“Silence, Tapet,” Sylvi says. She stands tall, unafraid of Lyssa’s pistol. “You claimed to come in peace, Soulkeepers. Why should we let you live for breaking such a promise?”

  “Self-defense, love,” Lyssa says. “You broke your promise, too.”

  “That wretch got what he deserved for murdering Uyana,” Tapet argues, refusing to listen to his apparent leader. “I took the life of a murderer.”

  “Perhaps,” Lyssa argues. She gestures toward Goff with her empty pistol. “Care to tell me what his crime was?”

  “You dare compare—”

  “Enough!” Sylvi shouts, and clips her spear to her back. There is no disguising her rage, but who it is aimed at, you are unsure. She points a finger your way. “Be gone. Now.”

  Tapet simmers, but he seems unwilling to argue with his leader. Instead he grabs Reuben by the shoulder and flings him toward you.

  “Do not think this matter settled,” he says to you.

  “I’ll keep it in mind,” you say, grabbing Reuben by the arm to steady him. You turn your attention back to Sylvi. “What of the bodies? The reaping ritual must be performed.”

  “Your Sisters wake,” she says in answer. “They will have no need of your ritual. I will burn them in a pyre afterward, along with our own dead, if it will give you peace enough to leave our lands.”

  It is, and you express as much. You exit the village, flanked by lapinkin until you reach the main road. Then they soar back into the sky in great leaps, leaving you alone. Reuben remains silent the entire walk, and with their departure, he wipes his brow and starts to stammer some weak excuse.

  “Goff and Legrand,” you say, interrupting him. “Did they have families? Mothers, fathers, aunts, uncles, and the like?”

  Reuben bites his lip and then nods. You point south, to the distant speck that is the rest of the village making their way toward Londheim.

  “Then save your words for them. They are of no use to me.”

  You offer the young man no other goodbye. You have your own group to catch up with. Lyssa trudges alongside you, carefully unloading her other pistol of its flamestone and returning it to its assigned pouch.

  “Robin…” she says, sensing your displeasure. “They were defending their home. We’d do the same if Londheim were under attack.”

  Home is where our blood is.

  “Perhaps,” you say, and leave it at that.

  23

  You catch up with relative ease. William greets you with cold silence, while Ansell shows not the slightest concern nor curiosity at your departure. Only Whistler acknowledges your return.

  “I pray matters went well?” he asks.

  “Well enough,” you say, which is all you feel like elaborating on. The rest of the day passes uneventfully, and though you try not to, your eye keeps drifting west, scanning the sky for windleapers. Thankfully, you see none.

  Your group eats dinner early, for you wish to have the cookfire doused long before nightfall. You choose your sleeping arrangements far more carefully, too, purposefully trudging a quarter mile offroad to camp beneath a small copse of trees growing around a pond at the bottom of two slender hills. Your hope is the cover will keep you hidden from the owls should they return again that night.

  Wired from your travels, you elect to take first watch. As before, Lyssa joins you. Together, you sit with your backs against the same tree trunk, your gazes upon the northern horizon.

  “You couldn’t have known,” she says after a long silence. “You talked all three into leaving their sad little fort. There was no reason to think any would choose violence after that.”

  “Perhaps,” you say, resting your chin on your palm. “But I should have considered it. You didn’t hear Legrand talk. He was so adamant, so proud…I should have realized he would not listen to me so easily.”

  Lyssa elbows your side. “Hey. Stop it. You know what we call Soulkeepers who second guess their every decision?”

  You faintly smile. It’s a common joke among your order. “Ex-Soulkeepers.”

  “Exactly. Now don’t let this go to your head, Robin, but I think you’re a pretty good Soulkeeper, so I’d like you to stay as one, which means accepting you aren’t in control of every situation. Legrand wanted to die in a blaze of glory defending his home. He got what he wanted. Those lapinkin attacked a village and forced everyone out, so they’re not innocent, either. The only person I pity is Goff, but that’s how things go. The fanatics and the warmongers never die alone.”

