Soul of the World

by David Mealing

  The buck’s head darted up. Ilek’Inari had used a boy’s trick: a stone tossed to make a clatter from another direction. A master hunter would not risk the chance of alerting his prey, triggering flight instead of fear. Ilek’Inari found luck a second time. The buck froze, its head turned such that one eye could focus where the stone had sounded.

  A pale hue of ethereal fur and claw surrounded Ilek’Inari as he called on una’re. Too late the buck realized its mistake. It had time for a single jolting spring forward before it crashed to the ground, stricken out of the air by a mighty blow from his apprentice. Blue energy coursed across the buck’s body as it slammed into the dirt, miniature lightning storms conjured by the power of the Great Bear. Its hide sparked and popped as the creature died, smoke hissing from its smoldering fur.

  The air fell still with the familiar silence following a kill.

  “Honored guardian,” Ilek’Inari called. “How did I do?”

  Grunting as he emerged from behind the tree, Arak’Jur jumped down the small ledge to the grass below. He raised a hand in a gesture of respect as he walked. “A fine kill, apprentice.”

  Arak’Jur knelt over the body of the buck when he reached its side, bowing his head in reverence for the creature’s sacrifice. It was a sacred thing to kill using the gifts of the guardians. Ilek’Inari joined him on his knees, a moment of silence passing between them as they contemplated the hunt.

  They used their bone knives to skin the beast before preparing its meat for the fire. Ilek’Inari took the rebuke over his failure to read the wind in good humor. The young man knew his limitations when it came to woodcraft. Ka’Vos had recognized the seeds of the shaman’s gift early in Ilek’Inari’s life, and it led to a childhood spent memorizing the tribe’s stories and assisting in ritual preparations rather than joining the other boys at play with stick-spears and makeshift bows and arrows. At least it could be said Ilek’Inari had few bad habits, having few habits of any kind when it came to the hunt. And he listened, credit him for that.

  “See here.” Arak’Jur pointed as they stretched the buck’s body in preparation for butchery. “You struck hard enough to crack its spine. A killing blow, yes. But a single hit here”—he pointed again, to the buck’s torso—“even a glancing blow, and most beasts’ hearts will stop when you strike with una’re’s blessing.”

  “Is it truly like a storm?” Ilek’Inari asked. “The same energy?”

  “It is. I have seen beasts struck during the tempests in the wet season. It is much the same. Una’re carries the blessing of the fiercest storms, and he shares it with us.”

  Ilek’Inari nodded, pacing around the body of the elk in contemplation.

  “I wonder. Why do we not converse with the spirits of elk, or other beasts when they are slain? Why only the great beasts?”

  “You do wrong asking why. We are guardians, not shamans.” He meant it as a subtle rebuke, though Ilek’Inari seemed to miss his intent.

  “Yes, but you must have wondered. Do the elk and wolves not have a guardian spirit? I wonder what we might learn, conversing with the spirits of all creatures, and not only the most terrible.”

  Arak’Jur shrugged. “The lynx is quick, his claws are sharp. Is mareh’et so different? The Ka can see him, and when he is slain we speak to the spirit of his kind, and receive his blessings. That is the way of things.” He said it with finality, intending it to be the end of the lesson.

  “Your knowledge exceeds mine, of course.” Ilek’Inari bowed his head. “Still, there have been more and more great beasts of late, have there not? New creatures, new bonds for the guardians—for us—to forge, new strength to defend our people.”

  “It is not our place to worry over matters of the spirits.”

  “Peace,” Ilek’Inari said, raising a hand to concede the point. “I meant only that, as more creatures show themselves to us, perhaps the spirits of ordinary beasts will do the same, in time.”

  “It may be so. But mareh’et and his ilk are strong, and you would do better to concern yourself with facing him than worrying over his lesser kin.”

  Ilek’Inari paled.

  “Ka’Vos didn’t mention … mareh’et … nearby?”

