Empire of Night (6 page)

T
he spirits bade Ashyn farewell as she left the imperial city. She heard their whispers, sometimes coming clear enough for her to catch a word or two, but often no more than circling murmurs, as much a part of her world as the wind sighing through the trees. A Seeker and Keeper did not converse directly with the ancestral spirits, as the spirit talkers could. Nor did they see them, if indeed they had form that could be seen, which Ashyn doubted.

The spirits did not serve the Seeker and Keeper. The Seeker and Keeper served the spirits. Ashyn was responsible for rituals and ceremonies to put them at peace. Moria protected the ancestors—and the living—from evil spirits, possessing the power to fight and banish them. Occasionally, the ancestors would demand something, like when they told Moria to give Ronan her dagger before he went into the Forest of the Dead. Why? Well, that was where the communications
ended. Demands and vague warnings only. Or greetings and farewells.

“Pointless,” Moria muttered as they left the city. “How about some actual words of wisdom?”

Take care, Keeper. Be well, Seeker.

“Helpful. Very helpful.” Moria looked at her. “Is it just me, or do they seem a little too happy to see us leave?”

“Thea and Ellyn are their Keeper and Seeker. We're intruders.”

Moria grumbled. Ashyn had read stories of wise old women eager to impart their wisdom to the younger generation. Thea and Ellyn imparted each bit of their wisdom as if it were a tooth and soon they'd have none left. With everything that had happened, Ashyn would have loved to seek counsel with the elderly Keeper and Seeker, but they hadn't even seen the two women since the day they arrived. Were they busy preparing for Alvar's war, preparing to fight shadow stalkers? If so, shouldn't all four have been doing it together?

Ashyn sighed to herself and then looked across the convoy. She and Moria were the only women. The caravan drivers would double as staff. Six warriors rode with them, half in front and half in rear, their sword sheaths clicking in the dawn quiet. There were two counselors, bound up in their cloaks, the morning's damp still on them.

“All is well, Ashyn?” Tyrus said as he caught her gazing about.

She smiled for him. “It is,” she said, and they rode from the city.

By the second day, Moria seemed ready to jump out of her skin with frustration. Their pace was slow, the days were long, and the children of Edgewood waited. When Moria snuck off with Daigo—for the third time—Tyrus stepped up his efforts to keep her entertained, calling on one warrior or another to chat with them. After the midday meal, they stopped in a village where two men were to join their group. Tyrus, Ashyn, and Moria explored while the rest of the group awaited the new arrivals.

When the caravan stopped for the night, the three of them assisted with the pitching of the tents and then rode off so Ashyn could practice at daggers without providing amusement for the warriors. The lessons alleviated Moria's frustration and, if she was being honest, Ashyn would admit the physical workout helped hers, too. She was as eager to reach Fairview as her sister. She simply hid it better. When they returned to camp, Ashyn went on ahead, leaving Tyrus distracting Moria with a heated debate on the tactics used in the Battle of Asteth.

Ashyn reached the tents. They were tall enough for a man to walk upright inside, with dividers splitting the space for multiple sleepers. Ashyn shared one with Moria and Tyrus—the prince taking the “front room,” which was considered more appropriate than allowing the girls to sleep unguarded.

When Ashyn opened the flap on what she thought was their tent, she saw the younger of the two men who'd joined them that afternoon. He sat on a cushion as he wrote on a low table.

“Oh, I'm sorry,” she said. “Wrong tent.”

“Actually, your timing is excellent. I'll take tea, please. And
I believe there were some honey cakes? I'll have one of those.”

She let out a soft laugh. “We haven't been formally introduced. I'm—”

“It doesn't matter.”

“What?”

He waved his hand. “I don't mean to be rude, but I'll never remember your name, so there's no point in giving it.”

Living in Edgewood, she'd seen people from all corners of the empire—exiled convicts and traders and travelers. It was impossible to say, from appearance, where someone hailed from. There were no restrictions on movement and there was much mingling of blood, so to presume someone with pale skin lived in the North was to mark yourself an ignorant peasant. The one true indicator was accent, which she was proficient at deciphering. This young man surely hailed from the steppes. He looked like it as well, with skin only slightly darker than hers, light brown hair, and ruddy cheeks, as if they'd been permanently burned by the steppe's legendary winds. As for whether he was handsome, it mattered little. He was rude—that canceled out any physical attractions.

“I am not a serving girl. I am Ashyn, Seeker of Edgewood.”

A sharp look her way. “You ought not to play that game, girl. It might be mistaken for blasphemy.”

“Game? I am—”

“And that is your Hound of the Immortals?” He waved to her empty side; Tova waited outside the tent. “I did not realize they could cloak themselves in invisibility. Is your sister invisible as well? I believe I'd have noticed twin Northern girls in camp. As someone who knows many from your home region,
I would suggest that you do them a disservice in concocting so preposterous a story. You will only further the stereotype of their intelligence—or lack of it. Now, my tea. Quickly or I'll report you to the wagon master.” His gray eyes met hers. “I ought to do so anyway.”

