Empress of Dorsa (The Chronicles of Dorsa)

An ornate, familiar ceiling was the first thing Joslyn saw when her eyes opened. The room was filled with sunlight. The sound of songbirds floated through the open window.

“You’re awake.”

The back of a hand stroked Joslyn’s cheek.

Joslyn turned her head, searching for Tasia’s face – and immediately regretted the movement. Nausea came instantly, followed by a white-hot bolt of pain splitting her head. She squeezed her eyes closed.

“You’ll be experiencing the side-effects of the healing.” A masculine voice. Not one Joslyn recognized, but the accent was Western. “I wouldn’t advise trying to move until the nausea passes.”

Cool fingertips pressed gently against the inside of Joslyn’s wrist, seeking out her pulse. Joslyn opened her eyes again, blinking until the blur above her resolved into a man’s face. He wore the severe ring-cut of a Wise Man but sported a beard, which meant he was Brotherhood. Probably one of the many Brothers who belonged both to the House of Wisdom and the Brotherhood of Culo – it seemed as if more and more Wise Men were revealing themselves to be Brothers these days. The man was younger than Evrart by at least ten years, and unlike Tasia’s advisor, who would often allow his beard to grow wild and shaggy before pruning it back to something more reasonable, this younger Brother’s beard was trim and neat – practically fashionable.

“This is Brother Rennus,” Tasia said. She climbed onto the bed from and settled into a sitting position, resting one hand on Joslyn’s shoulder. “We’re incredibly lucky that he was with Evrart when the servants rushed inside to sound the alarm. He saved your life.”

Careful not to move her head this time, Joslyn shifted her gaze to the Brother, who had finished checking her pulse and was now gently prodding at the place where Joslyn had been stabbed. Something thick was between his finger and Joslyn’s thigh – a bandage, Joslyn guessed.

“You’re a healer?” she asked. Her voice came out thick, raspy, as though parched after a day’s travel in the desert with low water stores.

He flashed a quick smile in her direction. “Yes. Amongst other arts.”

“I thought each Brother specialized in only one art,” said Tasia.

“Those of us who serve noble households – or the royal household, like your Evrart – often only have enough time to devote themselves to a single art,” Rennus said, continuing to check Joslyn’s bandage. “Others of us have the luxury of more time, and therefore the luxury of broadening our craft even as we deepen it.” He turned, rinsing his hands in the basin of water that had been placed on a stand near the foot of Tasia’s bed. “Before the shadows came to Port Lorsin, I was a scribe at the Great Library. A lowly position. It gave me rather a lot of time to myself. So yes, healing is one of my arts. But not my only one.” He stood beside the basin, glancing between Tasia and Joslyn. “I’d prefer that you rest for the remainder of the day, Commander. You should be ready to live up to your name again by morning.”

Joslyn furrowed her brow. “Live up to my name?”

Brother Rennus smiled. “Hadn’t you heard? In parts of the West, they’ve been calling you Joslyn Shadow Slayer. After today, I’m sure the sobriquet will only grow in its popularity.”

Shadow Slayer.As if calling her Heroine of Port Lorsin hadn’t been enough attention already.

Joslyn sighed.

Her reaction seemed to amuse Rennus; he laughed lightly. “There are worse things to be called, Commander, as I’m sure you know.” He turned towards Tasia and gave a slight bow. “With your permission, Empress, I’ll take my leave.”

Tasia rose from her place beside Joslyn. “Of course, Brother Rennus. I’ll see you out.”

Joslyn closed her eyes, listening to their voices recede into the antechamber, then to Tasia’s footsteps returning. Tasia climbed back onto the bed, but this time she lay down next to Joslyn, laying one hand lightly on Joslyn’s chest as if to monitor her heartbeat.

“I’d really appreciate it if you would break the habit of dying before my eyes,” Tasia said.

“Did we take the assassin alive?” Joslyn croaked.

“We did. Thanks to the bravest Commander of the Palace Guard in the history of the Empire.” Tasia planted a kiss on Joslyn’s temple. But then she frowned. “The strangest thing happened to the assassin after the shadow left her body: she aged. Right before our eyes.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean she’s an old woman now,” Tasia said. “No, not old – she’s ancient. White hair, wrinkled skin, gnarled fingers. Thin and frail as an old grandmother. A great-grandmother.”

