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Chapter Twenty-Seven

With a snap, Rae and the wraith were jerked out of the shadowlands. Utter silence cloaked them. They hung suspended in the air, gripped by an icy void. The world, already gray and broken, resolved into a jumble of angles. Rae dangled in the air, his arms spread, hovering. The wraith’s form wrapped around him—the glaring line of pain across his eye, the cowl across his face, the swirling skeins of cloak and mist.

“What is this? What are you doing?” Rae demanded.

—i am reminding you of our relationship, mortal. you are not my master. i am no man’s servant.

“I thought I was the only thing keeping you from Oblivion!”

—i have died before. the gate does not close forever.

“I liked you better when you were begging for my help,” Rae said.

—you have chosen to bind me, rather than help me. it is time you understand the weight of that burden. Angrily, Rae bent his will against the wraith. The wraith’s presence wavered for a minute. Finally, it relented. very well. for now.

“That’s better. This whole relationship is going to be a lot smoother if you accept . . .”

Rae’s voice trailed off as he looked around. The environment had changed. No longer in some primeval forest, Rae and the wraith were slowly descending toward a ruined, urban landscape. The depth and breadth of the destruction that surrounded them settled on him. The streets weren’t just broken, they were plowed asunder. The buildings were more than ruins, they were barely rubble. The walls were blasted stone. The few trees that stretched above the wreckage were blackened skeletons. Even the air felt desolate.

“What happened here?” Rae asked. “I’ve never seen destruction like this.”

—haven’t you? think. remember.

Rae surveyed the grounds below. They were still descending, the angle of their flight changed slightly by the wraith. Rae was approaching what must have once been a village square. The well at the center of the square looked like it had ruptured, the small stone walls knocked aside to reveal a yawning black chasm. Brittle grass crunched to dust as his feet touched down. No wind stirred the air, though Rae was sure he could hear a breeze rustling the dust on the next street.

The wraith was silent. Rae walked to the edge of the broken well and looked down. Shadows swirled inches below the surface, a pool of impenetrable blackness. He kicked a stone into the pit and watched as it disappeared.

“Where have you taken me?” he asked. The wraith hovered closer.

—taken you? i thought you were the master? can’t you simply command me, child?

“Apparently not,” Rae said.

—hm. interesting. Rae couldn’t decipher the meaning of the wraith’s words, if it was mocking him or simply probing the boundaries of Rae’s control. have no fear. you are safe here, master.

“Enough with the ‘master’ nonsense,” Rae said. He looked around the square. The buildings looked strange, the architecture unfamiliar, even in their ruined state. The jagged teeth of broken columns lined the square, separated by collapsed archways that led into silent rooms. No road led to this square.

“If this is supposed to feel familiar, I assure you it does not,” Rae said.

—you can hardly be expected to recognize the memories of a hundred generations, the wraith answered. give it time. the memories you are familiar with will find you.

“Or I’ll find them.” Without thought, Rae flicked his hand and summoned the wraithblade. Its misty length comforted him, even here. Properly armed, Rae picked one of the arches and walked through. The crunch of dead grass under his feet was the only sound. He passed through the archway and into stale air.

The interior of the house was preserved from whatever destruction had claimed the world outside. The walls were covered in faded murals, and a mosaic stretched across the domed ceiling, though so many of the tiles had fallen that it was impossible to make out the images overhead. There was no furniture, but stains on the walls and floor sketched an outline of beds, couches, portraits . . . a ghostly remnant of domestic life.

Rae wandered through the rooms. This had been a grand estate at one time, but nothing was left of that glory. Still, something about the place itched at the back of his mind. A memory, half formed, struggled to reach the surface.

“If this is the shadowlands, then we must be somewhere close to where we were in the physical world, right?” Rae asked. “But this doesn’t look anything like Aervelling. Where’s the river? Where are the mountains?”

—there is much you do not understand about the shadowlands. memory is more important than distance.

“Then why don’t I remember any of this? Are these your memories?”

—some. but the dead of this place hold fast to what was.

They crossed the final room and came to a broad balcony that overlooked what had once been extensive gardens. The topiary pathways and pebbled labyrinth were choked with ramshackle buildings, a shantytown that sprang up from the ruins of the estate. A dry riverbed wound its way through the center of the gardens, passing through a cracked fountain, topped with a statue of the eight-faced icons of the planes. Rae followed the creek bed up to the fountain. Like the well, the fountain bubbled with impenetrable darkness.

