Sea of Shadows (4 page)

Five

B
y late afternoon, the Seeking party reached the marked site where exiles were abandoned . . . after their guards had led them there on a circuitous route so they’d think they were farther in. The guards left the exiles under the largest tree in the forest, but the Seeking party could not see it from the ground, and had to send a scout to scale trees as they walked.

While the village volunteers stayed to make temporary camp, the governor waved for Ashyn and the guards to follow him. It was time for the Seeker to begin her work.

With every step, Ashyn’s heart beat harder. Tova ought to be here. No matter what the governor said, the Hound of the Immortals was supposed to help the Seeker find the bodies. Now she was on her first Seeking, without her hound, and if she failed . . .

I won’t fail. I must not.

When the governor stopped walking, Ashyn continued past him. Twigs cracked behind her, and she turned to see Faiban following, sword in hand. She smiled at him, and he hurried to get in front of her, murmuring, “Just tell me where you want to go, my lady.”

She pointed with another smile and he tripped over his feet to cut her a swath deeper into the forest. Ashyn followed slowly, letting her mind shift to the second world. Since entering the forest, she’d heard no whispers. The spirits of the ancestors stayed out. This was the domain of the damned.

She was here to help them find peace. It sounded like an act of mercy. It was not. The unsettled dead who roamed the forest were dark, demented forces bent on blind revenge against every living thing. They drove the exiles mad, and they made the forest uninhabitable for man and beast. By giving them peace, the Seeker kept their number at bay.

When Ashyn was far enough from the others, she asked Faiban to retreat a little. Once he’d backed down the path, she lowered herself to the ground. The earth was damp beneath her fingers, and she could feel the chill of it seep through her breeches. The air down here smelled fetid as the breeze blew off a nearby bog.

Ignore that. Concentrate.

Ashyn closed her eyes and reached out to the spirits. After a moment, she could feel them pulling at the edge of her consciousness. It wasn’t like the gentle plucks of the ancestral spirits; these were harsh, like needle jabs.

She repeated the words Ellyn had taught her.

“I’m here to give you peace,” she said. “You want peace.”

No, they wanted revenge.

The empire’s laws forbade execution, and this was supposed to be a kinder alternative. It wasn’t. She stopped herself from imagining what happened to the exiles.
No. That isn’t right.
She took a deep breath and instead let herself imagine it. Let herself feel their pain. Feel their rage.

As she opened herself up to the spirits, she kept repeating her promises of peace. She needed to persuade them that they stood no chance of avenging themselves on those who’d exiled them here, and the best revenge would be the happiness they’d find in joining their ancestors.

She could hear them now, grumbling and muttering. Their anger flared, like flames licking her face. Then their ghostly fingers reached into her mind, and she began to see images, as Ellyn had warned she would.

She saw a man crouched by a stream, scooping water. Another came up behind him and slammed a rock down on the crouching man’s head. He fell face-first into the stream. The killer calmly took the dead man’s pack and left him there as the stream ran red with blood.

“I see,” she whispered. “I’m sorry. That shouldn’t have happened to you. Now show me where you are, and I’ll give you peace.”

She followed their wordless whispers. Faiban saw that she was moving and tried to clear the way, but she waved him back. Finding the dead was
her
duty. Her promise to them.

As she pushed through the thick woods, vines snagged her hands and feet. Branches poked and prodded. Once or twice, she swore the branches and vines moved, as if the forest itself was rising to stop her.

Leave us our dead.

She continued on until she reached the stream she’d seen in her vision. She walked along its edge, staying away from the murky water. But with every step, the muddy shore sucked at her boots.

Leave us our dead.

“No,” she whispered. “You have enough. This one is mine.”

The wind whipped through the trees, as though in answer. She shivered and pulled her cloak tighter.

Finally, she saw the man, still lying where he had fallen, his body nothing but bone, covered in scraps of leather and cloth. His boots were gone. So was his belt and anything else that could be used.

She walked up beside the dead man. Then she took a bright yellow sash from her pack and tied it to a nearby tree. She put her fingers in her mouth and whistled as loud as she could. That would bring the volunteers to collect the body. They would take the exiles’ corpses to the camp. When they were all collected, Ashyn would conduct the rituals to put the spirits to rest, and the bodies would be buried.

