We pass through a brace of torches and guards. They bow to Prince Meilek before leading us through the center of the encampment. More soldiers appear to watch our arrival, curious. They wear simple leather armor with little adornment, other than a gray sash secured over a belt and sword.

Ronin’s standard flies from the peaks of the largest tents: a skeletal tree, stooped and malformed. Its silhouette resembles that of a spider. Deliberate, I’m sure.

Prince Meilek pauses just long enough to speak quietly with two people. Their armor and the knots of their gray sashes indicate they’re Ronin’s officits. One is a shaman. The other has dark gray skin, and although he looks young and lean, his hair is completely white.

Shadowblessed, I realize. I know very little about them, even what they look like. I’ve heard that some shadowblessed live in Evewyn’s port cities, but the clans rarely venture beyond Kazahyn’s mountains.

I glance back at Saengo. Her gaze is fixed on the Dead Wood. She looks ill. I wish I’d had time to explain why going to see Ronin is, in fact, a good thing. But I’m not sure it would help much.

The Dead Wood terrifies me as well, because I cannot battle trees. I cannot win with fighting skills and weaponry. Ronin’s assurance and our wits will be all that stand between us and the spirits’ malice.

But if the Dead Wood is our only path to Ronin, then we’d best be about it quickly. We’ll be out of daylight soon. Even after everything I have done under Kendara’s tutelage, walking into those trees of my own will in the dead of night might take more courage than I possess.

SEVEN

We continue through the encampment. I spot a human, two shamans, and a shadowblessed sharing a wineskin around a cooking fire, all dressed in the light armor of Ronin’s soldiers. It’s bizarre seeing all three races gathered together like old friends. Before Queen Meilyr, such a sight might not have been so unusual in Evewyn.

We soon leave the encampment behind, my heart hammering against my rib cage. But as we near the tree line, the bare branches and the crooked trunks look less sinister and more forlorn. Perhaps my expectations colored my judgment, lending malevolence to the mundane. Perhaps the stories were exaggerated, tales to instill fear in children and travelers who might dare to venture into the Spider King’s domain.

Saengo doesn’t share the sentiment. Her fear is a knife lodged between my shoulder blades. I slow Yandor so that I fall into line with her drake. The Blades close ranks around us, as if they think we’ll try to run with Ronin’s camp behind us and the Dead Wood before us.

I take Saengo’s hand, only flinching a little when her fear hurls through me. “We’ll do this together.”