“There’s something about that fountain,” Rae mused. A memory stirred in his soul, though whether it was his own or the wraith’s, Rae couldn’t tell. For a brief moment, the garden cleared. Sunlight danced through splashing water, and the laughter of children filled the air. A blur of movement caught his eye. Three shapes, small and warm and soft, ran through the garden labyrinth. One of them tumbled into the fountain. A shriek of terror, and then the other two came to its rescue. Fear became laughter, became joy, became a memory.

Flicker, and the garden was gone, returned to ash and broken shrubs. Rae took a deep breath.

“Hadroy,” he whispered. “This is the baron’s manor. You’ve brought us to Hadroy’s estate, deep in the Heretic’s Eye.”

—this is where you said you wanted to go. so here we are. hadroy house. the eye does not exist in the shadowlands. only the memories of the dead.

Icy hands closed on his shoulder. Rae spun around. The wraith hung behind him. The scar of light bisecting its eye pulsed with Rae’s heartbeat. He stared into the misty cowl that hid the wraith’s face, revealing only long fangs, and the glowing pits of its eyes.

“Who are you? What are you?” Rae whispered.

The wraith beckoned him to follow, then turned and went back into the manor.

—what do you know of the shadowlands, raelle? the wraith asked. The wraith floated in front of him, misty cloak wafting along the warped boards of the floor. Rae was very careful to stay out of its steaming wake.

“As little as possible,” Rae said. “My father refused to teach me, no matter how much I begged. All I know is from books. The shadowlands are the land of the dead, along the border of Oblivion.” He paused, looking around uncomfortably. A chill went through his blood. “I never wanted to be a wraithbinder.”

—it shows. you are uniquely unsuited to the task. as am I. The wraith paused at an intersection beyond the ballroom, as though trying to remember where it was. this is not right. these halls have—he gestured to a ruined wall, and the debris shifted, shuffling together to become an archway—too many memories, raelle. too many lives, layered one atop another. this way.

“How did you do that?” La asked. “Move the wall.”

—shuffling memories. recalling different realities, the wraith said. He made a dismissive gesture. this place has changed a great deal since i was last here. even then, it was not the house I remember.

“So you were at Hadroy’s estate?” Rae asked. “Who are you?”

—i have forgotten too much to answer that question, rae. all i can tell you is that this place draws me, the wraith said. perhaps we learn together.

They went through the archway, and found themselves in a long hallway with glass walls, almost like a greenhouse. The glazing had long since peeled away, leaving the panes in a state of grime and mold. A pale sun peered through the greenish film.

“I remember these rooms,” Rae said breathlessly. “The lady Hadroy kept her summer flowers here. I used to sneak down here with Lalette, after classes.”

—the shadowlands are not a natural part of the realm of the dead, the wraith said. the dead cling to the living world. they try to rebuild it, layering memory and regret like cheap paint. it is a mockery of the world they left behind. but it is all they have. it looks much like your world, does it not?

“There are . . . differences,” Rae said. They left the glass-lined hallway and entered a narrow garden path made of pebbled stone. The grass to either side was cropped short, and a series of stone arches framed the pathway. Mists quickly claimed the view to either side. There was no sign of the sun. “Where are we?”

—i rarely walked these halls. my tasks were elsewhere. but someone lived here. someone loved this place. The wraith paused and gestured to the side. Rae caught a fleeting glimpse of a figure lurking between hedges, eyes like pinpoints of light following them closely. The figure bolted out of sight. The wraith nodded ponderously. and some still remain. clinging to what remains of the mortal world.

The wraith continued down the path. Rae followed reluctantly, eyes scanning the mist-cloaked gardens. He was less and less certain that binding the wraith had been the right choice. It was as if he was at the mercy of the spirit. Rae had tried several times to draw himself back into the material plane, but each time he had failed. What must Estev be thinking, sitting in that room, watching me twitch on the floor? Rae thought. Would he be able to save me, if the wraith tried to consume me?

“Why did you bring me to Oblivion?” Rae asked. The wraith made a rattling sound. Laughter?

—we are not yet to oblivion. the shadowlands are not the realm of death, the spirit said. they are constructed from the memories of the dead, trying to return to the world they knew. when a wraith passes from the material plane, they still retain some portion of their mind. depending on how they died. it is torture for some, a reprieve for others.

The pathway ended. They stood on the verge of a rolling hillside, bounded by close-grown forests. A single house stood nestled against the trees. The wraith floated across the grasses, with Rae close on his hem.

—time in the land of the dead is difficult. it wears you down. over eons, it erases you, until you are nothing but emptiness, the wraith said, continuing. part and parcel of the realm. every scrap of self obliterated.

