Soul of the World

by David Mealing

  Well, whatever else they faced, it was clear enough the enemy’s new general was a master tactician. And in command of the entirety of the Gand armies. She’d have to go over her plans again in light of the new information, line by line.

  “I’ll read the rest of the details in your report, Lieutenant. Unless there’s more news from their command tents?”

  “No, sir. No other changes in their command.”

  “Very good. Dismissed then,” she said. “It’s good to have you back.”

  “Thank you, sir,” he said, rising to salute.

  She returned it.

  “And Sadrelle, you’re on latrine duty until further notice. We have orders for a reason.”

  He grimaced. “Yes, sir.”

  “Dismissed, Lieutenant.”

  9

  ARAK’JUR

  Steam Tents

  Sinari Village

  The rocks at the center of the tent hissed as Llanara poured another cup of water over them. As the youngest in attendance, the duty of maintaining the steam fell to her. It was not a task to which he was accustomed to seeing her perform, here in the elders’ tent. A rare thing to have one so young invited to council. But this was no time to be in thrall to tradition.

  Arak’Jur sat cross-legged on a woven mat beside the fire. A proud place, opposite Ka’Vos, who sat on another mat with his apprentice, Ilek’Inari, beside him. Ghella, a gray-haired matron, had the third and final place of honor. The elders were nominally equals, but the tribe gave due reverence to the threefold kinds of spirits—of land, beasts, and things-to-come—by honoring the foremost wielder of each among their number. The rest of the elders sat ringed around the fire. Already they’d deliberated for an hour, their naked bodies glistening with a sheen of sweat. The steam from the heated rocks had to be tended judiciously, and it had been. In this, as with all other tasks to which she applied herself, Llanara was exceptional.

  If only she had not chosen to argue in favor of accepting the stranger’s offer.

  “It seems to me,” Llanara said as she sat back down, naked and cross-legged on her mat, “we are in no place to reject an offer of new magic, when it has proven itself against the fair-skins’ barrier.”

  “You assume the stranger told us true.” That was Hanat’Sol, the master leatherworker, who had emerged as one of the leading voices against the stranger. “We have no proof he passed through their barrier on his own; he may have come through with their priests’ aid, before the traders reached the opening.”

  Llanara nodded, seeming to consider. “An easily testable claim. We can ask he demonstrate it for us, as part of our agreement.”

  Uncomfortable looks passed around the assembled elders. She was right, of course, and Hanat’Sol had given her the opening to suggest an opportunity to verify at least that part of the stranger’s story. A small victory for her.

  “And if it proves true?” Ghella asked from the place beside him. “If we gain a magic capable of piercing the fair-skins’ barrier, what would we do with it? We have lived at peace for generations. Are we fool enough to contemplate war? Think of the Tanari.”

  Llanara leaned forward. “Are we safer, for not having the option?”

  Murmurs sparked around the tent, and Llanara raised a hand, quelling them before she continued.

  “I do not propose we consider war. But we have the gift of these lands precisely because a gathering of elders once sat, as we do now, and embraced the possibilities of an unknown magic. Are we so afraid of the fair-skins that we would reject an offering of power, one that might decide the course of our people’s future?”

  “The hunters agree,” Valak’Anor said. “We have lived at peace with the fair-skins, but we have all of us heard stories, of stolen lands and war between the fair-skins and the tribes to the south. Would we cast aside a tool our enemy left behind because it had touched his hand? We have the wisdom of the spirits of things-to-come to guide us. They would not lead us into folly.”

  Llanara met Arak’Jur’s eyes.

  Arak’Jur cleared his throat. “Ka’Vos will speak for this.”

  The shaman lifted his head, as if he stirred from a long rest.

  Ka’Vos looked around the tent, pausing before he spoke. “This fair-skin magic is strange to us. It is strange to the spirits of things-to-come as well. Perhaps they cannot foresee what its use will bring.”

  “Tell me, honored shaman,” Llanara said. “Do you foresee a lasting peace? Will the Sinari prosper, while other tribes’ shamans see visions of war?”

