Kelley Armstrong: Sea of Shadows

“Are you the youngest of the damned?” the girl asked. To Ronan’s surprise, her voice was low, almost rough. With her red-gold hair and finely cut features, she looked like she ought to speak with a teasing lilt. Of course, she didn’t look like she should be able to send him flying either—or knock out his breath with a well-placed knee.

“What?” he said.

“The damned. The exiles. Are you the youngest?”

He was, but he had no idea what it mattered, so he stared at her.

“They sent me to find the youngest. Are you he?”

“ Who sent you?” he asked carefully.

Her free hand fluttered, but she said nothing, only asked the question again, sounding impatient now.

“And if I was the youngest?” he said.

She looked around, as if waiting for someone. “Do you know what would truly help?” she said, speaking to the air. “Clearer communication.”

The cat chuffed and seemed to roll its eyes.

“I know, I know,” she muttered under her breath.

She’s mad, Ronan thought. I’ve been taken by a madwoman.

That would have been cause to resume struggling if she weren’t already sliding off him. She sprang to her feet, as gracefully as her cat, and pointed the dagger at him. “Keep your distance, boy.”

Boy? She was older than he’d estimated at first, but she still had to be a summer his junior.

She gave one last look around, muttered, “This was a waste of time,” and began backing away. After a few steps she stopped, and her head swung to the side, as if she’d heard something.

“What?” she said.

“I didn’t—” he began.

She silenced him with a wave, then focused on the air to her left.

Spirits. She hears the spirits.

No, that didn’t make sense. True, there were spirits, all around them, all the time. Everyone knew that. But only the spirit talkers could hear them, and those were mystics who’d sacrificed every other sense to earn that one. Blinded, tongues cut out, nostrils seared, forbidden to touch anything except the paper on which they scribbled messages from the second world. This girl was clearly not one of them.

He looked at the cat. The sight of it triggered some memory. Yes, there was an answer to this riddle, and he should know it, but he’d relegated it to the refuse heap of things he didn’t need to remember.

Or the girl was mad. That seemed more likely.

“Are you mad?” she said, as if echoing his thoughts, and he jumped, but she was still addressing the air. “What good will—?”

She paused, then muttered, “Clearer communication. Is it too much to ask?”

She turned to Ronan. “Stay there.”

“What?”

She looked back at the air. “He’s simple. You do realize that, don’t you?”

“Simple? I am not—”

“Stay!”

Still walking backward, she retreated to the fence and climbed on top of it. The wildcat jumped up beside her. She whispered something to it, and the beast dipped its head, as if agreeing.

Then, without another word, she hurled the dagger. It hit the barn, embedding itself in the wood.

“There,” she said. “Now, let’s hope you have the intelligence to keep it hidden.”

He stared at the blade. “You’re giving me…”

“Not by choice. It won’t do any good anyway. If the swamp fever doesn’t drive you mad, the spirits of the damned will. You’ll probably end up using that blade on yourself. Not much else in the forest you can use it on. A dagger won’t kill the fever. Won’t kill the spirits.” She turned. “But good luck anyway.”

She jumped down, the wildcat leaping beside her, and they were gone.

It was barely past dawn when the exiles were marched to the forest. Beside Ronan, Cecil—a young man a few summers his senior—gaped at the fierce village guards who accompanied them. Had he expected farmers and craftsmen armed with cudgels? Edgewood guarded the only passage from the Forest of the Dead. Of course its guardians would be warriors.

Ronan’s family had been warriors once. Until an ancestor backed the wrong imperial heir, and they’d been stripped of their caste, expected to beg for a living. Yet while the empire could confiscate their blades, it couldn’t rescind generations of martial training. So Ronan’s family had found other ways to keep themselves fed. Which had ultimately led to this.

As they walked, Ronan eyed the youngest village guard. He wasn’t much older than Ronan. Intricate tattoos covered his forearms. In them, Ronan saw a nine-tailed fox. The totem of the Kitsune clan, family of the disgraced former marshal, who’d been exiled to this forest himself. Apparently his clan hadn’t been stripped of their caste. They just wound up here, guarding the forest.

The exiles left the village guards behind at the watchtower and continued on with the ones who’d brought them here. As they walked, the convicts stared into the endless verdant sea ahead. Even with the trees shedding their leaves, the forest was still green, thick moss covering everything.

The guards urged them forward. They’d have two days of walking to reach the middle of the forest. Behind them, a guard unspooled a bright red ribbon in their wake. Once they entered the dense woods, that ribbon would be the only chance for the guards to find their way out again.

Ronan glanced over his shoulder at the village.

“Take a good look,” a guard said, smirking. “It’s the last you’ll ever see of it.”

Ronan shifted and felt the cold steel of the hidden dagger against his leg.

Perhaps, he thought. But not if I can help it.

Ashyn sat by the fire, eating pork rolls while feeding meat scraps to Tova, the giant yellow hound that never left her side. She gazed out the window and watched the spring sun burn away the lace of frost.

Her twin sister, Moria, sauntered in, late for breakfast as always. Moria’s wildcat, Daigo, appeared out of nowhere and snatched a scrap from under Tova’s nose. As Ashyn scolded the wildcat, Moria whisked the pork roll from her hand.

Ashyn sighed and Tova sighed, too. Then they just helped themselves to more food and moved over to let Moria and Daigo sit with them.;

When their father came in a moment later, he said, “Moria, you’ll be pleased to know that your new dagger will arrive on the next supply wagon.”

“Finally. I lost it before the first snow fell.”

“Then perhaps, in future, you ought to be more careful with your belongings.”

“I can’t help it. I’m forgetful.”

Father shook his head. “You’ve never forgotten anything in your life, Rya. Who got your blade this time? Another woman needing protection against her husband?”

“That would be wrong. Blades are for warriors. Ash and I are the only exceptions.” She took a bite of her pork roll. “But if I did give it to some poor soul in need, it would be the spirits’ fault. They speak, and I must obey.”

Their father shared an eye roll with Ashyn. While it was true that the girls served the ancestral spirits, it was an excuse Moria used too often.

“Waiting so long for weapons isn’t reasonable,” Moria continued. “We need a smith. I’m sure there’s a strong young man who could take up the task, for the greater good.” She chewed her pork roll. “How about that Kitsune boy?”

“What’s Gavril done now that you’re volunteering him for smithing?” Ashyn asked.

“It was merely a suggestion. He’s young. He’s strong. He’s in need of a trade.”

Ashyn sputtered a laugh. “He’s a warrior , Moria, from a line of warriors stretching back to the First Age.”