“Remind me to never die,” Rae said.

—the stronger you cling to life, the more death grasps you, the spirit said. nothing escapes the grave.

“Well. It can’t be that bad,” Rae said.

The wraith paused and looked at him. Rae tried to brush his way past. Something about the house at the edge of the field drew him on. Suddenly, Rae felt heavy, as though he was being pushed down into the sod. The field parted underfoot. He sank through the ground, as though the dirt was no more substantial than the filmy surface of a bubble. He tried to scream as he dropped through, gasping for a final breath as his face passed beneath the earth.

The world hung superimposed above him. Like staring up at a dirty skylight, Rae gazed at the wraith, the field, the arched pathway, all of it flying away like storm-driven clouds. The sword in his hand was a constellation of bright lights, woven together in lines of piercing brilliance. A star-encrusted tether connected Rae to the wraith. Void stretched out in every direction. Crushing silence surrounded him. Slowly, another sound reached Rae’s ears. He looked down, and saw an ocean of souls, screaming.

The surface of Oblivion was drawn in faces, forming and unforming, dissolving mid-scream to erupt in a different face, a different scream, all of them gasping and moaning and begging for relief. A heavy mist hung over the ocean, the fog swirling with eyes and hands and other forms, too horrible to imagine.

Rae found he could still scream. The closer he got, the faster he fell. Oblivion began to churn directly beneath him, a slow whirlpool in reverse, the bones piling up in a pyramid of clambering skeletons, reaching toward him. Rae fell, and they climbed.

The line pulled taut. Rae’s mouth clapped shut mid-scream. He dangled like bait over the waters. Faster and faster, Oblivion twisted. He could see individual spirits, skeletal, watching him with hungry, empty eyes. They clambered over one another to reach the warm flesh of his body. Closer and closer, louder and louder, Rae’s screams mixing with the grinding tumult of the dead. Rae’s heart was in his throat.

—remember what awaits.

As fast as he had fallen, he flew. Reeling back to the sky, Rae dragged up to the low clouds overhead. The star-line shimmered as it retracted, until he struck the shadowy landscape of fields, house, garden. The wraith was the noon sun, the only light in that world of obliteration. Rae breached the ground.

He stood, gasping for breath, in the center of the field. He collapsed to his knees, grabbing at the dry grass of the field, tasting bile in his mouth. The wraith loomed over him, its bony hands clasped at his waist.

“What was that for?” Rae gasped.

—a healthy reminder, the wraith said, of what you saved me from. and more.

The spirit turned his back on Rae and continued to the house, as though nothing had happened. Rae took another handful of panicked breaths. The sound of screaming skulls lingered in his mind. He realized it had been in the background the whole time, mistaken for a breeze. Finally, he got to his feet and followed after the wraith.

For the first time, Rae really focused on the house. The thatched roof and plaster walls seemed impossibly clean. They had more color than the world around them, and the flowerboxes tucked under the windows were filled with petunias and impatiens. A thin line of smoke rose from the chimney.

“I know this place. That’s our house,” Rae said. “From our days at the manor. I’d almost forgotten this place.”

—no, it’s not. but it is someone’s memory of your house, the wraith said. servant housing was never this glamorous, even for a spiritbinder of your father’s stature. they were lined up on a muddy road, shoulder to shoulder, with barely a patch of grass for a garden. your mother made a lot of that garden.

Rae took a step closer, then looked back at the wraith. The spirit stayed where it was.

—this is not my place to be, the spirit said. go on. see what you will see.

“If you’ve brought me all this way to taunt me with my dead parents . . .” Rae snapped, thin fingers folding into a fist. The wraith held up a hand.

—your parents are not here. but their memories may linger. He gestured again to the house. go. see.

“What am I looking for?” Rae asked.

—you will know, the wraith answered.

The house looked so real that Rae expected his mother’s voice to come from the kitchen, or his father to stumble down the road, overburdened with magical tomes borrowed from Hadroy’s library. But it was eerily silent. Uncomfortably silent. Only the sound of skulls chattering in the breeze reached him. Suppressing a shiver, Rae dismissed the wraithblade, letting it sink back into his soul. Somehow it felt wrong to walk in his childhood home with drawn sword. Then he pushed open the front door.

The main room was unchanged. A small fire burned in the hearth, dull flames flickering silently against ash-stained riverstone. The table was set for dinner, and a pot of stew bubbled over the fire. It drove Rae nuts that he couldn’t smell the food. The long hallway that led to their rooms seemed narrower, almost like a burrow that sank into the earth. A light burned at the end of the hallway. His father’s study.

