Tyrus 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.”