Soul of the World

by David Mealing

  On a lark, she tethered Body. Its red motes were always plentiful here in the Maw, almost as common as Life, the green haze that clung to leylines wherever men or beasts were near. She wasn’t normally hesitant to use her gifts here in the Maw—few enough priests besides her uncle walked these streets, and far fewer soldiers trained with bindings to recognize her work. But even without the tattoos that would cover her hands after she presented her letter to the marquist, everything was different now. The strangeness of permission. That single slip of paper changed everything, and nothing. She might be spared arrest should a priest trace an errant leyline connection where none was expected, but she doubted the city watch would accept her Faith-powered sojourns any more readily now than they had before.

  Lord Revellion, though. That was different.

  He seemed pleasant, Zi thought to her as she walked.

  She smiled. “Yes,” she said, hushing her voice. “He did.”

  Zi seemed content to leave it at that, and so was she. How many times had she imagined it, sitting down with Revellion, face-to-face, the sole audience for his attention? And now she had been, and if his word held true, would be again.

  She walked the rest of the way to the chapel on a cloud, the dreariness of the slums kept at bay by hope for things-to-come.

  It wasn’t until she reached the main stair she remembered her uncle hadn’t seen her since the night of the masquerade. She rushed into the entryway, heart catching in her throat when she saw him sweeping the dais. She watched for a moment, frozen in place until he noticed her.

  “My child,” he said at last, accompanied by the muted echo of the empty hall. “You’ve come back.”

  Tears streaked down her cheeks as she ran to him, wrapping him in a fierce embrace. The shock of it must have given him pause, but an instant later he returned the gesture, just as strong.

  “I thought you were lost,” he said, compensating for a lump in his throat.

  “I thought I was, too, uncle.”

  Together they shared tears and stories. He wept to hear of her treatment in the Citadel, and she to hear how he had thought her dead, or worse. But in time the conversation dwindled to more routine events, and by supper it had finally settled in that she was home.

  Happily for her, her uncle had not been able to bear the thought of cleaning out her loft. All was as she’d left it, down to the disheveled blankets atop her makeshift mattress. The only exception was a pair of letters atop her small table, each bearing a wax seal marked with the letter A.

  She held them up over the ledge of her loft. “Uncle,” she called down. “What are these?”

  His brows furrowed as he squinted up at the letters. “Oh. The first came the morning after you disappeared. The second was delivered a few days ago. I hadn’t the heart to read them; I was afraid for their contents. But it appears I won’t have to.” He smiled up at her, his eyes deep, still touched with pain.

  She returned his wistful look with warmth, then sat down, thumbed the seals of her letters, and began to read.

  Both letters were much the same. Invitations. One to a fête held weeks ago, the other to a smaller gathering three days hence. Both signed Reyne d’Agarre.

  A tingle shot down her spine. The man in the red coat. The man she’d seen in the Harbor, and met in the market.

  How had he known where to find her?

  18

  ARAK’JUR

  The Greatfire

  Sinari Village

  Low whispers ran through the assembly as every man and woman, every child, every dog and elder gathered on the grass. They’d begun piling wood for the fire after the midday meal, now built to a towering blaze roaring against the black of a moonless night. Some such fires burned to mark new names for the men: Kas, Araks, Valaks. The women called for gatherings to celebrate a safe return from one of their journeys, an especially difficult birth, or a death deserving of the tribe’s collective mourning.

  Tonight the fire burned for judgment.

  Arak’Jur wore the full regalia of a guardian. The leather-and-hide breeches he wore daily had been set aside for a paneled skirt that revealed leg muscles and manhood when he moved, meant to signify through him the tribe’s strength and virility. His chest was bare, decorated with red and black paint in a more intricate version of the hunter’s echtaka. He wore a mantle of feathers culled from the greatest hunters among the birds of prey: eagle, hawk, falcon, and, at the center of a necklace, a single blood-red feather plucked from an ipek’a. Beads interspersed with golden discs hung around his wrists to complete the garb, highlighting the contributions of the tribe’s craftswomen to his attire.