Rae went into the kitchen, peering out the window and into the garden. The rows of winter beans and radish stirred silently in the breeze. Sunflowers bobbed heavy heads along the fence. This must be my mother’s memory. Father never noticed the flowers. Rae sighed and went back into the main room.

“We were happy here,” Rae muttered. “Easy to forget, with everything that came after. But we were happy.”

When the silent air didn’t answer, Rae ducked his head, left the cozy main room behind, and started down the hallway. The walls were too close, and the ceiling bowed down, as though it was about to collapse. An unseen force pressed against him, driving him back, away from the end of the hallway. Glancing behind him, Rae saw that the shimmering line between his soul and the wraith was bucking like a kite string.

He pressed on.

Rae passed his room, and La’s as well, one on each side of the hallway. He almost went in, to see what remained of his childhood in this phantom realm, but something stopped him. He was afraid—afraid of what he might see, afraid of what he might have forgotten in the years since his family fled the core for Hammerwall.

The room at the end of the hallway was his father’s study. It had an extra thick door, but it never prevented Rae from lying awake to listen to the skritch-scratch of his father’s pen, and the luxurious shuffle of expensive pages being turned. The thin pulp pages of his father’s surviving library in Hammerwall, the few tomes he could afford after their fall from grace, never had the same sound. It reminded Rae of better days, and just how far the Family Kelthannis had fallen.

The light in his father’s office was on now, and the door slightly ajar. With his heart in his throat, Rae put a hand on the door.

For the briefest moment, a hairbreadth of time, Rae saw something else. Violence. Anger. This door kicked in, shouting voices, tromping boots. Clothes were strewn across the floor of the hallway. Was that . . . familiar? Their departure had been quick, but Rae didn’t remember anyone coming to the house, looking for them. For something. Maybe after we had already fled. Then the memory was gone. Rae swallowed, and pushed open the door, afraid of the violence he might see inside.

The room was empty.

Well, not empty. The drafting table under the garden window was cluttered with notes, bracketed by bookstands, on which were stacked half a dozen open books. A thick coat lay over the stool. The reading chair in the corner was littered with folios and a quiverful of parchment scrolls. The only light in the room was a lantern in the corner, hung over the chair by a brass chain.

Rae was rarely allowed in this room. He snuck in occasionally, when he was sure his mother was occupied, and Lalette wasn’t around to tattle. The smell was the thing he remembered the most: old paper, musty fabric, the sharp tang of oil from the lantern against the dull scent of spilled ink. Being in this room without the smell was unsettling. So unsettling that it took Rae a long time to realize what was different.

The lantern’s flame cast actual light. A red glow that turned the room a shade of crimson reminiscent of the flames of Hammerwall as it burned. He took a step closer to the lantern. The flame danced and spit, a bright slash in a world of gray light. There was something in the flame, hanging suspended above the wick while the fire danced around it. Squinting, Rae tried to make it out. Round, maybe a gem, like a pearl. Or . . . 

The eye blinked. Rae gasped, then grabbed the lantern and lowered the wick until the flame snuffed out, leaving an oily puff of black smoke hanging in the glass cage. The room returned to the gray, misty translucence of the rest of the shadowlands.

The lantern looked perfectly normal now. He took a step back, and bumped into the drafting table. Papers slid loudly off the desk’s slanted surface. Rae muttered angrily as he knelt to retrieve them, trying to balance them back on the table’s sharp incline, but something caught his eye. A familiar shape, glimpsed behind the folded corner of a map of the Ordered World. Rae set the sheaf of dropped papers on the stool, then peeled away the map. What he saw took his breath away.

Dozens of formulas filled the edges of the paper, the complicated freehand of scrying spells, calculated and crossed out and recalculated. They were the kind of equations that Rae had seen but never practiced, spells that let a mage scry a soul from a distance, without the subject being aware. Each formula revealed a single mote, and the motes could be arranged to calculate the shape of the soul that lurked beneath—and the spiritblade that tied them together. It was a difficult task, and one that Rae had no taste for. This was one way to forge a spiritblade, or to study another ’blade, to learn the shape of the soul behind it.

Rae ran a finger along the parchment’s edge. Spots of ink and scratched out calculations obscured the final result. Tren Kelthannis had obviously done the final arrangement in his head. Revelation had been sudden, like a hammer dropped out of the sky. Rae’s father had never finished the scrying. Or, if he had, the solution wasn’t recorded here. At least, not on this paper. But Rae had seen the result, etched in ice and buried in the root cellar of the family farm.

This was the soul in the spiritblade. But the demon was absent.


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