Ashyn knelt beside the dead man. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. Then she rose and went to find the next.

It was Faiban who saw the man first. He shouted, “Who’s that?” and Ashyn jumped, having been lost in the second world. Then she spotted the man—walking upright—and nearly jumped again, thinking,
Shadow stalker.

The man was actually a living being, though he looked ready to pass into the second world—so gaunt his skin seemed stretched over bone. He shuffled, as if the act of fluid locomotion took more energy than he possessed. Dirt encrusted his clothing, and his brown skin looked gray with it.

“Stay back,” Faiban said, flourishing his sword.

The filthy man fell to his knees, hands to the ground, stretching toward Ashyn.

“My lady,” he said. “I have survived.”

“And you will keep your distance,” Faiban said, his voice dropping. “He may have the fever, my lady. I must call for the governor.”

Ashyn nodded distractedly. She stared at the man, hearing his words again.
I have survived.
An exile who had lived through the winter? It happened, of course, but she’d not seen one in her lifetime. And no wonder, looking at him. She swore that by morning his spirit would have been leading her to his corpse.

“I don’t have the fever,” the man said. “My name is Cecil. I was exiled for the crime of—”

“Enough,” Faiban said. “If you are not sick, you will be freed. For now, keep your distance, or your freedom”—the young guard brandished his sword again—“will be short-lived.” He put his fingers in his mouth and whistled for the others.

“He’s mad,” Healer Mabill whispered as Ashyn watched the governor interrogate the survivor. A guard stood at either side of the man. One held a sword at his throat.

“He doesn’t look mad,” Ashyn said.

“The fever sometimes hides. But the governor can tell.”

“How?”

Healer Mabill shrugged. “The eyes. The manner of speech. Little things.”

“Are there often survivors?”

Another shrug. “Perhaps one every third Seeking. But they’re always infected. They’ve been in the forest too long.”

Something moved deep in the trees. When Ashyn turned, she thought she saw a last ray of sunshine reflecting off a blade. But all the guards were here, and when she squinted into the woods, she saw nothing.

“Ashyn?” Healer Mabill said.

“I thought I saw someone.”

“It might be the two men we left with the first body. I hope so. If the fools got themselves lost, the governor will leave them here.”

“They haven’t returned yet?” Ashyn said.

Healer Mabill shook her head.

No matter how far Ashyn had wandered with Faiban, they’d been able to see the torches at camp, burning bright in the dim forest. If the villagers somehow could not see them, all they had to do was shout for help.

The bard hadn’t returned either.

Ashyn shook off the thought. No one else seemed worried. She turned her attention back to the survivor, Cecil.

“He truly does not look mad,” she said.

“Don’t let that fool you, child. It’s a good thing Faiban was there. If you’d been alone, you might have ended up like my grandmother.”

“Your grandmother?”

“She was a healer in the Seeking party. She came across a survivor who seemed well. Being a kindly woman, she knelt to give him fresh water . . . and he ripped out her throat with his teeth.”

Ashyn’s gaze swung back to the survivor.

“Yes, take a better look, child. I know he seems like a poor wretch, but don’t trust your own eyes. You can’t trust
anything
out here.”

“What happens if the governor thinks—?”

A gasp cut her short. She turned to see the survivor kneeling there. His head seemed bowed. Then his body fell forward, and the others staggered back out of the way, and she realized that he had no head. That it was lying in the moss. That one of the guards was wiping his bloodied sword.

“He was infected,” the governor announced.

“But . . .” Ashyn whispered, barely able to draw breath.
I’m seeing a man’s head. Sliced from his body.

My lady, I have survived.

“But . . .” she whispered again.

Healer Mabill put her arm around Ashyn’s shoulders and turned her away. “Let’s walk, child. That wasn’t a sight for you. The governor ought to have given warning.”

“How could they know so quickly?”

“Speed is mercy, Ashyn. And it must also be quickly because a simple bite is all it takes to pass on the fever.”

“But what if he wasn’t—?”