He turned back to his work. Ashyn withdrew from the tent. Tova was nudging the flap, as if trying to figure out how to open the ties and come to her rescue.

“I'm fine,” she whispered as they walked away. “But someone is going to wait a very long time for his blasted tea and cake.”

Tova looked shocked by her language. She smiled and patted his head.

“I know, but he deserved it.”

“Who deserved what?” Moria asked behind her.

Ashyn turned as Moria and Tyrus caught up. Sweat streaked through the road dust on their faces and both were in desperate need of fresh tunics, but the jaunty gleam in Moria's eye kept Ashyn from moving farther downwind.

There was an extra bounce in Tyrus's step, too, and a light in his face when he looked Moria's way. She was happy, so he was happy.

He cares for her. He truly does.

“Who deserved what?” Moria repeated as they continued through the camp.

“Oh, just . . .” Ashyn fluttered her hand. “That young man who joined the caravan mistook me for a serving girl.”

Moria snorted. “Idiot. You corrected him, of course.”

“I tried. First, he told me not to give my name, because it's
inconsequential. Then he lectured me on not furthering the intellectual stereotypes of Northerners with dim-witted tricks. I am to bring his tea and honey cakes at once. He may be waiting a while.”

Tyrus laughed. Moria turned on her heel, her glare sweeping across the camp.

“That tent over there? The one we saw you exiting?”

“Yes, but—”

“Tea and honey cakes, you said?”

“Yes, but—”

Moria started toward the rations wagon. “We wouldn't want the poor boy to go hungry.”

“Moria, don't—”

Tyrus caught her arm. “Let her.” He leaned to her ear and whispered. “You know you want her to. And if a prince insists, you have no choice.”

Ashyn and Tyrus caught up as Moria strode into the young man's tent, tea in hand.

“Finally,” they heard him say. “You can put that right—”

“Here, my lord?”

The gurgle of rushing water. A shriek. Ashyn raced into the tent, thinking Moria had poured it on him. Of course, she had not. The water was boiling. She
had
poured it, though . . . onto the paper he'd been writing on.

“You stupid, clumsy—!”

“Oh, I'm sorry.” She picked up a soaked page. “This wasn't important, was it?”

“You foolish girl,” the young man said. “I ought to—”

“Teach me a lesson?” Moria opened her cloak, hand falling to one of her daggers. “Shall we take this outside? I'd rather a fair fight, dagger to dagger, but if you prefer a sword, I suppose that would . . .” Her gaze moved to his empty sash. “You've removed your blades? A warrior must never . . .” Her eyes widened in mock surprise. “Are you not a warrior?”

As Ashyn moved closer, Daigo reached Moria and settled in beside her. The young man looked at the wildcat.

“That is . . . You are . . .” He struggled for words, then said, “You claimed you were a Seeker,” as if that erased the issue.

“I claimed nothing.” Moria waved at Ashyn. “She said she was a Seeker.”

He turned and saw Ashyn and gaped. Then his gaze went to the third person in the tent and he fell forward into the deepest bow one could manage without toppling.

“My lord prince. I—I had not realized—”

Tyrus cut him off. “Then I would suggest you spend less time staring at your books and more at your surroundings. It is quite impossible to miss a Wildcat of the Immortals or a Hound of the Immortals. Not to mention the fact that the only two women in our caravan are twins.”

“Y-yes, your highness. I do apologize. My thoughts were elsewhere.” He stepped forward. “My name is—”

“Oh, there's no need to tell me. I'll not bother to remember it.”

The young man's face mottled as his gaze dropped.

“You are Simeon of Mistvale,” Tyrus said. “Assistant to Katsumoto. I know who I travel with.”

That rebuke seemed to cut even deeper than the first, and
Simeon stuttered an apology. Meanwhile, Moria wandered to his writing desk, peering down at the undamaged papers.

“You are a teller of stories?” she said.

Before Simeon could answer, Tyrus cut in. “Of a sort, one could say. I'm certain he'd be more than happy to entertain you with a tale tonight.”

“I—” Simeon began.

“More
than happy,” Tyrus said.

Ashyn knew Katsumoto's name—he was a great scholar, not a bard. But Tyrus gave Simeon a look that forbade argument. This was the prince's lesson in making presumptions of identity.

“You'll sing our Keeper a song tonight, at the fire,” he said. “I'd choose a rare one. She has quite the knowledge of tales, and you'll find she's easily bored. And when she's bored . . . you noted the daggers, I take it?”

Moria made a face at Tyrus. He smiled and waved for the girls to come out with him, leaving Simeon looking as if he'd just been ordered to commit ritual suicide.