  She locked eyes with Ka’Vos, who stayed calm, unblinking, silent. Her gaze was full of fire.

  “These are uncertain times,” Llanara continued. “If the spirits of things-to-come cannot foresee a lasting peace, perhaps we should embrace possibilities that lay beyond their vision.”

  Uneasy voices stirred throughout the tent.

  “Are you so quick to risk bringing down a curse?” Ghella asked coldly.

  “Are you so sure we are not cursed already?”

  The tent, already sweltering, turned fiery hot. Arak’Jur raised his hand to quell the muttered outrage.

  “Llanara speaks wisdom,” he said. Eyes across the tent turned to him with a mix of curiosity and shock. “We must consider her words.”

  When the tent flaps lifted, a great cloud of steam billowed into the night air. Blankets were draped over the elders as they emerged into the cold, their fragile bodies swaying from the strain of sitting so long in the heat. Llanara strode out of the tent, head held high, beads of sweat covering her naked skin. He emerged a pace behind her, his body slick and glistening, with no need for a blanket to ward off the cold—part of the beast spirits’ gift, given when he first slew a great beast to mark himself a guardian, his skin made proof against the elements, tougher and stronger than ordinary men’s. Llanara turned to wait for him, moving to take his arm as they walked together.

  Neither of them spoke as they made their way through the village. He was not surprised she declined to cover herself as they walked. It was her right, and she had acquitted herself well in her first council meeting. The glow surrounding her no doubt reflected an inner warmth; he recalled similar feelings many a time from his younger days. After a vigorous debate, one seldom needed any shelter from the cold beyond one’s own zeal.

  All the more so since she had won.

  Not a complete victory, but she was wise enough to see it for what it was. A handful of youths would be granted leave to accept Reyne d’Agarre’s offer, to submit themselves for testing to see if they could learn his strange serpent’s magic when he returned as promised, at the turning of the new moon. It was less than testing the entire village as Reyne d’Agarre requested, but far more than the elders had believed themselves ready to concede. Llanara had argued well. If his support lent her aid in securing consent, it was only to shorten the time it took to reach the inevitable conclusion. Long council meetings in the steam tents took their toll on the elders.

  When they reached his tent, she stopped, showing him the fire in her eyes. He took her by the arms, carrying her naked skin against his, and granted her the fruits of her victory.

  After, they lay together atop his bed, limbs entwined and slick with sweat. She turned and gave him an easy look, holding his gaze. Her eyes were a deep brown, full of promise, the color of weathered oak. He saw youth, pleasure, contentment. And the rest of her plan, writ plain behind her smile.

  “You mean to submit yourself as one of those to be tested,” he said.

  She nodded. “I do.”

  It was not what had been negotiated. But he knew none would speak against it.

  He said nothing, lying on his back looking up at the peak of his tent. She raked her fingers through the hair on his chest, thick and black.

  “I would be your apprentice, you know, if you would have me.”

  He laughed. “As well ask me to learn this new magic from Reyne d’Agarre. Women cannot converse with the beast spirits. You know this
.”

  “Have any tried, I wonder?”

  He gave her a stern look. “Llanara, I will not countenance this sort of talk.”

  She laughed, scratching harder with her nails on his chest, causing him to wince. “I know, Arak’Jur. I will be content with what I have.”

  He nodded, reaching around her shoulder to draw her into his embrace. She nestled into him and closed her eyes, still wearing a contented smile.

  When morning came, Llanara drew a crowd of excited youths who’d heard the outcome of the council’s deliberations. None were so obvious as to hover beside Arak’Jur’s tent, though they made sure they had reason to be there. Seeds to gather from bushes at the edge of the forest. A spear lesson in a nearby clearing. When he and Llanara dressed themselves and left the tent, the youths converged.

  His heart warmed to see it. She looked to him from their midst as they surrounded her, questions coming from all sides. Her eyes were wide with excitement, and unless he missed his guess, a touch of panic. Well, it was natural to question oneself when first given real responsibility. She would bear it, and thrive.