  You nod softly, but your attention is elsewhere. The reaping hour is close, very close, and you cannot shake Sylvi’s words.

  Your Sisters wake. They will have no need of your ritual.

  “There it is,” you say, and point. Two faint beams of light shine above the distant village, their blue only barely visible against the backdrop of the night. A moment later, you see twin flashes, Goff’s and Legrand’s souls leaping up to the sky to join the great flow in the hereafter.

  The reaping hour passes. The creeping sensation releases its grip on your neck, and the hair on your arms relax. Slowly, you let out a breath you did not know you were holding.

  “What does it mean?” Lyssa asks, and you know what she questions. Why now did the souls leap to the heavens on their own, without the need of Soulkeepers and their accompanying rituals?

  “The Sisters wake,” you say. “Have they been sleeping? Imprisoned?”

  “I mean for us,” she says, glancing at you. She yanks out the pins holding her bun in place so that her auburn hair falls across half her face. A shake of her head and it smooths out, though she has to run her fingers through it to remove a few gnarls. “Without the reaping ritual, what purpose do we even serve?”

  “We still aid the living,” you argue.

  “Perhaps.” Her fingers continue their little rhythm through her hair. “But we aid them with our swords and our pistols. Sure, we have our prayers, but the Faithkeepers are far better at giving sermons and tending to people’s hearts. I fear what we ourselves may become.” She leans against you, shoulder to shoulder. Her voice quiets. “I fear that, in this new world we find ourselves in, we will be weapons, and nothing more.”

  You wrap an arm around Lyssa, and after a moment, she slides closer so her hip and leg are touching yours. Her head rests upon your shoulder. The proximity is welcome, the touch of her, the offered warmth, pleasant to you in more ways than one.

  “There they are,” she says, her voice strangely calm despite her words. “The bloodthirsty fucks.”

  The sky darkens with the shapes of owls making their way toward Londheim. You two remain perfectly still underneath the tree as they fly overhead. Within moments they are gone, and the sound of their wings, a distant rhythm.

  Lyssa sighs. Her fingers idly brush the top of your shirt, the tips occasionally touching your skin.

  “Today has not been a good day,” she says. “How about we make sure tonight goes better?”

  Your heart skips a beat. You grin at her, deciding to play coy.

  “Now what could that mean?” you ask.

  Lyssa climbs onto your lap while facing you, her legs straddling your hips. Her head tilts to one side, her lips curling into a smile.

  “I forgot how beautiful you are in the moonlight,” she says, her arms casually draping around your neck. Your own hands slip around her waist, pulling her closer.

  “We should keep watch,” you say as her right hand reaches for the drawstrings of your trousers.

  “Indeed, we should.”

  “There might be more dangers than the owls.”

  “Might be.”

  The drawstring goes slack. Her hand slips lower.

  You do not keep watch.

  24

  The next few days are all a similar slog, long walks that met few travelers. Those you do encounter are families fleeing to Londheim, and they tell strange yet similar stories. Either their villages were accosted by giant owls, whose claws ripped apart their homes and sent them running, or more weirdly, they encountered what they described as deer-people. Tall and strong, walking on two legs instead of four, and with arms and hands like a human’s instead of hoofed. No reference to the lapinkin, which you cannot decide whether is good or bad.

  “This world is getting weirder,” Lyssa mutters to you after the third story of these deer people arriving with clubs and hammers and demanding the people vacate under the threat of violence.

  “At least these deer-people haven’t killed anyone,” you say. The same could not be said for the damn owls. You spend far more time during the day preparing for their passage, with the lone man or woman on watch covering the blankets of the rest with grass to aid with the camouflage since finding tree cover has grown difficult on your approach toward the mountains. Whatever campfire your group builds is doused with dirt long before the arrival of the stars.