  To his right Ka’Vos sat in the shaman’s ritual garb, favoring concealment and mystery, all heavy hides behind ghost-white paint on his face. To his left Llanara wore the women’s ceremonial dress, white from head to toe, but a line of red running from her forehead to her neckline where the women were traditionally painted blue. It had surprised him to learn Llanara had been selected by the women to sit in judgment tonight, in place of Ghella or another of the gray-haired mothers or grandmothers of the tribe, but he knew better than to question it. Women’s business was none of his concern.

  He stood, and a cloak of silence fell over the assembly before he reached his feet.

  “Bring the accused before us.” His voice was deep, reverberating in the open space of the gathering area. He spoke with the voice of the tribe tonight, and together with Ka’Vos and Llanara his word would stand as law.

  Whispers passed through the crowd, seated cross-legged on the grass. Some few had the foresight to bring mats or woven blankets, expecting the proceedings to stretch deep into the evening hours. Only the Ranasi remained silent. Ka’Hinari himself had made the trip, in the company of Arak’Doren and a small host of their most accomplished hunters. Corenna had come as well, this time in formal dress rather than the ceremonial white, flanked by a pair of older Ranasi women at her side. The Olessi tribe sent only two hunters: Valak’Han and Valak’Buri, and one woman, unknown to him.

  Two Sinari men emerged at the back of the crowd, holding between them the slumped figure of the accused: Ilek’Rahs, apprentice to the Olessi shaman, on the cusp of making his final journey to become a Ka.

  His lip quivered as Ilek’Rahs was brought through the center walkway. Had he not apprehended the man with his own hand, he would scarce have believed it possible. The spirits of the Ka spoke to Ilek’Rahs. How any man could profane that sacred charge he could not fathom. The apprentice seemed resigned to his fate, his eyes lowered as he made a halfhearted attempt to walk while the Sinari hunters held his arms firmly between them.

  “Ilek’Rahs,” Arak’Jur’s voice boomed. “You stand accused before the Sinari tribe, and the Ranasi. The Olessi tribe also bears witness.” He made a gesture toward each, receiving a solemn nod in response.

  “Before you speak in your own defense, I will make plain that of which you stand accused.”

  More whispers in the audience, in defiance of convention. Rumors had spread, as they always would, but he suspected few here knew the truth.

  “Since I bore witness to your actions, I will speak for them. First, you are accused of entering Sinari lands uninvited.” That much was clear enough and elicited no great reaction from the crowd. “Second, you are accused of murdering two boys of the Ranasi tribe: Kar’Larek, and Kar’Andu.”

  An angry hiss spread through the assembly as they exchanged heated murmurs.

  He let it go on for a moment before he raised his fist.

  “Third, you are accused of conspiring to sow discord between the Sinari and the Ranasi by killing the boys with long-spears marked in the Sinari style, on Sinari land.”

  Chaos, and shouted rage.

  This time he made no move to silence the crowd, taking his seat beside Ka’Vos and Llanara on the oak bench opposite the greatfire. Ilek’Rahs bore a pained expression, wincing at each shrill cry, each shouted insult. The Sinari hunters who had escorted the accu
sed to the center of the meeting place dropped Ilek’Rahs’s arms, recoiling in disgust.

  When it became clear the crowd would not settle themselves, Ka’Vos rose and motioned for quiet. Once the noise had dimmed the shaman spoke. “We would hear Ilek’Rahs’s words.”

  A hush settled as Ka’Vos returned to his place on the bench. The tribes remained still enough to hear, though their eyes continued to burn.

  Ilek’Rahs was cloaked in animal hide as befit his position as apprentice shaman, but he may as well have been naked.

  “Speak!” called a voice in the crowd, then another.

  Ilek’Rahs turned to regard the bench with a look of desperation, but remained silent.

  Llanara tilted her head as if listening to some unseen voice, then nodded as she rose to her feet. She met Ilek’Rahs’s eyes, and the tension within the apprentice melted away like a winter thaw.

