Author's Note:
Liminal Shadows was previously published under Dawn of Shiobe: Wellspring Dragons Book 1
I struggled to title this book, and I've finally found one that describes the story but doesn't have Shiobe's name in the title. Hence, a new edition, as the title has changed.
Liminal Shadows is now available for purchase in ebook format. Follow the universal link to the ebook.
Excerpt from Liminal Shadows
Chapter 1: Shiobe
Such a dingy, dusty, dank place for an immaculate man to be drinking. Shiobe stared across the ash-smeared bar counter at him as he sipped wine from a nondescript ceramic mug, pushing his long, silken black hair away from his thin face as he studied the bland, smoke-encrusted interior of the tavern. Most native Solin men did not wear their hair so long, so she wondered from which eastern country he had traveled—Rakan, Teral, Baq?
He possessed aki n’di ori blue eyes, but instead of the typical cobalt, they were an intense, cold turquoise, a beautiful color hidden under the constant narrow-eyed glare he deposited on the rough rowdies surrounding him. His smooth, light tan skin, high cheekbones, thin nose and sensuous mouth reminded her of paintings in her father’s books depicting aristocratic families who lived along the Strait of Co Jer and the Sea of Condioh.
His body appeared sleek and refined under the black, fitted silk shirt and baggy pants, a general aki n’di sindari martial uniform style popular amongst the tribal peoples. He moved with unconscious grace, bespeaking long sunmarks wielding a sword, so he likely practiced one of their fighting arts. He embodied Kethti in the myth Kan Ivore, a powerful yet graceful warrior who won the Ra i’ dori competition and captured the attention of his future lover, the dragonmaster Ivore.
She looked gloomily into her empty mug before raising it to signal a refill from the harried barkeep. Who might she attract, with her graceless swordwork, her soft black hair, sun-kissed skin and tourmaline-green Condi eyes, all dulled by her functional, well-worn leathers? Most preferred the refined beauty of a palace siojhetioh, especially one with corn-silk hair, porcelain skin and enchanting dark blue eyes that matched the glittering color of her wispy skirts.
She shoved the thought to the back of her mind; no, no more dwelling on Rien and Kitta.
Raucous laughter erupted from the arriving shop workers and apprentices, men who earned enough coin to eat in a decent tavern after their workday but chose that place because of the cheap drinks. Their arrival signaled the beginning of the Switch, when the daytime workers found an evening meal and a hearty drink, and those who worked the night shifts ate and drank with them before trudging to their respective jobs. The Switch usually meant more expensive, watery ale, and Shiobe sighed, wondering if the numbing swill would balance the increased wait.
The beautiful man shifted and rose, granting those milling about him an icy look that should have frozen them in place, had they paid attention to him. Shiobe glanced at the barkeep, realized a full mug long in coming, and rose herself. She nervously brushed at her faded but clean leathers and rearranged her sword about her waist while waiting for her interest to stride from the tavern. With nowhere else to go, she had time to idle. She would rather stand in the raucous crowd than sit in the shadows of shattered dreams and contempt that filled her room at the Shady Sword.
Or, perhaps, she should leave the rowdies behind and depart with him—but no. If the beautiful man noticed her, she floundered with small talk. Kitta possessed the smooth tongue.
He slipped through the shop workers and apprentices as if a clear path lay before him. She tried to bury a small tinge of jealousy; how she wished she flowed through a crowd without jostling others! Instead, she waded through the clusters of people, twisting to avoid stamping on boots and thumping into bodies that popped into her way. She snarled at the foul hoots falling from smiling mouths when she collided with them, and she vowed to leave earlier the next time she patronized the place. Not that she had the coin to do so often, but little enough occupied her time after the palace sword practices that, when she could spare a copper shenk, she drank there.
She exited the tavern and glanced about in the hazy evening light, wishing to see the direction the man walked. Instead she gazed upon even more hungry people and the grubs out begging for their coin. She gave all of them the coldest glare. The grubs grumbled at her lack of kindness and scurried away; the women ignored her. The men met her eyes, smiling despite her chill, but turned away in scorn when they realized she wore a sword instead of a lace scarf about her hips. Iovan men rarely took an interest in a woman wielding a sword, finding an imagined death by a blade too risky if he upset her.