  Each time, you watch the flight overhead, fearful to be spotted and dreading the chaos they will inflict upon Londheim. Why such a campaign of terror? you wonder, but there is no one to ask, and you certainly have no desire to flag them down for an attempt at conversation.

  At last, the final day of travel comes. Roros nears, and you steel yourself for the arrival. Of all the scattered families you’ve encountered, none have come from the distant town nestled against the far northeastern stretch of Alma’s Crown. You pray that is a good sign, even if it feels hopeless. Not far to the east of Roros is the sprawling forest known as the Helwoads, and after watching the giant owls’ flight for several nights, you’re almost certain that forest is their home.

  At midday, you first see its walls. Roros is the only place in all the world where flamestone is mined, and as such, it is heavily defended compared to most far flung mining towns. Tall stone walls form a protective U around the southern half, sealing in the town nestled against the towering spires of Alma’s Crown. To your shock, you see the faintest movement of soldiers patrolling atop those walls.

  “The town,” you say, overwhelmed by the relief you feel. “It’s…it’s safe.”

  “Was there reason to believe it was not?” Ansell asks beside you.

  “A hundred reasons,” you say. “Most of them wearing feathers.”

  But sure enough, there are additional signs of life. Smoke lifts above the walls from chimneys. The city gates are open, and as you near, you see people working the fields that fill the miles beyond those walls, preparing them for the spring planting.

  “Roros is well-defended, protected by a guard stationed by Queen Woadthyn herself,” William says, overhearing your surprise. “You give far too much credit to these owls, Soulkeeper. They may be large, but we wield sword and flamestone, and our armies are more than enough to keep us safe behind our walls.”

  Lyssa slips beside you, her fingers nervously drumming the handles of her pistols. Her voice drops low so William will not overhear.

  “Don’t get me wrong, I’m thrilled people are safe,” she says. “But walls don’t mean shit to those owls. We’ve seen their numbers flying overhead. Londheim has enough soldiers and Soulkeepers to protect her, but Roros? We should be arriving at a ghost town.”

  “Maybe the owls have a reason to spare it?” you say. “Or perhaps a reason to hate Londheim more?”

  Lyssa shakes her head. “They’ve attacked each and every night, with no respite. All other nearby villages have been destroyed as well, their occupants chased south into Londheim. For Roros to be left alone, here at their doorstep? I’m not buying it.”

  You find yourself agreeing, which leads to the obvious question, one you yourself have no answer for. “Why then were they spared?”

  The other Soulkeeper shrugs. “I don’t know, but that doesn’t mean I’m wrong. Keep your eyes and ears open, my friend. Something is amiss.”

  You earn a few stares from those in the fields, but you are left alone until your group arrives at the gates. They are open a crack, the enormous wood slabs bolted together with steel that tower over you thrice your height. A pair of soldiers stand guard at the entrance. Above them, you see two more keeping watch. All four brandish pistols, a luxury afforded to the place that supplies the Cradle with flamestone.

  With William sent with the authority of West Orismund’s Royal Overseer, and you and Lyssa carrying the weight of the church, you do not expect any problems passing any sort of inspection.

  You are wrong.

  “Could…could you repeat that?” William asks the nearby guard that has halted your group.

  The young guard speaks again, and though you hear him clearly, your mind aches.

  His speech. It is gibberish. You understand not a single word.

  “Is this a joke?” Lyssa asks.

  “I don’t know,” you say, your bafflement growing. The first guard steps back, confused and worried. He calls over the other gate guard, and when they converse, you again hear them speak in a vaguely familiar and yet indecipherable language.

  “Listen, I am an auditor sent to represent Royal Overseer Downing,” William says, and he pulls out a letter from an inside pocket of his coat. The first guard grabs it, frowns, and then hands it to the other. He barks something, harsh and angry. One of the guards on the wall shouts something back. His pistol is drawn and loaded. Again, their words mean nothing to you.

  Ansell taps you on the shoulder, stealing your attention.

  “I fear I may be unwell,” he says.