  “Do as they bid you, child of the Olessi,” Llanara said.

  The change in Ilek’Rahs was unnervingly quick, a transformation from cowering fear to a quiet confidence. The apprentice shaman turned to address the crowd.

  “Thank you, honored matron,” Ilek’Rahs said, pausing for a deep breath before he continued. “I hear the voices of the spirits of things-to-come.”

  “Cursed!” came a voice from the crowd, an easy cry for others to pick up. Ilek’Rahs roared back over the top of them, alight with energy.

  “I hear them! I challenge any here to deny it!”

  That seemed to satisfy, for the moment.

  “I do not claim to understand the entirety of what they say. Can any here claim to understand them fully? Ka’Vos, will you claim it? Ka’Hinari?” He twisted wildly, regarding both men. The shamans stared back, faces stoic and unreadable.

  “The Olessi do not make this claim. Yet we live by the surety of their protection, the same as the Ranasi, the same as the Sinari. By following the visions granted us, our peoples prosper. That is our way, has been our way since our peoples journeyed north—together—to claim these lands.”

  On another night, the words might have received nods of assent, expressions of support. Spoken by this man, on this night, they garnered only darker stares, the collective anger of the crowd turning cold to hear their precepts spoken by one so direly accused.

  Ilek’Rahs noticed, and became frantic. “I only followed their voices, the visions granted by the spirits of things-to-come. I did nothing the spirits did not sanction.”

  Arak’Jur rose to his feet. “You admit it, then? You admit what you have done?”

  Ilek’Rahs turned to him with pained eyes. The apprentice sagged his head, the fire of his passion gone, and nodded.

  Anger boiled in Arak’Jur’s belly, frosted over as the apprentice confirmed for the crowd what he already knew to be true. “I pronounce judgment,” he said. “Death.”

  Ka’Vos rose. “I, too, pronounce death.”

  Llanara drew in a breath, considering. It came down to her: All voices must agree, for such a sentence to stand. All eyes were on her as she rose, her white garb giving her a subtle glow against the night sky.

  “Death,” she said, plain and clear.

  Ilek’Rahs slumped to his knees.

  Valak’Han of the Olessi stood from the front row and called out, “Elders of the Sinari, I beg the honor of carrying out this sentence. It is wise, and just. Let his own tribe condemn him now, that all may be washed clean of this.”

  Ka’Vos looked to him, as did Llanara.

  He shook his head. No.

  “Brother,” he said. “You have the right, but you do not have the means.”

  The crowd stilled as he stepped forward.

  “For blaspheming the spirits’ will, for sowing discord between tribes, this man deserves to die by my hand. By the gift of the valak’ar.”

  Ilek’Rahs’s eyes widened as he heard the words, and the apprentice cowered, raising a hand to ward away his fate.

  Arak’Jur called upon the wraith-snake. A pale nimbus surrounded him, and he struck.

  The blackened, rotting form of the Olessi apprentice slid to the ground, leaking a thick green ichor into the dirt and dust beside the fire. Crackling pops of the greatfire echoed across the meeting place as the moment hung in the air, a reverent silence shared by all.

  The crowd dispersed.

  His tribe returned to their tents, carrying the weight of what they had witnessed together, a testament to the madness of men and the power of the spirits. Only a few elders remained behind, as did the delegations from the neighboring tribes. Valak’Han of the Olessi came forward first, offering assurances that Ilek’Rahs had acted alone, promising the continued goodwill of his people. The Olessi woman was introduced as Ilek’Rahs’s mother; she had faced the night’s events stoically, having had the tale from Ka’Vos beforehand, both the accusations and the surety of her son’s guilt. Still, Arak’Jur received her with all the dignity and the warmth he could muster. He knew the horror of losing a child.

