Soul of the World

by David Mealing

  She shuddered, remembering the sight.

  Standing beside them she could almost sense the golden thread of Need that bound her to these women, to Marie d’Oreste and to Sister Elise of Arentaigne. Their victory had bought time. Her orders had been to stand down here in the city while the nobles made a show of brokering an end to hostilities—with the Gand army destroyed, it put Sarresant on favorable negotiating terms, at least here in the colonies. Yet this time it was different. Sarresant had invaded as a preemptive measure, a check on Gand expansion, but she knew that no terms of trade or territorial concessions would end this war. Her spine chilled, recalling her conversation with the enemy’s golden-eyed commander. So long as that creature was in command, there would be no peace.

  The steward gave the order to march, and their column swept onto the grass with a military band playing fanfare to accompany their steps. Muted, polite applause greeted them as they were ushered into place below the stage, upon which the army’s commanders sat on one side and the civilian leaders, noncommissioned members of the Lords’ Council or the elected commoners of the Council-General, sat on the other. Duc-General Cherrain stood welcoming Erris and her companions on the dais at the center of the platform. A cousin of the King, High Commander of the army, and governor of the colonies. He was an imposing figure in his uniform, looking every bit the part of the dashing, cunning leader. One could hardly rise to his station without looking the part.

  The Duc gestured for quiet after the last of their column was settled into place.

  “We gather today for valor’s sake,” the Duc began. “To honor sons and daughters of Sarresant, whose bravery exemplifies the highest ideals of our people, our faith, our nation.”

  The rest of her companions’ eyes were fixed on the stage as the Duc spoke, though her attention began to wander almost immediately. She’d heard speeches of this nature too often and found they rarely deviated from the script: praise the heroes, denounce the enemy, generalize to a greater message of shared struggle leading to inevitable triumph. In her view, the army would function a sight better if generals learned that soldiers, not speeches, led to victory.

  It came as a shock when she realized after a few minutes that the crowd had gone quiet, every eye turning to stare at her.

  “Chevalier-General d’Arrent?” the Duc repeated, looking down at her with a raised eyebrow and a beckoning hand.

  She cleared her throat. “Sir?” she asked, feeling a flush at her collar. Those damned groomers had cut the uniform too tight, a sensation not helped by the crowd tittering with the polite laughter of the nobility, spurred by the Duc’s amused grin.

  “I asked if you would share a few thoughts on our enemy, and the events leading up to your victory. A view from the front lines, as it were.”

  She blinked, feeling herself rise from where she sat on one of the wooden benches that had been dragged onto the grass in front of the stage. What sort of game was this, to invite her to speak unprepared, without forewarning? Had the Duc invited her here to honor her or to make her look a fool? Applause sounded once again as she strode up the steps to the center of the platform, echoing in her ears as if it came from far away. The Duc took his seat behind her, and she turned to see half a thousand eyes fixed on her. Powerful eyes. Judging eyes.

  And there in the front row, the priests of Arentaigne, and Marie d’Oreste. She took a deep breath. If they could do what she had asked of them at the barrier, a speech before the peers of the realm was a challenge she could meet, unflinching.

  “Our enemy,” she said in a quiet voice, then repeated it louder, more firm. “Our enemy. I have fought the enemies of the crown for nigh on eleven years. I have matched wits with enemy generals, I have slain enemy soldiers by my own hand. I tell you this true: I have faced no enemy I have feared so much as the commander of these Gandsmen.”

  That stilled whatever mirth had settled over the crowd from her unexpected invitation to the stage. Good. If the Duc-General wanted a view from the front lines, she would give one.

  “Well spoken, d’Arrent,” Marquis-General Voren said, tipping his crystal wineglass in her direction as he approached. “I suspect not quite the display the Duc-General had in mind when he planned his little ambush.”

  She suppressed the instinct to salute, opting for a subtle bow more appropriate to their surroundings. Already she felt out of place at the Duc’s reception here at the Rasailles palace; the last thing she needed was to remind them all that Erris d’Arrent was a common-born soldier first, come to nobility by virtue of a field promotion. Not that they were like to forget it.

  “Thank you, sir,” she replied. “I tried to keep my descriptions authentic.”

  He nodded with an amused look. “Oh, you achieved it, Chevalier-General. Half the ladies to whom I’ve spoken are skipping the hors d’oeuvres, and the men are wondering aloud what madman supported you for promotion to the peerage.” He sipped his wine. “Then they remember that madman was me.”

  She felt her cheeks redden. “Sir, if I’ve embarrassed you—”

  He waved her off. “Not at all. If the sensibilities of polite society are easily offended, it’s only to keep the gossip flowing freely. All of this will be forgotten when the next scandal breaks. Besides, that token becomes you. You more than earned it.”

  Her fingers went to the medallion she wore on a ribbon around her collar. The Legion of Valor. The highest military decoration given by the crown of Sarresant, the sort most often given to the dead. She’d never put much stock in medals or ceremony, but even she had to admit it felt damned good when the Duc-General placed it around her neck. Even if he had been somewhat red at the ears after her gruesome description of the events of the summer campaign. Well, he’d asked for it.

