Empire of Night (26 page)

M
oria held the torch as high as she could to light the way for Tyrus. She could hear him right behind her, so close the sound of his breathing seemed to drown out the pounding of his boots. When she strained, she caught the swish of grass as Daigo ran off to Tyrus's side. What she could
not
hear was the sound of pursuit. It didn't matter. The beasts were there, right there, on Tyrus's heels, and she didn't need to look back to confirm that.

When Moria reached the tree, she whipped around. There they were—a seething mass of red eyes and dark shadows. She pitched the torch at them, wheeled again, and jammed her dagger into the tree trunk. She used it as a climbing spike, yanked herself up, and grabbed the lowest branch. She swung onto the limb, leaving the dagger behind. She leaped up onto the branch and took the next one. Soon, Daigo was beside her and Tyrus was on the limb she'd just vacated. She kept going
until she was as high as the branches would hold her weight. Then she stretched out on her stomach.

Tyrus reached the branch below hers and handed up her dagger. They both lay with their arms wrapped around the tree, staring down into the night.

The thrown torch had ignited the dry grass, but it only smoldered and smoked, obscuring more than it revealed. Then, as they regained their breath, the clouds overhead drifted past the moon, not clearing it but stretching thin enough for the beams to penetrate.

At first, Moria still saw only red eyes. But as she watched, she could make out shadowy shapes, writhing in the darkness below. When she squinted, one of the shapes seemed to take form into—

“Don't look.” Tyrus reached up to grip her arm.

“I know but—”

“Don't look. Please. I don't care if the stories are true or not. Don't take that chance, however curious you are. Please. For me.”

She tugged her gaze from the shapes below.

“Think of something else,” Tyrus said. “Tell me about them.”

“You already know—”

“A little.” He managed a wry smile. “Share your expertise and perhaps we can figure a way out of this.”

We can't. It doesn't matter if we've seen them or not. There's no escape from—

“Fiend dogs,” she blurted, feeling a mix of relief and fear naming them. “They're fiend dogs. You'll see only shadows and eyes. But if you look long enough, they'll take the form of
giant black dogs. They're both a warning of death and death itself. If you see one, it'll chase you until it catches you, and then it'll kill you.” She hesitated. “There's no escape.”

“Ignore that part. I don't believe it. Keep going.”

She opened her mouth, but her heart hammered too hard for words. Thunder hawks, death worms, even shadow stalkers . . . they could be stopped, if not killed outright. Fiend dogs caught scent of their prey and chased it right into the second world.

“Moria . . .”

She swallowed hard. Even without looking down, she knew the fiend dogs were there. Growling now, snarling and snapping invisible jaws. Snorting and grunting. The tree vibrated as one jumped against it.

“They can't climb,” Tyrus said. “Keep talking. You'll find something useful. I know you will.”

She nodded. “Fiend dogs aren't like death worms or thunder hawks or dragons. Those are beasts of legend. True beasts, like a hound or a cat. They live and feed and breathe and bleed. They're said to have once roamed the earth and died out. Fiend dogs are like shadow stalkers. They aren't alive, not truly. Legend says they're the souls of warriors who betrayed their lords, forced to forever roam the earth in service of their new lord: death. They're—”

“Spirits.”

“Yes, which means they're incorporeal and can take the form of shadow or dog.”

“No, I mean they're spirits. Like shadow stalkers. You can fight shadow stalkers.”

“In corporeal form, yes, you can—”

“No, Moria.” He met her gaze. “
You
can fight shadow stalkers. You have fought them. Banished them. You're the Keeper.”

It was a testament to her terror that she had to process his words, slowly realizing the truth of them. The obvious truth. If these were like the shadow stalkers, she could banish the spirits.

“There's no guarantee,” she said slowly. “It was not easy with the shadow—”

“You can do it. I know you can.” He grinned, and when he did, that smile seemed to snatch her fear and pitch it as far as her dagger might fly. It wasn't a grin that said,
You'll save me.
It said,
I believe in you, and whether you can banish them or not, I know you'll try, and if you can't do it, then no one could.

