains of the red ink on his pants before taking it. He knitted his brows at her, then carefully unfurled it, the paper hissing against his leathery hands. He took in a bracing breath. She watched his eyes, saw them twitch as if he had been struck. When he finished, he slowly lowered his hands and wordlessly handed it back.

  He turned and stared out the window at the setting sun. A sheet of pink light bathed his face, highlighting a long scar that traveled from the bottom of his eye and down his throat. “The Shadow has returned then. Suppose it was only a matter of time.”

  She turned to face the sun, watched the Far Sea shimmer and twinkle with pink sapphires. “Yes,” she said, feeling her chest tightening like a vice was starting to crush it. She wanted to act, wanted something to inflict violence upon. She knew her war could not be on the ground, for Gaidal. She wouldn’t leave him motherless too. Her hands balled into fists, and the tendons stood from her wrists.

  “What shall we do, Mistress?” He reached out and gently closed his fingers around her hand.

  She opened her fist, drew her hand in tight around his, and held it in a crushing grip. The toughness of his skin was a comfort. “Walter once told me that the only future for peace was war. I fear our time of peace has drawn to an end.”

  “You are young. Like me,” the Shadow princess said slowly, her tongue caressing each word with the utmost care. She hadn’t spoken much since arriving in Tigeria. She had spent most of her time observing their ways, doing her best to fit in with their tribes. She had played the role of the lost introvert in this tribe, sulking in corners and lost in quiet contemplation. She did her best to respectfully answer the probing questions of the other tribesman. Something had gone wrong.

  She wondered what she had done incorrectly to be discovered this time. It seemed to her that Tigerians were more intelligent than their primitive forms should have allowed. This was the fourth time someone had confronted her. Alone, to their own peril. Then she’d be forced to move on. She’d bless them with the Shadow’s touch and travel onward to the next settlement of primitives.

  In the last tribe she stayed with, before casting them into the arms of ruin, she learned how to answer questions. She bowed her head with the proper deference to the clan chief and thought about her words before they left her lips. If only her brother, Asebor, who was also her father, had learned to think before acting, perhaps he would have yet traversed into the Great Emptiness. She had learned that bold words would attract more attention than she wanted. When she was quiet, soft spoken, she went unnoticed. Life was easier when no one knew your name.

  She couldn’t say how much time had passed, for time was not a thing she measured. Three years had passed since she escaped the Shadow Realm, if you were to measure the passage of time in the way of man. In the Shadow Realm, time was unknown and did not pass. Time had no start, no middle, no end.

  It was easy for her to go physically undetected. She took on their bodily forms and the structure of their flesh, and all of their spots and colors. The difficult part, the part when she was most likely to be discovered was when she had no choice but to speak. She needed more practice, she thought, cocking her head at him and exposing her neck.

  A grim silence hung on the air while she waited for him to reply. The young warrior dropped into a fighting stance. He opened his hands, tipped with long obsidian nails that shone with the reds of the bleeding sun. “You are not one of us,” he growled, his lips peeled back to reveal the feline teeth lining his long mouth.

  He had the body of a man, the face a strange mix of man and tiger. His auburn mane hung around his heavily muscled shoulders, thick strands of hair falling down to the middle of his back. His flesh was covered in a mustard colored pelt, dark spots littering his arms and thighs.

  He wore heavy bronze bracers over his forearms and shins. There was a tattered loin cloth over his nether regions, secured by a frayed vine. Above his biceps and across his broad chest from a shoulder to hip were bronze chain links, each connected by an oval shaped disk. His fingers were adorned with bronze rings, and around his throat, a bulbous necklace of shining beads. Given the jewelry and sinuous tattoos curling around his face, he must have been Rookstead’s chief.

  Behind the Shadow princess was her home, a narrow and shallow cave with a carpet of moss clinging to the back wall. All of her worldly possessions were there: a few pilfered candle stubs to read by, a book she had read hundreds of times, and the phylactery she had been tirelessly working to make. It was a bright aquamarine crystal, imbued with enough of her strength to split the continent into halves if it were disturbed before she completed the soul transfer. Her phylactery glowed like a torch behind her, illuminating the cave’s walls in shimmering blues and greens.