  “Thank you again, sir,” she said. “I assume I have the reports you made to high command to thank for the honor.”

  “How not? By the Gods, d’Arrent, when you’re the only soldier present at a battle, there isn’t much room to quibble over whom to pin medals on after the fact. Besides,” he continued, eyes sparkling, “I suspect the lack of noble-born honorees was precisely the cause for Cherrain’s little ambush. Our peers are little accustomed to being shut away from glory.”

  She raised an eyebrow. Would the Duc-General of the army and the governor of the colonies be so petty? She supposed she knew the answer without asking. “Again, sir, I regret if I caused you embarrassment today.”

  “Think no more on it, d’Arrent. Try to enjoy our time in the city. We get so few opportunities between campaigns to immerse ourselves in the privilege of our ranks.” His tone suggested he was at least half-serious.

  “Sir, with your arrival I’d expected to make my report to you in person on the events at the barrier. There have been troubling developments.”

  “More troubling than the account you just gave to the nobility?”

  “Yes, sir. Details I withheld from the official reports. You’ll need to see it in person, sir.” She’d tried to describe the golden light of Need and the threat posed by the enemy commander’s use of it in her written accounts. In the end she’d resolved to recount the information in person. Without seeing it firsthand, she’d not have believed it possible; she could expect the army’s commanders to require the same proof.

  This time he regarded her with genuine interest. “Very well, Chevalier-General, I’ll have an aide deliver you a summons for a debrief. In the meantime, do try to enjoy the Duc’s hospitality. I expect your brigade commanders will still enjoy the pleasure of your company, even if the rest of society may keep their distance.” He said it without malice, although she still felt another creeping flush at her collar. She hadn’t meant to do more than give them an honest account of the soldiering life. Perhaps she’d gone a bit too far with her descriptions of Fantain’s Cross.

  “Ah, speaking of which.” Voren gestured toward another pack of nobles making their entrance into the foyer. “I don’t believe you’ve yet had the pleasure of meeting your ne
west brigade-colonel.”

  That piqued her attention. She turned to see a young man approaching at the marquis-general’s behest, looking fresh-faced enough to confirm the rumor that the new commander of the 14th Light Cavalry was among this year’s graduates from the New Sarresant Academy.

  “His father is an old acquaintance of mine,” the marquis-general continued. “But the instructors here at the academy say he shows promise. I wanted him posted under my best division commander. Chevalier-General Erris d’Arrent, I present Brigade-Colonel Donatien Revellion.”

  The newcomer gave a crisp salute, the precise sort she’d managed to avoid giving before.

  “Chevalier-General, sir,” he said, remaining at attention. “An honor to serve under your command.”

  “At ease, Brigade-Colonel,” she said. “We’re at a salon, not on a scouting patrol.”

  Voren laughed, clapping them both on the shoulder. “Don’t be too hard on him, Chevalier-General.” With a wink, the general took his leave, making his way across the foyer to another waiting group of guests.

  The young colonel made a visible effort to relax, a calculated attempt that fell somewhat short of natural. She stifled a laugh in spite of herself, retaining a cool expression as she looked him over, head to toe.

  “Donatien Revellion,” she said. “The new commander of the Fourteenth Light Cavalry.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Your first command?” she asked, masking the irony behind the question. Of course it was his first command. This boy was greener than the first sapling of spring.

  “Yes, sir. And may I say, it is an honor to follow in your footsteps. I studied your exploits with the Fourteenth at the academy.”

  “You know the unit’s history.”

  “Yes, sir,” he said, eyes shining. “Every battle, every engagement during the Gand campaign, and many of the battles during the Thellan War as well.”

  “Tell me then, Donatien Revellion. Why should the veterans of the Fourteenth follow the orders of a freshly graduated nobleman’s son granted their command by virtue of who his father knows?”

  She expected him to react the way noble brats typically did, as if she’d struck him across the face. One of the few pleasures of having to deal with their lot, and an essential step if she was to break down a lifetime of easy comforts and begin to build a real commander out of him.

  Instead he nodded, wearing a solemn expression. “I understand, sir. I haven’t earned this post, but I will do my duty. If the men follow me out of obligation at first, I hope in due time I will earn their respect.”

  She kept her expression cool, revealing none of the surprise she felt at his words. Perhaps there was hope for him, though just as likely he had merely given more than a token thought as to how best to kiss her ass.

  “Just remember you know less than horse piss and you have everything to learn, Colonel.”

  He nodded gravely. “Yes, sir.”

  “You’ve reported to the Fourteenth’s camp outside the city walls?”

  “Not yet, sir.”

  “Good. You can accompany me tomorrow morning when I ride to the command tents.”

  The boy made another attempt to salute, which she dismissed with an eyebrow. Gods but this was the last thing she needed. To have to train a fresh commander, and like as not one who thought too highly of himself to shut up and do what d’Guile and Pourrain told him to.

  At least having a subordinate here gave her some measure of protection from the nobles’ glowering eyes.

