The Shadow Soul (31 page)

Too distracted to see weapons glinting under their jackets.

He was not, however, too distracted to hear the resounding boom of the door slamming shut.

No—at that, his heart sank and the world snapped into focus.

Rhen looked up, sure he would find olive-skinned, tattooed soldiers looking back at him. Sure that King Razzaq would be there, smug and confident, stepping from the shadows. So certain he had been right about the Ourthuri threat, Rhen never even expected the sight that awaited him.

They were men of Whylkin.

His own people.

Something Rhen, as much as he played at being a spymaster, had never seen coming. Shame filtered into his heart, curling his stomach, making his insides rot. How had he been so wrong?

They walked between the banquet tables, silently approaching, boots clicking on the stones beneath their feet. A few yards away, just before the royal table, they paused. One man stepped forward. Rhen recognized him—Lord Hamish, the Lord of Roninhythe. Brows furrowed, he scanned the group for a sign of Cal—could he have been so wrong about his friend? His loyal, trusted, friend?

But no, he looked at the dozen faces standing alert in a line, facing off against the throne. Cal was not there. These men were all his father's age, all Lords of Whylkin cities.

"What is the meaning of this?" His father stood. The echo of his chair scraping on stone filled the silence in the room. "Lord Hamish, explain yourself."

"The reign of Whyl has gone on too long," he said simply, as a matter-of-fact, emotionless. "The time has come for the old kingdoms to return. What happened to the Kingdom of Roninhythe? The Kingdom of Fayfall? The Kingdom of Lothlian?" The men behind him nodded in agreement, standing firm.

"They were conquered," the king informed, sarcasm heavy in his deep voice.

"Maybe so, but—"

"No buts," the king interrupted, anger brimming, hands slamming down on the table before him. "You were conquered, not out of spite, out of good—for everyone who now lives peacefully and prosperously in my kingdom, under my rule."

"We were conquered by the lord of a dying city who saw no other route to wealth and power." Lord Hamish's voice was sharp, dripping with the hatred of three hundred years finally surfacing. "Rewrite history how you want, Whylfrick, but we all know the truth. Rayfort had no trade, no money, and no way out of the spiral except to take our resources for themselves. And how well you've prospered selling the wood from my forests, the silks from Fayfall caves, the herds from Lothlian fields, the wines from Airedale hillsides. Every man here is lord of a city that has been dampened by the weight of Rayfort, a city that offers nothing but white rock it can't even mine."

"What we offer," the king said, stepping around the table, closing in on his rebellious lords with nothing but rage on his face, "is the same thing we've offered for hundreds of years—soldiers."

"Soldiers who are not here to protect you," Lord Hamish replied. The men around him grinned.

But at that same moment, the clash of swords rang, muffled by the door but still recognizable. A fight had broken out in the hall.

Rhen couldn't stop his lips from twitching. The royal guard was coming. They would be here any minute. The rebellion would not survive.

"You cannot beat me," King Whylfrick shouted, arrogant and strong, spurred on by the noise. He had completed his walk and now stood directly before Lord Hamish, still not a drip of fear evident on his wrinkled face.

"Wrong," Lord Hamish replied, voice cutting through the hall, low and precise, calm. "King Razzaq recognized our cause. As we speak, his men are landing on our shores, ready to fight with us, and together we will defeat any army that dares fight in your honor. For after today, no one will fight for a Son of Whyl ever again, only for their memory, and soon even that will fade."

The Lord of Roninhythe pulled his sword free of its sheath. One by one, slow and menacing down the line, the other lords followed suit. The air was filled with the drawn out scrape of metal, a sound that only meant one thing—death.

Rhen couldn't breathe.

The word
Ourthuri
played on repeat in his mind, circling back and back around, mingling with feelings of fear and vindication that he could not suppress. All along, he had been right. No one had listened. No one had believed him enough to understand the urgency in his voice, the truth in his words. The unflagged ships were Ourthuri ships. Their soldiers were on Whylkin shores. And they were undoubtedly here for war.