Joslyn contemplated this a moment. The Order of Targhan assassin she had fought looked to be about the same age as she was. Had the shadow inside her been lending a false youth? Ty’Tsana hadn’t aged when Joslyn cut her with Ku-sai’s sword – or if she had, she hadn’t aged enough for it to be noticeable. Even if it had been noticeable, Joslyn had been too busy trying to free Milo to check the dead woman’s face for wrinkles.

“What did Evrart say about that – the aging?” Joslyn asked. “And where is she now?”

“Evrart looked as flabbergasted as the rest of us,” Tasia said. “But Brother Rennus didn’t seem surprised. He said there are texts that speak of summoners who live for unnaturally long periods of time, thanks to their communion with the shadows.”

“Summoners?”

“Another shadow art,” Tasia said. Her expression grew irritated. “Apparently there are far more arts practiced by the Brotherhood than Evrart ever bothered explaining – a dozen, at least. Summoners are apparently one of the rarest arts, because it’s so dangerous. The Brotherhood banned its members from learning how to summon centuries ago. And summoners do exactly what they sound like they do – they summon shadows into their own bodies and control them. Or attempt to control them.”

Joslyn nodded. “Perhaps that’s what the Order of Targhan is. An order of summoners. I had assumed as much.”

“You knew of the existence of summoners?”

“I’m Terintan.” Joslyn offered Tasia a crooked grin. “My people are superstitious, remember? And my first mistress was a seer. She told my sister and I all manner of tales about witches and sorceresses and warlocks. I didn’t sleep well as a child.”

Tasia huffed. “The only interesting stories I heard were about the small men.”

Joslyn shifted her position, sliding an arm beneath Tasia’s head. The motion triggered a fresh wave of nausea, but it wasn’t as bad this time.

Tasia nestled her head onto Joslyn’s shoulder and snuggled closer.

“Another assassin after you,” Joslyn said softly. “And this one very nearly succeeded.”

“But she didn’t. Because you were there.” Tasia gave Joslyn’s side a squeeze.

“It was too close.” A thought occurred to Joslyn. “Do you think M’Tongliss knew? Do you think he conspired with them?”

Tasia took a few moments to answer. “No. I don’t think he knew. How would it benefit him? We have his favored son, the heir to his fortune. The son he plans to marry to my sister. If he did conspire against me, he’d already handed me the best weapon to use against him in retaliation.” She paused. “So no, I don’t think it was M’Tongliss. I think she let herself get captured, and someone close to M’Tongliss convinced him – or M’Tongliss convinced himself – to send her as a sign of his loyalty.”

Tasia was probably right. It seemed unlikely that Lord M’Tongliss would put his son at risk. Unless it was an exceptionally clever – and very risky – ploy to throw off suspicion.

As if Tasia had heard Joslyn’s thought, she added, “He has invested much into his alliance with me, risking himself by offering his support when no one else would. He will only profit off his investment if I stay alive and strong. And crowned.”

“Where is the assassin now?”

“Chained to a stone slab in the palace dungeons,” Tasia answered. “Guarded by three palace guardsmen and two Brothers. Safe.”

The only “safe” Order of Targhan assassin, in Joslyn’s opinion, was a dead one.

“Has anyone questioned her yet?”

“Evrart intended to begin interrogating her immediately,” Tasia said. “But I don’t know how his efforts have proceeded. I’ve been here with you the whole time.”

“I want to see her as soon as possible,” Joslyn said. “I want to question her myself.”

“Alright, dear heart.” Tasia pushed herself up a few inches. She kissed Joslyn’s cheek, her neck, the corner of her mouth. “But just rest with me for now. Like Brother Rennus said. Yes? We’ve both had enough excitement for one day. And without a shadow to strengthen her, that old hag isn’t going anywhere.”

Joslyn hoped that was true. In her mind’s eye, she replayed the moment when the assassin had snapped the chains apart that bound her wrists. She’d treated it as if it was insubstantial, nothing more than a string on a child’s toy.

But she turned her head, returned Tasia’s kiss with one of her own.

“Alright,” she said.