The tree shook as one of the fiend dogs threw itself against the trunk. Then another did the same, and she had to grip the limb with both arms as the spirits battered the tree from below.

“Just hold on,” Tyrus said. “I won't let you fall.”

Again, this wasn't anything he could promise. He meant that if she dropped, he'd grab her, and if it pulled them both down, then he would fall with her. Die with her. She looked into his eyes and thought,
So this is what all the fuss is about.
This was what the bards sang about. What Ashyn swooned about. And it wasn't nearly as silly and pointless as she thought.

“I can do this,” she said.

That grin blazed again. “Of course you can.”

“And the sooner I start, the better, right?”

He chuckled. “I wouldn't say that.”

“Even if you'd secretly and heartily agree.” She smiled back at him and the last of her fear evaporated.

I'm the Keeper. I don't fear spirits; they fear me.

Moria closed her eyes and focused her energy, as she had with the shadow stalkers.

Begone. You don't belong here. By the power of the ancestors . . .

And on it went. Not the most exciting of rituals. In fact, its only saving grace was that she could say the words in her head. Otherwise, she'd have felt like an idiot, spouting them aloud like the mad prophets who wandered through the Wastes.

She called on the ancestors and all their power, and if, perhaps, there was an occasional deviation from the script, one that reminded the ancestors of all that Moria had been through, and all the times the ancestors seemed to have forsaken her, with the very impious suggestion that, perhaps, she deserved a little extra help now, well—as Ashyn would say, that only proved Moria was feeling more herself.

Below, the fiend dogs continued leaping at the tree, shaking it more each time, as if they'd realized that their combined efforts had more effect.

Were Moria's own efforts doing anything at all? Truly? They were spirits, blast it. She ought to be able—

“There!” Tyrus said.

Her eyes flew open.

“Sorry,” he said quickly. “I didn't mean to interrupt, but it's working. You banished one. I saw it leaping at the tree, and then it—”

Another bash, this one hard enough to knock his chin against the limb he was lying on, and he must have bit his tongue, cursing as he did.

“You ought not to be looking down,” she said.

“I'm
glancing
down. Now keep at it.”

She did, harder now, spurred by her success. She kept her
eyes squeezed shut and listened as Tyrus said, “There's another gone. And another.”

Daigo had leaped onto the branch over her head, and his tail dangled, flicking against her shoulder as if patting her on the back. Below, though, the fiend dogs grew frenzied, fighting her efforts by throwing themselves ever harder at the tree trunk. When a particularly hard knock pitched her forward, she grabbed the limb, her eyes flicking open as she stared down to see a huge black shape leaping at her.

She saw the beast. Saw its fangs and its form, coming straight at her, high in the tree. Tyrus let out a gasp and went for his sword.

“No!” she shouted.

He realized his mistake in time and grabbed for the tree branch instead. The fiend dog hit the trunk just below Tyrus and fell, but another was already leaping.

“Higher!” she said. “We need to go higher!”

And what good would that do? It didn't matter how high they went. It was like running from them—they could not escape.

“Begone!” she snarled, throwing all her power into the word. “I command you, begone!”

The beast evaporated in a puff of black smoke. Another was already coming up, not leaping but climbing, scrabbling up the tree as if it were merely a steep incline.

“Begone!” she shouted.

It kept coming. She kept shouting, louder now, until her ears rang, but the beast continued climbing. She gripped her dagger.

What good will that do?

Probably none, but she had to try. The fiend dog was almost an arm's length from Tyrus now, and she wasn't letting it get any closer. She pulled back her dagger—

The fiend dogs below hit the trunk all at once. The tree jolted so hard it knocked the climbing beast to the ground. She went to grab the limb, but it was too late. Her dagger fell and she followed, one arm still wrapped around the branch, holding on as tight as she could as her legs dropped. Then hands grabbed her around the waist.

“I've got you,” Tyrus said. “Just find your balance. I've got—”

The fiend dogs hit again. Tyrus's eyes widened, and she realized he wasn't holding onto anything except her. She scrambled to grab him, but as soon as he started to drop, he released her.

