Evil had spread throughout the land. It seeped into the earth of the fields, infecting all that grew. It lingered in the dying branches of old trees. Its black breath bent every blossom, every blade of grass, and every weed from the Sallow River to the Burning Mountains, from the ancient forests to the poor villages. All that had once flourished under the benevolent Empress now soured under the reign of her only child.
In the darkest hours of the early morn, the old bone carver and his apprentice left the mud-brick walls and thatched roof of their meager workshop and set out upon a long and desolate road.
It was the eve of Barterfest—the one time each year merchants were permitted into the palace to sell their goods. The bone carver was a poor man with no cart or oxen. It was a long journey to the palace on foot, and so he prepared for an early start.
“Is it true, Master?” asked Liah. “Does she bathe in a blood pond?”
The bone carver did not respond. Instead, he pulled the drawstring tighter on his hemp-fiber sack and slung it over his shoulder. In it, he carried many precious carvings, wrapped in silk for added protection.
Liah was lucky to have such a wise and honorable master. He was a skilled carver—the best in the land. He knew how to prepare bones—how to wash and bleach them, how to perform the ancient rituals that released the spirit from its mortal bind.
In the nights before the journey, he had made many sacrifices to his dead ancestors. If they were pleased, the child Empress would find favor in his workmanship and pay him richly. If they were displeased, she would reject his wares and he would leave the palace empty-handed.
Liah was a foundling. There were no bones for her to honor. No sacrifices to be made. And no ancestors to determine her fate.
The sack of provisions she carried drew her shoulders straight. In it were several hard millet cakes and two large gourds filled with water that had been boiled and cooled. To the sack she had secretly added two of her own carvings—a musical instrument and a thin dagger—to see if perhaps she might be allowed to present them to the Empress.
“I have heard she keeps a forest of meat where she feasts on the flesh of her enemies,” said Liah.
The bone carver stopped. He wagged a calloused finger. “The parrot is a foolish bird, for it repeats what it hears with little knowledge and less thought.” He paused, peered side to side, and then added softly, “The Empress has many spies. Speaking evil of her invites bad fortune.”
Liah had heard many tales about the child Empress. Some villagers said she could turn water to stone. Others claimed she could melt the stars in the sky and make it rain gold. Some said she was a great and powerful sorceress who could charm snakes and scorpions with but a single word. Liah had even heard she could shift form and roamed the land in disguise, observing her enemies unseen.
There were so many whisperings it was difficult to sift granules of truth from bushels of lies. Yet all were in agreement: Though young, the Empress was dangerously cruel, slaughtering mercilessly all who opposed her. Liah might have been worried were she not under the protection of the wise and venerable bone carver.
The two continued for some time in darkness past the empty marketplace, the last of the village homes, and through the grassy fields toward the river’s edge. Another few steps and it would be as far as Liah had ever been allowed to venture.
When at last the cinnamon sun bled over the horizon, their path entered a dense wood where gnarled trees huddled like frightened giants, their roots interwoven in lacy patterns over the parched earth. What little light managed to pierce the thick canopy only served to deepen the shadows. The air was cool and smacked of decay. Liah pulled her brown cloak tighter around her shoulders.
They had traveled a great distance, and Liah’s feet had begun to blister. She stopped to rub her heel. The bone carver wore goatskin shoes, which protected his feet. Liah’s were made of straw woven together with flax thread. They were rough and thinning.
“When might we rest?” she huffed.
The bone carver glanced about nervously. “This is an ancient forest, haunted by the spirits of those who perished without ancestors to provide their bones with a proper burial. Remain on the path. And do not disturb anything. We will rest once we reach the crossroads.”
Liah pressed onward, but after several more hours, she grew weary and began to lag. Each time she skipped to catch up, the burst of energy cost her dearly, and she slipped farther behind.
As she walked, she kept a sharp eye on the shadowy maze. Gray rocks. Brown crusted leaves. Blackish-green moss. Then, all at once, she stopped and squinted, for something had caught her eye.
Not far off the path lay the remains of a small creature—perhaps a badger or a young hare. It was a lucky find. The bone carver rarely gave Liah her own pieces to carve, and when he did, they were tiny fragments, hardly useful. If a large piece was intact, Liah might boil it, bleach it in sunlight, and carve from it a crescent-shaped comb or a butterfly hairpin.
She had been warned to stay on the path and to touch nothing. But the bones were too precious to resist. Liah took a tentative step toward them, then another, and another, until she stood within reach. All around her grew silent and still.
The carcass at her feet had been stripped clean by scavenger birds and insects. Clumps of matted fur lay strewn about, but there was no stench of death; the creature had perished some time ago. Liah reached for the longest and strongest piece—a hind leg bone—and as her hand gripped its hard, rutted surface, the surrounding silence was broken by the soft snap of a twig.
Her body tensed as her eyes darted in the direction of the sound. She sensed movement but could see none. She was about to turn when something emerged from the lacy shadows.
Liah had never seen anything quite like it before. They stood studying each other, but when Liah took a small step backward, the creature’s hind legs crouched, preparing to spring.
In her satchel was the small dagger—one of her precious carvings—but there was no time to retrieve it. Instead, her grip tightened on the bone in her hand, and as the beast leaped toward her, she flung it as hard as she could, narrowly missing her target.
Her hands flew to her face, and the curtains of her eyes drew shut. She let out a strangled yelp, awaiting the sharp sting of barbed teeth.