T
yrus didn't actually make Simeon play bard. Shortly before the evening fire, he told Moria Simeon's true occupation, likely more to save her from embarrassment than Simeon. For the night's entertainment, someone played a flute, then someone sang a tale. Neither performance was expertly done, but there was no place for bards and musicians on such a journey. Moria grumbled that there was no place for frivolity at all—they should get to sleep and rise sooner. Tyrus had compromised by allowing the men this brief entertainment before declaring they'd rise at dawn and must retire sooner than usual.

Ashyn had settled her own anxieties with a tumbler of honey wine. A small tumbler, but the alcohol was enough to have her up in the night, needing to rid herself of the added liquid. She sighed and tossed and turned, hoping to rouse Moria. Moria and Daigo both slept as if dead. When she could not
hold out any longer, she “accidentally” stumbled over Tyrus's legs making her way past him. He didn't stir.

It was not that she feared walking from camp after dark. It was simply . . . well, she seemed to have bad luck with it. First, on the Wastes, she'd encountered a giant scorpion. Then, between Fairview and the imperial city, she'd been taken captive by a merchant who'd hoped to sell her to a distant king.

At least she had Tova with her. When they crested a small hillock, the hound lifted his head, growling softly. There was no sign of anyone about at first, but he continued to growl until a figure slipped along the thin line of trees.

Ashyn ducked and took out her dagger. Tova hunkered with Ashyn as she flattened onto her stomach. In the distance she heard . . .

No. She tilted her head, frowning. She did not hear anything. She felt . . . It was an odd sensation, beyond description, as if she
sensed
someone calling to her.

Whatever she felt, it didn't come from the approaching figure, which had stopped twenty paces from the hillock. Tova lifted his muzzle and sniffed the air. Then he let out an annoyed chuff.

“Seeker?” a voice whispered. “Ashyn?”

It was Simeon. Ashyn barely stifled a growl of her own. She rose and made her way back down the hillock.

“You
are
there,” he whispered loudly. “I thought I saw the hound leaving camp.”

Tova grunted, as if apologizing to Ashyn.

“And you followed me?” she said. “You may not know court manners, but in what part of the empire is that appropriate?”

“I . . . I know I ought not to approach a young woman alone, but I thought with your hound in attendance, it was acceptable.”

“I mean following me at night, away from the camp.”

He blushed. “Yes, of course. I had not considered . . .”

That seemed to be the honest excuse in every facet of the young scholar's life. A basic ignorance of acceptable behavior. When he thought a thing, he did it. Not an uncommon failing with scholars. Brilliant at their work; lost when it came to social graces.

“Approaching an unaccompanied young woman might be frowned upon in some villages,” she said, her voice softening. “It is not an issue in the city or in a group such as this. However, when you approach her at
night
, your motives could appear less than seemly.”

She meant it kindly, but his blush deepened, and he stammered that he had not intended any such thing.

“I wish to apologize for my earlier behavior,” he said. “There was no excuse.”

“Accepted,” she said.

He continued—still apologizing, it seemed—but her attention was only half on him, the rest tugged again by her surroundings.

It's a spirit
, she thought.
That's what I feel, though it's unlike any I've encountered.

In the distance, she detected a faint light, suggesting another camp.

“Ashyn?”

“I'm sorry,” she said. “I thought I heard something.”

She immediately regretted the lie. He stiffened and reached for . . . Well, he reached for nothing. He was not warrior caste. He could not carry a blade. Instead his hands clenched, and he straightened awkwardly, his gaze sweeping across the land.

“It's just some small creature,” she said. “Tova would warn me if—”

The hound sniffed the air and growled.

Ashyn adjusted her dagger. “We ought to get back.”

Tova seconded that with a louder growl. Simeon stared into the night. When she nudged him, he jumped so high one would think she'd pulled him in for a kiss.

“Go,” she whispered. “I'm behind you.”

He nodded. “Yes, I ought to lead the way.”

She did not correct him, but she was taking the rear because she was the one with a dagger, and the danger was
behind
them.

The moment they began walking, a cry rang out. A cry of alarm, followed by running footsteps. Ashyn wheeled, her dagger raised, Tova crouched to spring.

She saw a figure, shadowy in the moonlight, arms and legs akimbo. A second figure chased it, fast and silent, tackling the first like a wildcat taking down a deer. The sounds of struggle ensued, the besieged figure yelping in terror as the attacker pinned him to the ground.

Ashyn ran toward them, ignoring Simeon's cries of “No!” and “Stay here!” While it was possible that both figures had been chasing her, it seemed far more likely that she'd just been rescued, presumably by a warrior guard.

As she drew near, she slowed. Even from a distance, she
could see her rescuer was not a warrior. Despite holding a sword, he wore a peasant's garb: a simple tunic, trousers, and sandals. He was young and wiry, with black curls falling around his face as he bent over the prone man.