  He stepped aside, leaving her to field the young ones’ questions. This new path Llanara had forged made him uneasy, but he was not so old and set in his ways he could not recognize wisdom for what it was. A new line of magic was a mighty gift. The Sinari could not afford to disdain such things, no matter their source. He did not fear the fair-skins; without shamans and guardians of their own, they could not survive in the wilds, could not fight a war against his people and hope to win. Valak’Anor had spoken true, in the steam tent, that the fair-skins had gone to war against southern tribes, trying to carve out more land to place behind their barrier. But those wars had never lasted longer than it took for the great beasts to push the fair-skins back behind their walls. They were a weak people, whatever their gifts of steel and iron.

  No, if the elders were right, the threat of war came from the other tribes, loath as he was to consider it. Trade had made the Sinari wealthy, and though they did much to spread that wealth in turn to their neighbors, he knew well enough that avarice could fester like disease, even among friends.

  He made his way through the village to a cluster of tents behind the cookfires. Here the last of the meat from the beasts slain for trade was being smoked for storage, its savory smell lingering in the air. The traders’ return had been less jubilant than he’d hoped, owing to the visit from the stranger. He worried Reyne d’Agarre’s promises would pull on the hearts of the young men, dimming their yearning for trade, and the hunt, replacing it with promises of strange magics, dreams of war. The Sinari had not made war for generations. It took an older man, a man who had once made a child, to understand the horrors of setting peace aside.

  Was this a time for youth? Llanara’s easy confidence was a thing lost to him. Perhaps it was better for the elders to step back and let passion guide the tribe’s course. For generations the Sinari had prospered, choosing peace and trade in the shadow of the fair-skins’ Great Barrier. No longer, it seemed. Yet on the matter of war the spirits of things-to-come remained quiet, offering none of the guidance for which his people grew ever more desperate.

  His thoughts turned to Ka’Vos, and to his apprentice. Perhaps if the master could not get an answer, then Ilek’Inari could. Ilek’Inari’s training was nearly complete; the time drew near when he would be an apprentice no longer. He would be Ka’Inari soon, a new vessel for the visions of the spirits of things-to-come. Ilek’Inari was a young man, and though the path to become shaman was long and difficult, by all accounts Ilek’Inari had borne it with strength and perseverance. Ka’Vos was rightly proud. Already the apprentice worked to gather the implements he would use to complete his rites of initiation. The exact materials were a closely guarded secret, but Arak’Jur knew the preparation had begun. It was customary for the tribe’s guardian to protect the apprentice when they ventured into the wild to complete their tests, and he was sure the call would come soon, by season’s end, if the shamans’ spirits were good.

  He suspected Ilek’Inari was gathering his materials now, struggling to strip the carcass of an elk before the women went to work preserving its meat. Arak’Jur smiled ruefully at the sight. Had he been called to prepare materials for a ritual that required elk antler, it would not have occurred to him to do anything other than hunt the elk himself.

  “Do you need help, Ilek’Inari?” he asked.

  “Guardian!” The young man’s voice escaped in a startled rush. “Yes, if you are not busy.” He gestured with a shrug of frustration toward the rack of half-formed antlers protruding from the beast’s skull.

  “Let me.”

  Arak’Jur reached down, calling on the spirit of the mareh’et, the Great Cat, whose claws sheared through bone as easily as flesh. A nimbus of fur and claw surrounded him, then faded. The antlers came free.

  “Thank you, honored guardian,” Ilek’Inari said, sheathing his bone knife.

  Arak’Jur waved a hand dismissively, then reached to help the apprentice shaman to his feet.

  “I wondered if you might share your thoughts on last night’s council,” he said as Ilek’Inari stood, patting his fur-lined breeches to shake off the dirt from kneeling beside the elk.

  “Llanara spoke well,” Ilek’Inari replied. “If the spirits willed us to a different course, they might have blessed the tongues of the elders who argued against her.”

  Arak’Jur nodded.