  Arak’Jur grinned. “No, my friend. But when the day comes, you will regret each moment spent worrying over the nature of the beasts, when you might have been preparing to face them.”

  This time the answer sufficed to end the conversation, returning their attention to skinning their kill. When it was ready they would carry the hide back to the village for tanning. Much of the meat would be left, but a buck’s hide was too valuable to give to the carrion-eaters. A guardian and a guardian in training would have no shortage of kills to feed them on their journeys. They would not kill more than they required—such displays were vulgar in the extreme—but Ilek’Inari needed a great deal of practice. Many a buck, a wolf, or a bear would fall before he deemed his apprentice ready to face another great beast. Neither he nor Ilek’Inari had any illusions that the killing blow the younger man had landed on the una’re was anything more than luck.

  Such were their people’s ways since they had come to these lands, though he struggled to make sense of Ilek’Inari’s renewed apprenticeship. The only stories of men seeking to join a guardian’s power with the shaman’s magic were cautionary tales, of men possessed by lust for power, and disdain for the spirits’ ways. A guardian’s strength and a shaman’s wisdom were separate paths, stemmed from spirits as different in kind as beasts were from men. Ilek’Inari was no full Ka, though the line was thin. And even apart from the threat of the forbidden, for the spirits to rob them of a new Ka precisely when his faith in Ka’Vos’s abilities dwindled … it was as if fate played some cruel joke on him, and on his people.

  And just as his guardianship had been unforeseen by the shamans, so now was his apprentice’s.

  Did it speak to a flaw in him, or only in their shaman? In other things Ka’Vos continued to see as he always had. Perhaps a curse, as Llanara had named it, though that was a bitter draught to swallow. Yet perhaps this was only the repayment he deserved: a cursed fate for failing to protect his family, failing the ones he loved most dear. The broken body of his wife in his hands as her skin flaked black from the bite of the valak’ar. His son, his brave son, who had fallen to the same. The vision of that day played again in his mind, and he let it come, bracing himself against the pain. Rhealla. Kar’Elek.

  “Arak’Jur.” His apprentice’s voice was soft and full of sympathy. “Your heart is troubled.”

  He looked away. “These times are troubled.”

  “They are. I find myself lying awake deep into the night hours, asking why.”

  “Ilek’Inari.” He turned back to regard his apprentice. “Our people have endured worse than this, and prospered. You will make a fine guardian, in time.”

  “But I would have made a better Ka.”

  He had no reply to that. Ilek’Inari had trained his entire life to become a shaman. The tribe watched him grow into a mediator, a conciliator, as he advanced in his training. There was more to being shaman than seeing and interpreting the whims of the spirits, and Ilek’Inari had gifts far beyond whatever skill he could claim at parting the veil of things-to-come.

  “When the una’re spoke to me, almost I thought I had become Ka.”

  He furrowed his brow. What did his apprentice mean?

  Ilek’Inari went on. “We are trained as shamans to form a bond, a bond with a spirit of—”

  He hissed. “Ilek’Inari, you know better than to speak of that which you know is forbidden. You must let go of such things.”

  “It is not so easy,” the young man whispered, looking away. Arak’Jur was not certain he had been meant to hear.

  So it was, with troubles of the heart. They passed easily from one man to another.

  The remainder of their work was done in quiet contemplation. By nightfall they had finished taking what they could from the buck, and they slept beneath a canopy of
oak and cedar trees.

  “Now do you see?” he asked patiently.

  Ilek’Inari searched once more, pacing around as he inspected the nearby brush. He shook his head and gave a flustered smile.

  “I am sorry, Arak’Jur. It looks like brush to me.”

  “There, near the base of that elm.”

  Dropping to a knee, his apprentice inspected the tree more closely.

  “These marks?” Ilek’Inari gestured, uncertain.

  “Yes. Those. Tell me, what do we hunt today?”

  “A wolf?”