But now, staring into the face of that war, Rhen wished he had been wrong. Oh, how he wished his father were laughing in his face, joking with his brothers about Rhen's new bout of failure.

That he was used to. That would be easy to take.

But watching men close in on his father—point their weapons at his unarmored, ill-prepared body—that was something that burned his eyes, dried his throat, and made his whole being tremble.

Almost as one, the sons of King Whylfrick stood and rushed to their father's side—surrounding him, protecting him. Rhen reached for his hip, pulling his brand new sword free. It wouldn't remain untainted for long.

Four against twelve.

Behind them, the baby began to wail.

Rhen wished to yell right along with his nephew, but he held steady and strong, shifting his weight between feet, waiting for the inevitable attack. He stared at the traitors, eyes narrowing, watching them examine his family with hunger in their eyes.

No one stepped forward.

No one motioned to attack.

They all surveyed each other, letting the pressure build so the room began to feel heavy, full. Tension thickened the air, pulled taut across the small space, stretching, thinning, lengthening, until finally—snap.

It broke.

With a bellowing cry, King Whylfrick surged forward, refusing to wait any longer for his enemies to make their move.

Lord Hamish blocked the blow, their swords slammed together, deafening as the ringing bounced from wall to wall across the great banquet hall.

Just like that, chaos erupted.

Rhen leapt forward, eyes on the three men before him. These were his men to fight, to take down. He took a wide swing, bringing his sword to each of their eyes, hoping just to distract the lords from his brothers, from his family—hoping to entice them into a match.

The center man immediately turned to Rhen, challenging him with a full-body charge. Holding his sword steady, Rhen deflected the blow and jumped sideways. Unprepared to be so easily outmaneuvered, his enemy flew past, pulled by his own weight—off balance and momentarily harmless.

Without a moment to lose, the second man swatted at Rhen. He was older, slightly gray haired and clearly less agile than the rest. Ducking easily out of the way, Rhen aimed his sword low, slicing the man's thigh open in a deep nerve-ripping cut.

Blood dripped to the floor and the man cried out in pain. The strength eased from his leg, going limp, until he slid diagonally to the floor, eyes wide with shock.

But Rhen had already shifted his attention to the third foe, who waited more cautiously before engaging in a fight, focusing instead on reading Rhen—moving left when he moved left, right when Rhen moved right. His eyes shifted ever so slightly, over Rhen's shoulder, signaling…

Rhen fell to the ground as a whistle filled his left ear, the sound of a sword flying harmlessly overhead. Rolling over, he kicked, nailing his first foe in the sensitive spot between his legs.

The man dropped, howling in pain.

Rhen rolled again, already anticipating the sword rushing for his head. It clanged against the stone floor. Before his enemy could right his weapon or center of gravity, Rhen kicked the man's wrist and the sword dropped to the ground.

Fear crept into the lord's eyes and he backed up.

Rhen advanced, facing the weaponless man, unsure if he was ready to kill one of his own people—even a traitor.

One thought of Whyllean was enough to destroy his hesitation.

In a quick and determined move, Rhen gripped his sword with both hands, bringing the sharp edge deep into the man's throat, wedging it beneath his skin. Life faded from the man's eyes, empty and unseeing.

Raising his boot to the man's chest, Rhen yanked his sword out of the wound, wincing as blood gurgled, spurting forth. But there was no time for that, no time for thought.

Instead, he twisted back around, facing the man who still clutched his balls in pain. As their gazes met, the man straightened, teeth bared as he raised his sword. But he was already beat. He knew it and more importantly, Rhen knew it.

Slowly, Rhen approached.

When he was within distance, Rhen raised his sword, giving the man just enough time to set up a defensive strike. As his foe parried, Rhen loosened his wrists, letting the sword twist over so he could deliver a knockout blow to the man's head with the rounded blunt end below his fingers.

He heard a sickening crunch as contact was made. Instantly, the man fell to the floor.

Spinning, Rhen searched for his brothers. 

Terror clenched his gut.

Bodies were strewn all over the floor, but the only man in Whylkin red who Rhen saw standing was Whyllem—Whyllem, wounded and moving slowly, surrounded by six lords.