  Corenna had brought the victims’ mothers from among the Ranasi. For him they showed a brave face, giving thanks for justice done. For Llanara and Corenna they broke down in tears, weeping for the loss of their boys. Once more he understood their pain. It would not pass easily, no matter the vengeance he’d exacted on their behalf. Arak’Doren met his eye with a look of firm approval, and Ka’Hinari as well. There were prescriptions older than the tribes themselves for dealing with men like Ilek’Rahs, men touched with madness that drove them to the unspeakable. Both Ranasi men affirmed he had done well. From such exchanges the tribes grew closer, a shared reminder of common views even in the face of tragedy. In the morning the Ranasi and Olessi would depart; none of the tribes would wish to linger on the cause of their coming together on this night. But they would come again, all the more tightly bound for what had transpired here.

  After the delegations and the elders had departed, he and Llanara were left together by the smoking remains of the fire.

  He held out an arm, and she took it.

  “You did well tonight,” he said.

  She smiled, and squeezed his arm. “So did you.”

  They walked together.

  “When you calmed Ilek’Rahs, before he spoke, that was …?” He could not finish the question.

  “Yes.”

  He shivered. The new magic. Of all the youths the fair-skin Reyne d’Agarre had been given leave to train, only Llanara found the gift. The women had treated it as a sign that it belonged to them, and neither he nor Ka’Vos nor any of the other men had been able to pry its secrets free.

  “Do you wonder,” she said, “whether Ilek’Rahs might have been telling the truth?”

  “You think it was the visions the other Ka have seen?”

  “Who can tell what form they might take? Yes, I think it may be so.”

  A troubling thought. “Whatever the source, I am glad Ilek’Inari and I were there. It was a near thing.”

  “A near thing?” Her voice trailed off, then grew hushed, but full of certainty. “You think the Ranasi would have made war.”

  He nodded. “If they had been the ones to find the boys, who can say?”

  “You speak wisdom.”

  He grunted, acknowledging the praise, and they walked the rest of the way in silence.

  Later, after they had washed each other and removed their ceremonial dress, they lay together in his tent. He had not thought to find he had an appetite for pleasures after the events of the greatfire, but in this as in most things Llanara was persuasive. She stoked his passions with the fire of her own, and for a time they forgot themselves in violence and relief.

  After he had spent himself she nestled against him, the richness of her black hair spilling across his chest.

  “The women think me ready to journey to Ka’Ana’Tyat,” she said, regarding him with a pleased smile.

  He responded with a soft laugh. “That is women’s business, Llanara. Am I supposed to know it?”

  “No,” she
said, eyes alight.

  He tightened his grip around her hair, tugging softly, and she bit her lip. He laughed once more, shaking his head. “Are you so determined to seek trouble?”

  “Yes.” This time she grinned, her hand trailing down his stomach.

  He let go of her hair, reaching down to the nape of her neck, drawing her lips to his.

  She drank it in, then lowered her head, biting at his skin. “Will it be you who escorts me, Arak’Jur?”

  Her hand stirred him once more, and he groaned. “Llanara …”

  She bit harder, working her way down his chest, and he expelled a breath.

  “No,” he said finally. “It is always the guardian of another tribe.”

  She nodded as if she had expected it all along, continuing lower.

  “Be careful, Llanara,” he said, wincing with pleasure.

  She looked up at him. “I am always careful, Arak’Jur.”

  Thought fled from him.

  After, they curled together and slept.

  19

  ERRIS

  Lorrine River Crossing

  Southern Sarresant Territory

  She stood beside the banner of the 1st Division—her banner—watching the men of the 9th Infantry stream across the bridge. It was the 2nd Corps’ third week at rest, and she’d taken the initiative to redeploy her men for continued training exercises near the sleepy agrarian city of Lorrine. It was a far cry from the bustling streets of New Sarresant or Villecours, but it was the largest settlement in the province that bore its name. Farther south there were only a handful of mining towns, farming hamlets, and the odd fishing village along the coast before civilization gave way to open wilderness. She’d already sought dispensation from the Vicomte de Lorrine to use his town as the focal point of this week’s maneuvers. Her men had acquired a good sense of working together in the open; now she wished to drive home the importance of maneuver to defend, or assault, a key objective.