“No!” she shouted.

He fell, dropping into the leaves and the darkness below. To the fiend dogs below. A snarl sounded overhead. Then a dark shape leaped past her. Daigo jumping down, branch by branch. The fiend dogs snarled and snapped. Tyrus let out a stifled cry. Moria was already climbing down, right behind Daigo, but that way was slow, too blasted slow. She remembered the horses in the grove, ripped to pieces, and she let go, hurtling like a rock toward the ground. Toward Tyrus. Toward the fiend dogs.

W
hen they stopped for the night, Ronan figured they were still nearly a day from Okami's compound. They made camp by a stream.

“Do you think Tyrus will be there yet?” Ashyn asked as they ate dried fish and fruit.

Ronan shrugged. “Equally likely either way.”

Which was the only answer he could give, and the one she expected. She'd asked in hopes of starting conversation, but he lapsed into a silence that forbade small talk. She waited until he rose to wash his hands and then followed him.

“He said to wait at the inn until he arrives,” she said. “Which sounded simple, but now that we're getting close . . . Should we stay at the inn or make camp nearby?”

“We'll figure that out.”

They bent to wash their hands in the stream and refill their water skins.

“Are you angry with me?” she asked.

“Of course not, Ash. I'm just tired.”

“Perhaps we ought to have made a quick stop in the city. Quickly. I know you truly wanted to check on—”

“They're fine.”

“But you—”

“I'll be there soon enough.”

They began walking back to the campsite.

“Once I'm with Tyrus, you'll go back to the city,” she said. “You ought to stay there a few days to be sure everything is all right. You'll feel much better when you return, knowing that they are safe at home.”

He nodded and seemed ready to let silence fall again, but as they reached camp, he cleared his throat and said, “I ought to tell you now, Ash. I'm not returning.”

“What? You said . . .”

He crouched by the campfire. She stayed standing. She wanted to say,
You are angry with me
, but that was arrogant, to think he would change his plans so drastically because of her.

“I understand,” she said carefully as she lowered herself cross-legged to the ground. “You're worried about Aidra and Jorn. That your aunt will make them steal for their keep. You've done enough, and you should go home to them. I don't know if Tyrus can presume upon Lord Okami to borrow money to repay you—”

“I don't care about that.”

“Well,
he
will, obviously. As soon as he's able, he'll pay. I know it won't compensate for—”

“It was never about the money, Ash. I wanted—”

He swallowed the rest and rose to poke at the fire.

“What did you want?” she asked.

It seemed as if he wasn't going to answer. Then he said, “Caste. I wanted caste.”

She hesitated as she remembered he'd been trying to talk to her about caste outside the stables, before they heard the accusations against the prince. “A higher one, you mean?”

“What caste am I, Ash?”

“I don't know. Your family were warriors, and I'm not sure what the demotion is when that's stripped. It seems to vary, so I haven't wanted to ask.”

“You wouldn't want to be rude.” He crouched beside her. “You're correct, it varies. Warriors can be demoted to artisans or to farmers or merchants. It depends on the crime. If it's serious enough . . . My family backed the wrong heir to the imperial throne. Before Emperor Tatsu's reign. It was considered high treason.”

“So you're merchant class then.” She managed a smile. “Like me.”

He shook his head. “You're not merchant class, Ash. You're—”

“My father was, so I am, too. That's what Moria always says. The empire can raise us up, but we owe it to our ancestors to recognize where we come from.”

“Which is very pious. At least, in your case. With Moria, I suspect she's just being contrary.” Ronan settled in, sitting, his legs extended to the fire as he stretched out beside Tova. “High treason is the worst crime. There is one punishment worse than being exiled to the forest. Your family can have
their caste stripped altogether.”

It took her a moment to realize what he was saying. “You mean you . . . you have no caste.”

He smiled wryly. “You were about to say I was casteless, and decided there must be a better way of phrasing it. There isn't. When I said I wanted caste, I meant exactly that. A caste, not a higher one. I am casteless. Like the girl you met on the way to the city. The one taken by the slavers.”