Of course, if wielding death came in the hands of a gauzy-clad, beautiful palace siojhetioh, then the gift to kill a man with a sphere of fire or a shock of lightning added excitement and spice to a relationship.
She elbowed her way to the far edge of the sidewalk, annoying one hungry man enough he pushed her, hard. She rammed against the rotting wood of the building’s wall with a wince. She placed her back against the grey splinters and peered down the street, hoping for a small opening in bodies to slip into a clearer section of the road. Three years had not perfected her city skills to the point she could skim through a crowd, but at least she was not a country bumpkin who never traversed a congested walkway without getting robbed.
The throng parted slightly. She focused on a breadseller’s cart and grumbled to herself about the reason for the clogged sidewalk. Iova set aside plenty of space in the squares for people like him to ply their trade, which, ostensibly, kept them from jamming up the streets during busy times. She could track down a guard to hassle the merchant, but she far more wished to find her handsome interest.
She finally glimpsed his head above the crowd, then frowned. A grub walked at his side, speaking rapidly and flapping his arms about excitedly, nearly jumping from foot to foot. People avoided his flailing appendages with sharp words and annoyed glares, though a few cast him looks of pity.
That the stranger appeared to listen to him pricked her curiosity. What had a well-dressed fighter to do with this particular grub? Men such as he usually flung the needy aside with distaste and displeasure; the palace guard and shadowwalkers did it often enough, even while claiming to help those same people by donating a bit of food or clothing to a temple. Of course, most of that charity occurred after a random mob rained destruction through the Lower City two years ago. People connected to the throne needed to prove that the palace held some sort of compassion for the commoner, however minute.
She shoved her hands into her pockets as a chill, early Spiced Air breeze blew between the dull wood and gray stone buildings, and ignored the discomfort while she kept pace with the two. Her indomitable curiosity needled her; she had observed that grub at odd intervals over the past two lesser seasons, mainly lounging near the palace workers’ gate. He always looked too dusty, as if he purposefully dumped a bucket of fine dirt over his head before begging, and he peered intently at those exiting the grounds without accomplishing much soliciting. He stooped and whined fast enough if he thought someone paid him too much interest, but he accepted no coin or food. She mentioned his behavior to Rien, but he expressed extreme skepticism that the man might be anyone more sinister than a ratty grub trying to figure out how to beg effectively.
Spies, he insisted, did not sit at the entrance to the servants’ gate and whine in plain sight.
Maybe so, but it still struck her as odd.
She muttered quietly to herself as she replayed the confrontation. Rien continually cautioned every palace guard and freelance fighter to look sharp in public places because four years ago, King Shiel of Illena took advantage of a nasty civil war and invaded the neighboring country of Merren. He easily destroyed the usurper king within a year and squashed the glimmerings of native rebellion right after. The successful invasion became the first step on the road to recreating the expansive Jonna Empire, an ambition he did not hide, and which made him a dangerous enemy to Soline and the other countries south of the Sea of Condioh. Rien stressed the shadowwalkers found evidence that Illenan spies had infiltrated the capital, and any suspicious activity needed to be investigated with all haste. Yet he had not listened to her when she reported such activity, and if she told him of this encounter, he would scoff at her for repeating the subject.
Stupid man.
The descent of darkness provided her with deeply shadowed recesses to hide in while she followed the two men. They meandered through the congested, modest merchant-class streets of wooden, brown-stained buildings and sparse greenery sticking up between cobblestones, and into the dirtier, darker, more dangerous alleyways of the Lower City—a district she called home. A district of crumbling stone buildings erected centuries ago, when, in that part of Iova, daintily clad noblewomen and their eager escorts had walked the pristine, paved thoroughfares. Such a carefree time, before the current ruling family destroyed those nobles to gain power and constructed a new, brilliant white palace to the northeast. The once bright structures had greyed, their crafted stones tumbled down into the streets. The sculptures had cracked and fallen, the damaged chunks shoved to the side of the broken pavement and left to gather moss or become the property of looters. The once opulent mansions now provided inadequate housing for families who crammed a dozen members into single-room abodes created from old drawing rooms and pantries, giving them a roof to sleep beneath and little else.