  She thought of a question about his training, a comparison between her days at the academy and whatever they were teaching now. Only she never got to ask it. A crash at the foyer entrance drew her eyes, and those of every guest assembled in the room. She turned to see what looked like one of the Duc’s servants, a portly man clad in velvet livery, making a mad dash through the chamber, rushing down the gallery toward the Duc’s private audience room.

  Without thinking, she bound Body and ran.

  In the space of a heartbeat she cut the servant off mid-stride, interposing herself between the man and the gilded doors behind which the Duc entertained a select coterie of guests.

  “Out of my way, madame!” the servant barked, fighting to free himself from the leyline-enhanced grip she’d fastened around his forearm.

  “Explain yourself at once,” she snapped back, halting him where he stood.

  “He’s here,” the servant gasped, out of breath. “Here at the palace. He’s come straight from the harbor!”

  “What? Who is here?”

  “The Crown-Prince. The Duc must be alerted. The Nameless take you, woman, let go!”

  She released her grip, turning with a confused expression toward the foyer entrance. The latest arrival to the Duc’s reception stood there, silhouetted against gilded doors swung wide to accommodate him: a tall, hawk-nosed man with an ermine-lined cloak of royal blue and all the haughtiness of youth mixed with power. A pair of guardsmen in purple uniforms flanked him on either side. Fullbinders, wearing the sigil of the royal bodyguards, the Aegis of the King.

  The newcomer’s eyes settled on the servant’s backside, and the long chamber echoed with the lordling’s laughter.

  “That’s right, run and tell him, little man,” the man called, seeming to relish every pair of eyes he drew among the noble guests. “Tell him Louis-Sallet has arrived.”

  32

  ARAK’JUR

  Ka’Hinari’s Tent

  Ranasi Village

  The Ranasi will accept the offer of alliance.”

  Relief washed over him as Ka’Hinari uttered the words. It was not a binding promise—that would come later, after the final deliberations in the steam tent. But the shaman’s backing went far with his people. If Ka’Hinari believed they had consensus, then it would be so.

  If he surprised Ka’Hinari by wrapping him in a bear hug, the shaman didn’t show it. Laughter rang through the tent, and Arak’Jur’s gesture was returned with a fierce strength belied by the other man’s aged frame. Corenna’s steady visage slipped as well, and she joined him in a tight embrace after he and Ka’Hinari separated.

  It had taken four formal audiences like this one, presenting his cause before the Ranasi shaman and—much as it surprised him to learn it—before Corenna, who stood as foremost among their women, for him to reach this end. And now he had it. The Sinari would not face the other tribes alone.

  “Honored brother,” Corenna said, speaking as if their pact had already been sealed. “Thank you. For you to approach us took great courage and strength of will. I cannot say we would have made the same overture.” She eyed Ka’Hinari with purpose. “But I am pleased that you did.”

  “Thank you, honored sister,” he said, at last allowing himself to relax in spite of the formality of their meeting. “Neither Ka’Vos nor I could countenance the thought of what the spirits seek. War, between the Sinari and Ranasi? Unthinkable.”

  “Unthinkable,” Ka’Hinari agreed. “It will not happen, so long as I am Ka. But you have gone further. To take the step of making a pledge of alliance in the open, before the people of our tribes … it is a bold plan, but I say again it is a wise one.”

  “Will we speak of my request then, to approach others, other tribes who might take up the mantle of peace?”

  Ka’Hinari and Corenna exchanged a look.

  “Yes,” she said. Ka’Hinari’s expression changed as if he was about to speak, but Corenna silenced him with a hand laid across his forearm. “Yes. Father, we have discussed this. The Sinari have taken this bold step, risking their guardian’s life coming to us with their plan, and we can do no less.”

  “You would go yourself,” the older man said in an accusing tone.

  “And what of it? Am I more valuable to the Ranasi than Arak’Jur is to his people? We speak blasphemy before the spirits, it is only fitting we send an envoy worthy of the import of our cause. The other tribes would not consider words carried by any of lesser standing.”r />
  Arak’Jur remained silent, letting the moment pass between them. He made no pretense of understanding the relationship between Corenna and her father, nor did he claim to understand the strange role she seemed to play in the workings of the Ranasi tribe. Certainly Ka’Vos did not keep council with the women for considerations such as this, nor did he and Ilek’Inari consult women in their responsibilities as guardians.

  Ka’Hinari gave a grudging nod, and Corenna turned toward him.

  “The Nanerat,” she said. “They will hear our plea.”

  “Corenna—” her father began.

  “I know, father. Their lands are far from here, across the peaks that do not shed ice even in the hot seasons. Yet the Nanerat will listen, and I cannot say the same for our neighbors.”

  Arak’Jur rubbed his chin, considering. “I know their guardian, Arak’Erai. We hunted lakiri’in together in the lands of the Vhurasi to the south. A good man. Even-tempered.”

  “A common trait among the Nanerat,” Corenna said carefully, drawing a warning glance from her father.

  He raised an eyebrow. What did the traits of the Nanerat betoken that would draw censure from the Ranasi shaman?

  Corenna sighed. “Must we tread so cautiously around the forbidden?”