He glanced up, and she recognized the shadow-shrouded shape of his features.

“Ronan?” she said. “What are you doing here?”

“Keeping the world safe for you to piss in,” he said. “Apparently, it's a full-time job.”

She couldn't tell if he was teasing or grumbling. Probably a little of both.

“At least this time you had the sense to bring a guard with you,” he continued, waving at the approaching figure of Simeon. Then Ronan's eyes narrowed. “That's not a warrior. Who is he and what is he doing out here with you, in the middle of the night?”

Simeon strode over. “The question, boy, is who are you? And why are you wielding a blade when you are obviously no warrior yourself?”

“Boy?”

“Actually,” Ashyn cut in, “I think the more pressing question is: who is
he
?”

She pointed to the man beneath Ronan. He was rotund and at least in his fifth decade. She could not judge caste by his attire—it wasn't fine enough to be a merchant's, rough enough to be a farmer's, or elegant enough to be an artisan's, and he lacked a warrior's blades. His feet were bare, which was odd, given the chilly night, but more than that, the bottoms of his feet were blackened, the flesh burned and healed over.

“A penitent,” Simeon murmured. “A fire walker.”

Ashyn struggled against letting her distaste show. It was not the empire's practice to impose its faith on its people. Most religions, though, including this one, were still offshoots of their core beliefs.

It was commonly accepted that all living things had a spirit. The essence of life flowed endlessly around them. All spirits deserved their respect. Ancestral spirits deserved their devotion and in return, would protect and bless them. If negative spirits meant them harm, it was not through ill will but a misalignment of balance. They had been wronged—or felt themselves wronged—and lashed out in retaliation. Every effort should be made to correct the imbalance before resorting to banishment. The spirits needed care and kindness and respect. They did not, however, need fear or groveling or debasement.

Yet some religions felt that the spirits' anger was more terrible, their forgiveness more reserved. Enlightenment required suffering. That was certainly the view of the penitents. Some walked on hot coals. Others used flagellation, starvation, or isolation. While Ashyn had been raised to accept religious beliefs beyond her own, she struggled with the penitents. Even after all she'd seen, she did not believe the spirit world demanded human suffering. If anything, suffering seemed to dishonor them—rejecting the fullness of the world the spirits had created.

“Why did you come after us?” she asked.

“I came for you, my lady Ashyn, Seeker of Edgewood.”

The man could not bow lying prone, so he pressed his face into the ground, hard enough to make her wince.

“Let him rise, please, Ronan.”

Ronan did but kept his blade on the man, warning him not to approach the Seeker. Ashyn doubted the warning was necessary. The man fairly shook with servitude, his eyes pointed straight down, as if even gazing on her feet would be unseemly.

“You know me,” she said.

“Of course, my lady. We know of all the Seekers and Keepers. By name and by description. To serve the world of the spirits? We can only dream of such glory. The emperor himself ought to bow—”

She cleared her throat in alarm. “We serve the empire, and the emperor is the physical embodiment of it.”

“Well-spoken for one so young.”

“It's past midnight,” Ronan said. “We are a half day's walk from the nearest town. Perhaps you could save the flattery, and tell us why you're stalking the Seeker.”

“I was not stalking her. We passed a caravan that spoke of your expedition. It was as if the ancestors themselves had answered our pleas. We rode back to search for the camp. The spirits guided me here, where I saw her.” He lifted his gaze as far as Ashyn's knees. “We need your help, my lady. We have somehow angered the spirits. I suspect one of our order has been negligent in his penance.”

“I very much doubt—”

“It is something, my lady,” he said, lurching with the emphasis. “Something terrible. An omen. A portent. We do not know. But it is the work of evil spirits. Our caravan is just over that ridge. If you could please come and speak—”

“No, she cannot,” Ronan said. “I don't know what trickery—”

“Trickery?” the man sputtered. “I am with the Order of Kushin.”

He shot his arm out from his sleeve. It was covered with circular scars, so thick and ugly that Ashyn couldn't imagine what had made them . . . and would prefer not to try.

“Kushin are the most respected order of penitent monks,” Simeon said. “We ought to aid them if we can.”

“I don't care who they are,” Ronan said. “I don't trust anyone who asks Ashyn to follow him into the night. Only a fool would suggest she obey.”

“Fool?” Simeon bristled. “I am a scholar under Master—”

“A scholar? Well, that explains it.” Ronan turned to Ashyn. “We'll let the scholar investigate. You need to get back to camp.”

The monk pleaded. Something was wrong, dreadfully wrong. As for exactly what, he wouldn't say, only growing agitated and telling them he'd explain as they walked.

“I'll crest the ridge,” she said. “If I see no caravan, this young man will escort you back to the prince to explain yourself.”