  The younger man continued. “My master had a vision of his coming, the stranger.”

  “Yes. He told me, before the fair-skin arrived.”

  “It made Ka’Vos uneasy, but the vision did not warn against the stranger, or what he brings. It seems to me the council made the right decision. Oftentimes the spirits of things-to-come work through us, through the shamans, but it need not always be so.”

  “Would you have made the same decision, if it fell to you alone?”

  “If I were chief? Spirits save us, guardian, I would as soon not contemplate visions so dire. The world is dark enough as it is.”

  Arak’Jur smiled. “In truth, though, where did your heart lay, at the end?”

  “As I said, Llanara spoke well. I am troubled by the unknown, but I trust in the spirits of things-to-come. They have guided us well, for a great many generations, and I believe we follow them in this.” A moment of quiet, then the apprentice shaman went on. “What about you, guardian? You named it wisdom, and I think you convinced more than a few to pay her heed.”

  “Perhaps you are right, and I was guided by the shamans’ spirits.”

  “That is not an answer,” Ilek’Inari said, and Arak’Jur bowed his head to acknowledge it.

  “You will make your journey soon,” Arak’Jur said.

  “I will. Though I have much to learn from Ka’Vos. Last night I had a vision of mareh’et passing through our lands. But when I awoke and asked Ka’Vos to look, he saw nothing, and I could not find it again.”

  “Just as well,” Arak’Jur said. “A terrible thing, for a mareh’et to stalk our people.”

  Ilek’Inari nodded, and seemed content to leave it there, gathering the materials he’d come for and offering a respectful bow.

  Arak’Jur watched him go. A chill passed through him, though he took care to give no outward sign. No great thing, for an apprentice shaman’s visions to err. And if Ilek’Inari and Ka’Vos both failed to see a beast, it surely meant the tribe was safe. Yet he could not dismiss a sliver of doubt, stuck in his side like a thorn ripped from a noxious weed.

  10

  SARINE

  Central Square

  Market District, New Sarresant

  She’d arrived at the central square early that morning, as she always did when she had sketches to display. It had been days since the madness in the Maw, since her strange encounter with the man in the red coat and the chaos that had followed. The city’s papers had called it a riot, exonerating the city watch for their part in the violence and con
demning the Maw citizens for theft and bedlam. She knew the truth, as did every man and woman who had seen it firsthand. Whatever else he’d done, the man in the red coat had distributed a king’s share of food among the poor, and the watch had paid for it by firing their pistols into the crowd. The lies printed in the papers stirred anger that was already simmering among the city’s people, making for hushed grumblings in the Maw’s taprooms, and giving her uncle fits at the thought of venturing outside the chapel. But her sketches sold best when they reflected the goings-on in the city, and she could only resketch the main reliefs of the Sacre-Lin so many times before she needed a few hours’ escape. Today it meant a spread along the walkways in the central markets, close enough to need to shield her sketches from the spray of the fountains near the river’s edge.

  “Ooh, daddy, daddy, the ship! I want the ship!” a shrill voice cried, wagging a sausage-shaped finger in the direction of her sketches.

  She put on her most humble smile, the one that played best with the nobles and the wealthy, and rose from her cross-legged pose, affecting a reasonable facsimile of a curtsy toward her newest patron. The child, no more than ten, was bedecked in ribbons and silks, with a plump figure suggesting her household had weathered rather well the austerity of a country at war. Her father made a gesture to one of their servants, checking the timepiece he pulled from his hip pocket with a look equal parts boredom and exasperation. A pair of porters rounded out their entourage, already loaded with parcels and trinkets from the day’s affairs.

  The servant pointed to one of her sketches of the Queen Allisée. “How much?” he asked in a gruff voice.

  She bowed her head gracefully. Ten times the normal price ought to do it.

  “A silver mark, sir. Not a print or a wood press. Drawn by hand on the day the ship arrived in the harbor, if it pleases her ladyship.” This she said with a nod toward the child, who had already turned her attention to devouring an apple pastry as she stood waiting beside her father.