Free Soulwoven by Jeff Seymour Page A

of Teeth. An army of barbarians descended from the north and nearly broke the power of the rest of the world. That’s the history. The rest I am less sure about.”
    Ryse’s eyes met Cole’s and Litnig’s in the firelit shadows. The rest. The white dragon Arenthor. The Duennin. The black wings of a monster that had once been a man.
    It was the soulweavers who stood strongest against them, she remembered. The children of Mennaia. Men and women and Aleani and Sh’ma, all together.
    Her stomach twisted, and she felt small and insignificant and alone.
    “We will move as quickly as possible.” The prince traced his finger across the black, iron-inked lines of a handsome sheepskin map as he spoke. “North out of Eldan City, then west, skirting the borders of Nutharion through the Broken Lands until we reach Aleana and eventually Du Fenlan itself. It will take us a month, if we’re lucky.” He rolled the map back up and inserted it into its case. “Longer if we’re not.”
    A voice through the wall to Ryse’s left scoffed, “Two if you’re lucky, and never if you’re not.”
    She froze. Cole paled. Quay glared at the younger Jin brother in a way that made Ryse wince.
    Footsteps echoed beyond the thin hovel walls, and Ryse could think of nothing to do but watch as a stout Aleani ducked under the curtain into their firelight and wiped his hands on his trousers. He was tall for his kind, the top of his head about even with Cole’s sternum, his skin dark and leathery. He wore thick, heavy clothes under a loose-fitting traveler’s robe, and hanging from his waist she thought she spotted the flash of steel. His dark-brown hair was matted into thick, flowing dreadlocks and pulled through a loop into a ponytail.
    She exhaled. He wasn’t the Aleani she’d fought the night before, nor, judging by Litnig’s muted reaction, the one Litnig had told her about seeing in the streets. He was too tall, and his teeth were white and straight. But still—
    The prince asked his name.
    “Len Heramsun,” she heard him say, and the rest of the conversation blurred past as she watched him. He moved easily, even surrounded by four humans he had interrupted in the slums of a city that for the most part feared and disliked his kind. He had a heavy build—thick cords of muscles in his arms, wide legs underneath his robe. Flat, broad feet.
    The Aleani’s eyes were a deep brown similar to the prince’s and very sharp. Alive, intelligent. He spoke casually of the wide sky and desert hazards of the Broken Lands, the difficulty of the hills beyond, and the pathless reaches of Aleana that lay between those hills and Du Fenlan. He suggested that they travel west through Nutharion, then north through Aleana. But he didn’t smile, and he didn’t laugh, and he was much too interested in the four of them.
    What in the world is he doing here? She wanted to ask, but it was clear to her that Quay was to do the talking.
    There was a lull in the conversation, and the Aleani’s eyes met hers. Her mouth went dry. He knew what she’d been thinking. Somehow, he knew.
    He turned his eyes back to Quay and said quietly, “Hunting the necromancer named D’Orin Threi.”
    Ryse’s hands trembled. She was afraid that if she looked at the River, she might find souls eddying around the Aleani. Afraid he might be a necromancer, or worse. There were more than two soulweaving orders in the world. None of them, she realized, friends, now that she’d left the Temple.
    But ignorance wouldn’t make her any safer.
    As Quay talked, she opened her eyes to the River and found its glowing spheres moving placidly past the Aleani, who glanced at her and then shucked under the curtain and into the rain beyond.
    “Ryse,” Litnig said.
    His eyes were on hers. So were Quay’s. She let the River fade and focused on the prince’s cold, harsh face.
    “I asked you whether he’s a soulweaver,” Quay said.
    She blinked.
    “Is he?”
    “No,” she said slowly. It was a