“Remember who these are, child. The worst criminals in the empire. If the governor suspects they are infected, he is not going to risk the life of a lawful citizen waiting to see if the fever manifests.”

“Back in the woods with you, girl,” the governor said as he walked over. “The sun is falling, and we’ll lose what little light we have. You can set this wretch’s spirit at ease with the others.” He waved Faiban to her, then turned to two of the villagers. “You go with her as well. It’ll soon be too dark to fumble in the forest, following her whistle.”

Ashyn set out to continue the Seeking, and tried not to think about the dead man in the grove, still leaking his lifeblood into the soil.

Six

O
f course, Ashyn did keep thinking about the dead man.
Cecil,
she told herself.
He had a name. Use it. Remember it.

One moment, he was there, talking. And then he was lying beside his severed head. How could she
stop
thinking about that? How could anyone?

Yet as she looked into the forest, she wondered what sort of crimes he had committed. The empire said only the worst came here, and yet . . . She swallowed. And yet she knew better, didn’t she? Her own parents had nearly ended up in this forest, for a crime no greater than trying to protect their infant daughters.

At first, their mother had told no one she’d borne twins. She’d kept the girls hidden and told the neighbors that she wished to take her newborn daughter to her own village. She’d sent a note to her husband, on a trade mission.

While most twin girls were simply ordinary children, there was the chance they could be divinely blessed. The Seeker and the Keeper. In order to learn that, though, they had to be tested. That test . . . it was a parent’s worst nightmare. And failure to inform their governor of the birth meant both parents would be exiled to the Forest of the Dead.

Before their mother could leave, the midwife came to call. Their mother brought out one of the girls—and the other, never separated from her wombmate, began to wail. When the twins were discovered, their mother took her own life and left a note absolving her husband from all responsibility. Their father was allowed to live.

Ashyn was quite certain Cecil had no such tragic story behind his exile. As much as Ashyn tried to hold on to what she believed, that image wouldn’t go away. Of the man who’d been there. And then was not.

It was nearly dark now. As Faiban held the lantern, Ashyn knelt beside the corpse of a man past his sixtieth summer. Too old to be exiled.

The body was better preserved than most of the others. He must have lived into the winter, frozen until spring, just beginning to rot now. He still looked human. White hair. Lined and weather-beaten face. His dark eyes stared up in shock.

This man had seen death coming, as Ashyn knew from the vision he’d sent. She knew how he’d felt teeth rip into his throat. How he’d tried to fight. How his spirit had hovered there, watching his killer tear into his flesh, devouring it. His spirit had still been watching when his killer had died, choking on a finger bone.

Ashyn looked over at the second body. It lay only steps from the first. A woman. The fever had taken her. Ashyn had seen that in her vision. Wild-haired and crazed, she’d ripped the man apart, mumbling about venison, sweet venison, thanking the spirits for their mercy, and Ashyn realized she hadn’t seen a man at all—she’d thought she’d killed a deer.

“My lady?” Faiban whispered.

She looked up at him.
How am I supposed to handle this?
she wanted to ask.

Ellyn had warned her that death in the forest was not pleasant. Healer Mabill had said the same. Ashyn had paid little mind. Of course it wouldn’t be pleasant. Death never was.

Moria had understood. That’s why she’d insisted on coming along.
I don’t need protection,
Ashyn had said.
I have my dagger.
But that wasn’t the kind of protection Moria had meant. She’d understood what Ashyn might find, and she’d known her sister wasn’t prepared to deal with it. Not alone.

“My lady?”

Ashyn took a deep breath and rose. “Can you take both?” she asked the two volunteers.

“We’ll try,” one said as he pulled on his thick gloves.

“Good. Stay at the camp afterward. We’ll look about a little more before joining you.”

The villagers began to wrap the first body. Ashyn motioned to Faiban, and they headed into the growing darkness.

So far, Ashyn had located eleven bodies. There had been sixteen exiled since last spring’s Seeking, plus two that hadn’t been found then. So she had seven left to find. There was also the possibility of locating the remains of long-dead exiles whose spirits haunted these woods. But if she found the seven, she would be done. She’d have one more day to do it. Then they headed home. It was too dangerous to be in the forest longer, and they had brought only enough supplies for two days.