  Around them was a vast and ancient forest. Its woody scent filled the continent with centuries of debris, silently rotting. The organic smell came in waves, something she had yet to become accustomed to. Each towering tree was a timeless guardian of the skies above, occasionally failing and letting slivers of light stab through.

  Tangled vines hung down in coiling loops between broad leaves. Roots twisted up from the ground like the backs of rising sea monsters, some so large you could walk beneath them. The foliage between the trees was lush and impassably thick. Tigerians had to stick to the paths to effectively travel to and from other locales. She would simply fly, though limited by her stamina. Stinging briers flanked the paths, deadly to those without the properly developed immunity.

  Gnarled boughs spilled out with an endless supply of edible nuts. A gleaming spider’s web shone behind the Tigerian warrior, hundreds of dead leaves and sticks trapped in its sticky snares. Another tree behind him had a lightning-blasted side, charred in fractal scars. Mist wrapped around the broad trunks like a wizard’s smoke, rising only a foot from the ground. It deadened sounds and crept into the sunlight before being vaporized. Tiny insects were like stardust dancing on chinks of light.

  The trees had parted above her home, fearing her strength and showing the sky speckled with clouds. Everything once living around her home had perished long ago, and nothing dared to try growing there again. Not even mold and mushrooms would survive her pestilence.

  “What is your name, truly?” he demanded.

  “I am nameless.”

  “You dare play games with me, witch? Do you know who I am?” Muscles twitched beneath the chieftain’s thick fur.

  “But I like games. Don’t you?” A gentle smile tugged at her lips.

  “Why are you here?”

  “I like your kind. You fascinate me. You are different than men, but in some ways much alike.”

  The warrior opened his mouth to speak, and as if on cue, an avian song erupted around them and swallowed his words. More beaked friends joined in the melodious song and added to the cacophony. The warrior’s dark eyes shifted from side to side, and he took a step away from her, claws closing.

  Their songs were grating, scratching at her soul. She raised her arm, and his sharp eyes followed it. She stared at her arm for a moment, finding it unrecognizable, forgetting for an instant the form she had taken. It was bright with wisps of amber hair and striped with black half-moons. She smiled then and brushed the arm with her other hand. It seemed so re
al she had almost expected to feel the hair, but her hand passed through it as if through the mist at her knees.

  The forest harbored her dark secrets, kept them hidden from unwanted eyes, until now. She closed her fist, and the birdsong ceased. He gasped, his carnivorous mouth snapping shut. A second later, the sounds of hundreds of stones dropping from the sky thumped and echoed from the ground around them. She grinned at the effect it produced, watched his eyes turn down with pain. Tigerians had a special love for the wildlife of the forest. She couldn’t help but turn that knife when the opportunity presented itself.

  “Wh-what are you?” he stammered. “How could you?”

  “Brother, I don’t understand your meaning. Was I not welcomed with the Gift of Travelers to Rookstead just weeks ago?” She hoped she said the words right, conveyed the proper meaning. “Your posture indicates I am no longer welcome.”

  “You are no Tigerian!” He snarled and backed into the iron bark of a tree, one arm raised protectively over his chest. “You are not of this realm!”

  “But don’t you like me?” She let her shoulders sag, eyebrows drawing in. She slipped a furry finger under the strap of her illusory, midriff-showing top, letting it slide from her shoulder to the forest’s floor. She pushed her chest out, thrusting her bulbous breasts towards him.

  “You. You are of the Shadow! Your wiles will not work on me, Shadow witch.” The chieftain spread his legs out into a wide base, his back pressed against the tree.

  She took a dainty step towards him and her loincloth fell away. She grinned at watching him fight to keep his eyes leveled on hers. He wanted to look. She could feel his lust, feel the blood surging to his groin.

  “Stop! Come no closer.” He stabbed the air with his finger.

  She sent him an image. She told him her body was as soft as the wind, her breath sweet as plums, and her breast fragrant as honey. She stepped closer, her smile widening to show the timeless fires burning in her mouth. She told him her sex was made of sugar, her lips warm and wet.