Pushing thoughts of Tarin and his father as far out of his mind as possible, Rhen sprinted across the hall, jumping over a perfectly made table, tossing plates to the ground, not caring as they crashed and broke into a million porcelain pieces.

Rhen's vision, tunneling narrower and narrower, shifted over his shoulder, past Whyllem to the crying women huddled together and using their bodies to shield little Whyllean from view.

"Protect the king!" Whyllem shouted at Rhen as he neared. Confused, Rhen took a second to search the room for his father, quickly scanning from wall to wall.

But his father was nowhere to be seen, hidden out of view on the ground, buried under a body or a table.

Rhen paused. He brought his gaze back around, processing the world in slow motion.

Realization dawned harshly.

Whyllean.

Whyllem meant protect Whyllean—which meant Tarin and his father were dead.

Dead.

Pain pricked his body, numbing his senses.

He had failed.

His family was dying.

"Rhen!" A woman screeched, bringing him back to reality. Back to the scene around him. Back to those still alive.

He would not lose anyone else, not today, not while there was still breath left in his body.

The spark of a flame pierced his eyes.

Rhen's memory flew back to the ship, back to Jin's swift maneuver, his trick to make Rhen speak the truth. He had been able to steady those flames, to keep them from burning the ship to ash. He had done it once…

It was crazy.

It just might work.

Dropping his sword, Rhen grabbed two lanterns from the table. Praying no weapon would pierce his unprotected belly, Rhen charged into the fray, placing his body in front of Whyllem, and more importantly, in front of their king.

"Get behind me," he yelled and threw the lanterns as forcefully as he could at the floor.

Fire flared to life at his feet, billowing up in a huge wave that soared overhead and blasted his face with heat.

The lords jumped back, surprised.

"Rhen," Whyllem yanked on his shoulder, trying to pull his brother back into safety.

Rhen shirked his hold and met his brother's eyes. "Get with the women, and stay back. For once, just trust me."

Not waiting for a response, he looked to the fire, already feeling his hands itch with longing. But he was not there to shut the fire off, to pull it into his skin.

No.

He wanted to make it rage.

Rhen glanced at the oil spreading across the floor, widening the wall of flame before him. In only minutes, it would be dried up, and the lords would be able to advance once more. He needed something else. Something beside stone. Something that would light up and stay that way.

Getting his bearings, Rhen realized he was sandwiched between the two long banquet tables, right in the center of the room. Behind him, the royal table sat undisturbed, confirming his location.

Cloth.

He realized.

Wood
.

Running down the center of the table was a red silk of Whylkin, a decoration—a fire hazard. Underneath it, planks of solid wood.

The fire just needed to get there—to spread a little wider.

He stared into the orange flames, willing them to grow, to heed his command.

They shrunk.

The fire wouldn't listen. Even as his skin yearned for its touch, the fire denied him, as it had every time he had tried to control it.

A shout caught his notice. One lord had climbed onto the table, circling to fight Rhen from behind.

There was no time.

Ripping his shirt down the middle, Rhen pulled his formal jacket off and dipped it into the flames, waiting until it caught before tossing it onto the tabletop to his left.

Shrugging off his shirt, he repeated the process, only this time throwing it to his right.

Then he waited. Watching. Praying.

Suddenly a spark, a bright flash.

The fire caught.

A blaze singed the approaching lord as the silks burned hot, alighting more oil and rapidly pulsing down the table in small booms.

"Rhen, you will burn us alive," Whyllem yelled over the cackle.

But hope surged in Rhen's chest and he turned to his family, beaming with relief.

"No," he said and reached into the growing flame behind him, letting the heat seep under his skin, comfort him. His mother gasped, a memory flaring to life behind her irises. He pulled his untouched, unscalded hand free.

Whyllem's jaw dropped.

Rhen stepped closer and moved his mother, Awenine, and Whyllem so they all huddled together, covering Whyllean, cowering from the flames. They listened to his commands without protest, without pause.

Like a shark, Rhen circled them, constantly walking around their bodies, pulling any wayward flames into his flesh to prevent them from smoldering his family.