  Arak’Jur laughed. “A wolf that size would be a sight indeed. See the way the bark flakes off here, and here?” He waited for Ilek’Inari to nod. “A bear’s claws made these marks, and freshly, too. We’ll find him nearby, if we can keep to the trail.”

  His apprentice swallowed hard, but made no complaint. Good.

  “You are ready. See there? The broken twigs, the leaves pushed aside? That is our path.”

  “Follow me, then,” his apprentice said, pushing forward into the brush.

  He stayed behind, keeping far enough back to allow Ilek’Inari to find the trail on his own. It was slow going, but Ilek’Inari did well. Twice he veered off the path but recognized his error and corrected it without prompting.

  The third time his apprentice did not recover so quickly.

  Sighing, Arak’Jur quickened his pace to intercept Ilek’Inari before they went too far astray. A disappointment. The thick foliage should have made it easier to follow the sign.

  “Apprentice.” He pushed past the thick brush, grown so tall it obscured sight. “Hold, we must turn back.”

  No response. He frowned, and called again, with only silence in reply. His pace quickened. Could Ka’Vos have missed another great beast, as he had the una’re near Ka’Ana’Tyat? It was not unheard-of for a shaman to miss one from time to time. But two, not even a season apart? Coupled with his other concerns over the shaman’s abilities, it would be grave indeed, perhaps too much to be borne. His heart raced as he prepared to draw upon the spirits’ gifts.

  He called out again as he crashed through brush at the base of a hill, emerging into a clearing. Ilek’Inari stood motionless ten paces ahead. He swept his vision across the area, seeking some sign of danger. Nothing. With a growl, he stormed toward his apprentice and grabbed hold of his shoulder, turning him to see his eyes glazed over, all white.

  “Ilek’Inari!” he shouted, shaking his apprentice.

  Blinking, Ilek’Inari came back into his senses.

  “Explain yourself!” he demanded.

  “I am sorry, honored guardian.”

  He said nothing in reply, merely glared.

  “I felt an impression,” Ilek’Inari continued. “Something terrible. Violence, coming from this direction, just ahead—”

  “And so you spoke with the spirits of the Ka? This is forbidden. We hold the blessing of one kind of spirit, never two! You are a guardian’s apprentice now. You cannot do this!”

  “My training was not complete. I cannot speak with them, but I can listen—”

  “You can do no such thing. The spirits will curse us, you fool!”

  The younger man hung his head in shame. For a moment, silence hung between them. Then the meaning of his apprentice’s words sank in. Violence?

  A scream sounded through the trees ahead, then another, close behind. Instinct sparked his legs to move before he could consider any further.

  Another scream etched it clearer in his mind. A woman’s cry, or a child’s.

  Clear enough which, as they ran through the trees, and came upon its source. Two boys, splayed in the dirt of the forest floor, each with a spear through the belly. Long spears, marked in the old style, the sort the tribes had used for war before the fair-skins’ arrival.

  Ilek’Inari retched.

  Arak’Jur drew upon the spirit of lakiri’in.

  In a rush he tore through the trees, leaving his apprentice behind, fresh tracks leading the way. Heartbeats later he caught sight of his prey: a lone man fleeing through the grass. With lakiri’in’s speed he overtook the man easily, kicking his legs out and sending him sprawling into the dirt.

  Arak’Jur stood over him, turning the man onto his back and pinning his shoulder to the ground.

  He was greeted with eyes glazed as white as Ilek’Inari’s had been. He knew this man. Ilek’Rahs, apprentice to the Olessi shaman, from the lands to the west.

  16

  SARINE

  A Prison Cell

  The Citadel, New Sarresant

  Her world had dwindled to eight paces by eight paces, a bowl, and a bucket.

  She sat on the far wall of her cell, as far from her bucket of excrement as she could manage. Once a day the brown-robed guards would come, making an opening in the Shelter around her cell to change out her bucket and fill her bowl with food. The rest of the day she sat, alone, against cold stone walls suffused with the smells of shit and piss and vomit.