True night fell before they reached their destination—a narrow, secluded alley between two abandoned, dilapidated warehouses near the old city wall. Shiobe crept through the shadows, carefully peering around the corner as they walked towards four other smears of shadow. One paced in jerky agitation, and leapt at the new arrivals, flinging out a hand whose fingers glint with jewelry.
“Lord Sikode!” he shouted in angry derision.
Her mouth fell open as another man quickly hushed the speaker with a sharp elbow jab to the ribs. Lord Sikode? She knew of one Sikode; King Shiel’s confidant and champion, a man of refined tastes and a deadly sword. A man, the Soline gossip claimed, whose abilities in the Flame martial arts helped him destroy the wielders guarding the desperate Merren usurper king. The gossips delighted in the bloody details and relished the thought of a once-proud king turned into a sniveling man begging on his knees to be handed to anyone else but the Rakan.
Who else in Soline dared possess that name? It was hardly a common Catak moniker for the aki n’di ori, in or out of tribal lands. She swallowed as her heart pounded in her throat. Had she truly happened upon that Sikode? Dare she attempt to overhear them and find out?
No.
She ducked out of sight and leaned against the icy wall as the hum of agitated voices rose in the background. She thumped the back of her head lightly against the stone and sternly grounded herself. Her imagination got the better of her. Even if she thought the grub behaved oddly, the man with him could not possibly be that Sikode. Besides, who would believe her if she claimed she followed Lord Sikode of Illena to a meeting with five spies, including a palace grub? Rien would roll his eyes and deride her overactive imagination, Natan would never consider this important enough for shadowwalker concern, and Rooster had no reason to send his city guard to a secluded alley to check on petty criminals when other duties awaited them.
She pressed her trembling fist against her chest, fighting the powerlessness that infused her. What to do?
Clenching her teeth as she flexed her fingers, she glanced down the vacant, unlit street; most residents refused to travel this area at night for fear of attack—only thieves or worse walked these crumbling roads after dark. And she had followed two of them. While she possessed the training to protect herself from the random scum others feared, confronting multiple criminals all at once did not favor her. She strained to hear the voices as she inspected the shadows, determined not to be caught off-guard by a late arrival.
The thought thrilled her. The thought terrified her. Her curiosity fought an intense battle with her more rational self; however much she wanted answers as to why a sleek, handsome man met with a palace grub and several others in a dark backstreet alley, dying before she could ask the questions did not count as brave. It counted as stupid. She needed to walk away before something terrible happened to her, and plan her next move once safely locked inside her room.
Shadows moved, to her side. She whirled as a hand snaked around the corner and grabbed her. With a startled squeal, she stumbled into the alleyway, her collar in the hands of the beautiful stranger. He jerked her to him and grabbed her chin, forcing her to look at him. She clamped her hands around his wrist and tried to push her thumbs into the tender bits of his arm, but her fingers slipped across chilled air.
Wielded shields. Of course.
“And why follow me?” he asked in a low, crisp voice. His tone slid over her like a Frozen Air’s wind, whispering against and freezing her skin. While he spoke Jonnese precisely, he had a Rakan accent—which meant he very well could be that Sikode.
Shit.
She had followed a spy with no reason to let her live.
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The Wellspring Dragons Series
Liminal Shadows: The Wellspring Dragons Book 1
Shades of Treachery: The Wellspring Dragons Book 2 (Chapter 1 of Book 2)
The Glass Volcano: The Wellspring Dragons Book 3 (Chapter 1 of Book 3)
Abyss of Dreams: The Wellspring Dragons Book 4 (Chapter 1 of Book 4)
Also visit The Wellspring Dragons World