  “No, it’s not just you,” you tell him. “We’re all hearing nonsense, like they’re talking a different language.”

  “Oh.” The soulless guard looks to where William is still gesturing and pointing angrily at the letter. “Why would they learn a different language? The Oris tongue is sufficient.”

  “No one just learns a different language,” Lyssa says, eying the two armed soldiers on the walls. “Impostors, perhaps? Creatures in disguise?”

  You glance at the fields, and then what traffic you can see further inside the city.

  “That’d be a lot of impostors,” you say. “And based on the looks on those guards’ faces, it seems they think we are the impostors.”

  “Us?” Lyssa asks. “They’re the ones talking in…whatever language they’re speaking.”

  Ansell tilts his head. “If they did not learn a new language, how do they speak in a new language?”

  William retreats a few steps as the gate guard with the letter draws his pistol and starts shouting something.

  “Good question,” you say, and haven’t the slightest clue.

  *

  Hours later, you camp outside the walls of Roros. The guards refuse you entry, but for whatever reason, they do not chase you off completely. You suspect it is the official seal upon the letter from Albert Downing keeping you safe.

  “This is absurd,” William says as he hunches before your campfire. “Something or someone has bedeviled our tongues, but why would they think us to be anything than who we say we are?”

  “Perhaps they think we’re monsters that stole the skin we’re wearing,” Lyssa says, and despite the exhaustion of the road, she grins. “I heard a few stories like that growing up, and this world has changed plenty since the black water came.”

  Ansell sits up sharply. “Are there creatures that wear the skin of others?”

  You shoot a half-hearted glare at Lyssa.

  “No,” you say, as if explaining things to a child. “There are not. It is only a story.”

  “Good.” Ansell relaxes. “I am to follow William’s orders, and if not his, those of a Soulkeeper. If another is wearing your skin, your orders are no longer valid. I would need to check.”

  “Check?” you ask. “How?”

  “By looking underneath your skin.”

  You don’t know how the soulless planned on doing that, nor do you want to know.

  “No removing anyone’s skin,” you say. “Consider that a very, very strict order.”

  “Should we set up watch?” Whistler asks. The manservant sits beside a pot positioned over the fire, stirring its contents. That pot contains most of your remaining rations. The expectation was to resupply in Roros. You imagine trying to haggle with a shopkeeper without understanding them and grimace.

  “We’re in the shadow of the town’s walls,” Lyssa says. “If we’re not safe here, we’re not safe anywhere.”

  A scowl mars Whistler’s handsome face. “If you will forgive me for saying, but I feel neither comfortable nor safe here. It is like the air is wrong.”

  You know exactly what he means. Your head has ached ever since arriving at the town, and you cannot shake this feeling of…wrongness that permeates the area. The problem is, you have no explanation for it beyond the oddity of speech.

  “We’ll try again tomorrow morning,” William says, sitting up. “And I’ll make enough of a stink that they send the overseer instead of just the mayor. If they still reject us, at least I can return to Londheim knowing I did everything I could.”

  A town of Roros’s size would normally only have a mayor, but given their importance, as well as the funds and protection offered by the Queen herself, it is run by an appointed overseer of the crown. You aren’t sure his or her name, a fact that annoys you in retrospect. You would normally be apprised of such details before a mission. That you weren’t spoke to the haste, and slipshod nature, of the request Forrest foisted upon you and Lyssa.

  “Something strange is going on,” you tell everyone once your dinner is ready. “So please, all of you, remain calm, collected, and do not lose your temper with the guards until we figure out what.”

  “Losing my temper is the only reason I was able to speak with the mayor,” William says. His voice lowers. “Not that it did much good.”

  “Aye, and losing your temper again may end with your body full of lead shot. The guards are scared of us, and if our speech sounds to them like theirs does to us, they’re right to be scared. Do nothing to provoke them. Worst case, we head back to Londheim with a strange story and a guess as to why they haven’t shipped more flamestone.”