Ashyn remembered the girl. Belaset. They'd been captives together and helped each other escape. Then Belaset had demanded Ashyn's mother's ring in payment. Ashyn hadn't given it, of course, and she had been shocked and hurt by the demand. At the time, Ronan had tried to help her understand. The girl was casteless, rejected by her family because of a deforming skin condition. Belaset would do what she could to survive, and her demand was neither an insult to Ashyn nor a failure to recognize that Ashyn had assisted her.

When Ashyn had told Ronan that the girl was casteless, she'd admitted she didn't know quite what that meant. She'd heard of it, in books, of course. The casteless were the lowest of the low, shunned by the goddess, the ancestors, and ordinary people alike. They were beggars and slaves, and in books they had always done something terrible to deserve their fate. But Belaset had not. Nor had Ronan.

“I . . . I want to say I'm sorry, but I'm not sure I ought to or . . .”

“You can. I know you mean well, as always. But there it is. My big secret. I'm casteless.”

“And it was a secret because you feared how I'd judge you?”

He shook his head. “Not after I knew you. But there are strict rules for the casteless. I should not even be permitted in your company, let alone be with you unaccompanied and share a room with you. Of course, the fact that the casteless aren't branded means you can't tell by looking at me, no more than you could tell a farmer from a merchant, if they dressed alike.”

“Because it's considered the responsibility of each citizen to embrace and communicate their proper caste.”

“Which only a fool does if they don't have one. So, yes, those who know my family know our situation. We're registered as casteless, and that registry is checked each time we might try to take employment, purchase a home, or apply for a trading license. The penalty for falsely representing oneself is exile. With you, though . . . I didn't hide it because I wasn't concerned you'd report me.”

“Does Tyrus know?”

“I'm sure he suspects. If I'd told him, though, he wouldn't have been able to hire me.” He shifted and patted Tova. “My hope was that if I proved myself, he would plead my case with his father and allow me merchant caste. That is looking increasingly unlikely.”

“So you're leaving. I can understand that.”

His head whipped up. “No—I mean, yes, I'm leaving, but only because I don't believe I can be of any further service to either of you.”

They sat in silence before Ashyn said, “I could strenuously argue that we still need you, but if I do, then I pull you away from your family again. There is only one duty higher than one's duty to the empire, and that is one's duty to family.”

“I'm not concerned with duty, Ash.”

“The point remains. We could use your protection, but your brother and sister need—and deserve—it more.”

“My protection?” Now the smile turned bitter. “Ask Guin how she fared under my protection. Ask my—” He cut himself off with a sharp shake of his head and got to his feet.

Ashyn scrambled up with him. “If you blame yourself for Guin—”

“I blame myself for a lack of care,” he said. “A lack of attention. True, it's not as if I told her to volunteer herself. Nor would I have allowed it if I'd known. But the fact remains. I was careless. As I always am.”

“You are never—”

He cut her off with a kiss on the cheek. “Go to bed, Ash. It'll be a hard ride tomorrow, and I want to make it to the inn before sundown.”

She watched him walk away. She glanced at Tova, who was watching him, too. The hound looked up at her, as if in question.

“Ronan?” She jogged after him and caught his sleeve. “Tell me what you mean, that you are
always
careless.”

He looked at her, and there was such sadness there that she moved forward, wanting to kiss his cheek, to embrace him, to offer some comfort for whatever put that sadness in his eyes. But she didn't move. Didn't dare.

“You can talk to me,” she said. “About anything.”

“I know.” He touched her face, one finger tracing a line down her jaw, and he leaned forward, as if to kiss her, but stopped short, turning away, his hand dropping.

“I'm too tired to talk, Ash,” he said, his voice soft, gentle. “Another time.”

“I—”

He squeezed her hand. “Truly, we will talk. Just not now. I'll scout the perimeter while you prepare for bed.” He kissed her again, a mere brush of his lips on her cheek. Then he walked away, and she could not bring herself to give chase.