She was calculating this as she moved away from the bodies.

“It’s growing late, my lady,” Faiban said.

“Just one more try,” she said. “There’s still light.”

He squinted into the near-darkness. “The governor expects—”

A shriek cut him short. He wheeled, sword raised.

“Night birds,” he said, but he kept the sword up, his gaze sliding from side to side.

There are no birds here
.

Another shriek, this one clearly human, sounding as if it came from the direction they’d left.

Ashyn started running back. Faiban swung into the lead. When they neared the clearing where they’d left the bodies, Faiban lifted his hand for her to stay back. She waited a moment and then crept close enough to see him standing in the clearing, looking around with his sword lowered and his lantern raised.

The bodies were still there. The old man lay on the blanket the villagers used for transporting them. The woman’s corpse seemed to have been lifted and dropped, crumpled now, one arm askew.

“Why did they leave them?” Ashyn asked.

“I don’t . . .” Faiban adjusted his grip on the sword and pointed it at the woman’s body. “I think they realized two would be too heavy to drag back. They must have gone to get help.”

“Why not take the old man and return for the woman?”

“It’s too dark,” he said. “They’d never find the way back if they weren’t quick about it.”

That wasn’t true. They’d marked the site, and the hacked path wouldn’t grow in by morning.

A twig cracked to the east. When they turned, the forest had gone silent. Eerily silent. Travelers always marveled at the silence of the Wastes, but if you’d lived out there long enough, you could hear the sounds of life—beetles and lizards and snakes and birds. In the forest, there was none of that. Even the wind had died, leaving a silence so complete she could hear Faiban’s breathing.

“We need to head for camp, my lady.”

Faiban started along the path. As Ashyn turned to follow, her hand brushed something wet and warm and she fell back with a yelp. She looked over to see a dark shape on a low tree limb. She lifted her lantern. It was a piece of meat, almost like a ball, but . . .

She realized what she was looking at and covered her mouth to keep from crying out again.

“It’s a heart,” she whispered.

“What?”

She pointed. “A
heart
.”

Faiban raised his lantern for a better look, then let out an oath. It was indeed a heart, impaled on a branch.

“How could—?” He took a deep breath and stepped back. “It came from the woman’s corpse.” He looked at it, lying just below the tree. “Yes, that’s why they dropped her. They were lifting her to the blanket and she was impaled by the branch. Her heart popped out.”

Ashyn’s dagger training had included lessons in anatomy, using a pig, and she was quite certain that a heart impaled on a branch would not “pop” out.

“Yes, that’s what happened,” Faiban continued before she could speak. “It popped out, and it startled them. That explains the cries we heard. The forest was already making them anxious. This was all it took for them to flee.”

“But it’s warm.”

“What?”

Ashyn pointed at the organ. “I brushed the heart, and it was warm.”

“You were mistaken, my lady.”

“No, feel it.” She steeled herself and reached out. “It’s—”

Faiban snatched her hand. “Do not touch it again. It could be infected.”

“But it
is
warm. And wet. If the heart came from that corpse, it wouldn’t be—”

“Enough.” He swallowed and softened his tone. “I’m sorry, my lady, but it’s late and it’s dark and we must return—”

Another twig cracked. Faiban went rigid. Then came the distinct sound of a murmuring voice, and some of the fear left his face.

“Who’s there?” he said.

“Who’s
there
?” the voice called back.

Faiban opened his mouth, but footsteps began heading away from them as the voice called, “Hello? Who’s that?”

Faiban sighed. “Wait here. I’ll be right back.”

Ashyn looked at the corpses and then the impaled heart. “No, I’ll—” She started after him, but tripped over a root. By the time she recovered, the forest had swallowed even the glow of his lantern.

“I’ll wait here,” she muttered.

She glanced at the heart, shuddered, and turned away, only to find herself looking at the old man’s partly devoured corpse. That was no better.

She backed up to a fallen tree and settled on it, lantern at her feet. She stared out into—

Pain exploded in the back of her head. The forest spun into blackness.