  Prison. She’d slain the beast and saved the attendees of the nobles’ masquerade. She was a hero. A hero, and they rewarded her with a cell. She hadn’t even been formally accused.

  Tears sprang in her eyes, and she let them come.

  Not for the injustice. She’d lived in the shadow of injustice every day of her life, writ in the hungry eyes of the denizens of the Maw while Rasailles’s courtiers feasted and danced behind guarded gates. Not for the shit stink or the solitude—she had Zi for company, after all.

  No, she cried for the ruin of pink flesh, the scars on the backs of her hands, as if a stake had been driven through either palm.

  They’d finally caught her.

  Since she was a little girl she’d been terrified of having her hands marked. She’d always run and hid when the brown robes came trawling through the streets, rounding up stray children to administer the tests. Zi had insisted she trust Father Thibeaux, and the man she came to call her uncle had never betrayed her, never tried to administer the test, even knowing what she could do. But now it was over. She’d been marked. Everywhere she went people would notice her, assuming she ever got out of this cell. She’d never be able to sit and sketch again without hiding behind shadows or Faith. And who would buy portraits from a freebinder anyway?

  Off in the distance, muffled by uncounted layers of stone, a prisoner howled. Another voice joined the chorus, somewhat closer, and another. She thought about adding her own, but instead slumped against the stone walls, listening to the choir of rage and madness as she sank into despair.

  Perhaps she could escape. This was a binder’s prison; the Shelter around her cell made clear enough of that. But she could overpower the guards who came to bring mush and empty her bucket, and those guards would have keys. There was plenty of Faith here to keep her hidden, and Death if she needed to breach the shield around her cell. But after that, what? The priests would trace her leyline connections and find her, even if she used Faith. And she wasn’t about to murder some poor prison guards just doing their job.

  A thousand times she’d thought these thoughts, and a thousand times she’d failed to find a way that didn’t require violence. In time she knew desperation might overcome her scruples. But it hadn’t yet. And so she listened as the prisoners’ chorus sang its screaming songs, a routine of pain and loneliness.

  It took the sound of shuffling footsteps outside her door to jar her back to the moment.

  She’d hardly heard them approach over the sound of the wailing cries, but even the slightest deviation from her routine was cause for heightened alert. She cast a quick glance over at her bucket to confirm it was still there, still empty. It stank horridly, but they’d emptied it that morning when they brought her meal. She had no window to see the sky, but surely it wasn’t nighttime yet?

  Gone.

  What?

  Then she felt it, too—the air suddenly sweeter, as if an enclosure had been removed. She’d never felt this when the priests came to change out her bucket or fill
her bowl. Before she could reply to Zi, raps sounded on the iron door.

  “Easy now, prisoner,” a voice called through the door. A man’s voice, but not ungentle. “The warden needs you cleaned up at once.”

  Her heart quickened and she sprang to her feet. “The warden. Why does he need …?” Her voice croaked, weary from howling, or lack of use; she wasn’t sure which.

  “No idea. Now if you please, prisoner, stand and face the back wall as we come in.”

  She complied with the instructions, and once again escape plans surfaced in her thoughts. She could overpower the priests, tether Faith to go invisible, and use whatever keys they had to escape this place. She could do it. She could—

  The rusted creak of the door being opened scattered her courage. Two pairs of footsteps entered the room, rough hands affixing manacles around her wrists. They pivoted her around and she saw two guardsmen in leather tunics and a brown-robed priest of middle years, regarding her from across the room.

  “Treat her gently,” the priest said. “The warden asked she be brought to him in presentable condition.” He smiled, a warm look that reminded her, against all expectations in this hellish place, of her uncle. “Apologies, child. The manacles are a necessity, but you don’t have the look of our worst. I trust you understand you must behave meekly, and you will not be ill-treated.”

  She nodded, senses still numb.

  “Very good then.” He nodded to the two guardsmen who flanked her, each man gripping one of her arms. “Shall we?”