Soul of the World

by David Mealing

  “Arak’Atan is alone?” he asked.

  “He is the last of the Jintani.”

  “Asseena,” Corenna asked, “were you behind the burning of the Jintani village?”

  Asseena eyed him, appearing to search for some sign of discomfort at speaking of the women’s magic. When he gave none, she nodded and made her reply.

  “Yes,” she said. “After they betrayed our blood-oath. One of their women swore to me the Jintani would see my people dead to the last child. In the face of such madness, the path to peace is soaked in blood.”

  “It is said among the women that the magic of the Nanerat is peace,” Corenna said carefully.

  Once more Asseena looked to him. “Is this a thing of which you speak to men, in the South?”

  “It is,” Arak’Jur replied with firmness. “In these times, it is. If knowledge of our gifts will help us stand against the enemies of peace, it is a small blasphemy beside turning our backs on the madness of the spirits.”

  Asseena nodded slowly. “Perhaps there is wisdom in this. Yes, then. Our gift is peace. But peace without strength is only weakness. Our women wield the magic of fire, the blood of the mountains upon which we dwell, to keep our people safe.”

  “And you used it to burn their village,” Corenna said, turning her eyes away, toward the greatfire.

  The sight of the Jintani village had been a horror to them both. But seeing it again in his memory, with the backdrop of the Nanerat on the cusp of death themselves, he understood. To protect his people, to stop an enemy committed to the course of madness—he could use the gifts of the spirits to strike at his enemies, and could not condemn the Nanerat for doing the same.

  “She did what had to be done,” he said.

  Asseena eyed him with surprise. “Yes,” she said.

  Corenna said nothing. He knew her well enough to see the current of doubt below the surface. So be it. Reasoned wisdom was a luxury of innocence. He understood the pain of loss.

  In the moment, he made his decision.

  “Honored sister,” he said. “Yes. I will help you kill Arak’Atan.”

  “I mislike this course,” Corenna said, pacing across their tent. It was large, a conical design fit to shelter a family from the harshest winds of the foothills. How it had come to be empty he had known without asking. They could have had their pick of such even without their status as honored guests of the Nanerat.

  “Share your misgivings, Corenna.”

  “We traveled north to find peace,” she said. “To seek allies against the madness of war. I cannot forget the Jintani village. To think Asseena capable of such slaughter—”

  “They faced an enemy bent on their destruction,” he said.

  “She murdered children!”

  “Was any less done to them? To hear it from the men, Arak’Atan was not alone in his brutality, only his effectiveness. The guardian’s gift was never meant to be used this way. It is an abomination.”

  “I feel no differently about the women’s gift being used to fire a village.”

  He sighed, rising from where he sat on the mats lining the floor of the tent. Fetching one of their freshly refilled waterskins, he took a long drink, offering the same to Corenna. Pure, cool water direct from the springs of the peaks. A welcome refreshment after weeks in the wild.

  “It is unwise to judge from afar,” he said finally. “Could you speak truly, that you would have done otherwise in her place? If it were Ka’Hinari and the Ranasi people being murdered by an implacable enemy, an enemy convinced your people’s destruction was the will of the spirits?”

  “I fear it,” Corenna said, the righteous anger behind her eyes melting away. “I fear what we will find ourselves capable of, all of us, before the end.”

  “Will you travel with me, to hunt the Jintani guardian?”

  She looked away.

  “I need your aid, Corenna. Arak’Atan bore many gifts when I knew him as a youth, and he has surely gained in strength since. Even if the spirits bless me with their favor, the hunt is far from sure.”

  “This is a terrible thing you ask, Arak’Jur. It has ever been the place of the guardians to mete out justice. It is different, for a woman.”

  He said no more, letting silence fill the tent. She was not wrong; under ordinary circumstances, he would never have asked her aid. The elders of every tribe handled mundane matters of punishment, but the guardians alone bore the mantle of death. Some crimes demanded no less. Yet in this, even the oldest stories offered no wisdom. The spirits did not idly grant their gifts; for a guardian to transgress so deeply was a sign of sickness among the spirits themselves. Another such sign, in a time where evidence of corruption was all too common.

  Corenna turned once more, and he saw fear in her eyes. Fear, and resolve.

  “I will aid you. I have not come so far to abandon our course now, though this deed will weigh heavy on my shoulders.”

  “You have a strong back, Corenna of the Ranasi.”

  That elicited a soft laugh. “You had best hope for the spirits’ sake I do.”

  He smiled at her, seeing once again the image of the young woman she was, contrasted with the power she wielded, so far beyond her small stature. Rhealla, he remembered, thinking how his onetime wife had moved with the same surety, the same confidence. Neither his dead wife nor Corenna standing before him had Llanara’s brash intelligence, or her fiery wit. Theirs was a deeper wisdom, the poise of a path well traveled, and remembered.

  “So, how is this done?” she asked. “Sinari men don echtaka paint before a hunt, do they not?”

  His turn to laugh. “You would wear the guise of a hunter?”

  She bowed her head. “I follow your guidance, Arak’Jur.”

  “First we seek the blessing of the shaman. Ilek’Hannat is only an apprentice, but if he can beseech the spirits for a glimpse of Arak’Atan, it will serve us well.”

  Corenna drew a breath, drawing herself up to her full height. “Lead on, then.”

  “You would begin the hunt tonight?”

  “Do we have cause to wait?”

  He had no proper reply to that. Lifting the flap of the tent, he followed behind as she ducked beneath it into the frigid air of the Nanerat village.

  Ilek’Hannat was already burning incense when they arrived.

  Odd, that the prescience of the shamans could still surprise him, after a lifetime of trusting to their visions. Even a half-trained apprentice spoke with the voice of things-to-come, enough to bring Arak’Jur to his knees in reverence for the spirits’ guidance. Such was proper, in their presence. Corenna followed his lead, flanking him as though she were an apprentice guardian herself. It may well be they lived in a time for change, for the disruptive and new. Nigh unthinkable for a woman to attend such a ceremony, but Ilek’Hannat bore it without comment. A time for change, yes, but this ritual was the means behind their peoples’ protection from the ravages of the wild, since the first tribes had gone in search for the richness of these lands. So it was, that the old and new bled together, like the wisps of colored smoke tracing through the air of the shaman’s tent.

  “He hides,” the apprentice said, speaking in the ethereal tones of the spirits. “He shrouds himself unseen, the predator you seek.”

  A puff of blue smoke belched from the flame at the center of the tent. Corenna gasped as it shifted into the form of a man above them.

  “Arak’Atan,” Arak’Jur said.

  “His form twists, and he evades us!” Ilek’Hannat’s mouth curled into a snarl. “We cannot see him.”

  “He is called Arak’Atan,” Arak’Jur repeated. “And we would have whatever knowledge you can offer.”

  The apprentice convulsed where he stood, falling to his knees. Droplets of blood ran from his nose, falling to paint the dirt before the fire.

  “He is hidden,” the apprentice whispered.

  “Find him,” he commanded. “And tell us what you see.”

  A thundercrack sounded from the fire,
and a black cloud began to spill forth from the depth of the cinders.

  “The valak’ar. He carries its gift! Flee from death!”

  Arak’Jur rose to his feet, raising a fist to the fire. “I carry the gift of the wraith-snake as well. I do not fear its bite. Reveal what you have seen.”

  “The astahg.”

  Orange smoke coiled in a thick cloud, then vanished, only to reappear a handspan away.

  “Speak of its gift!” he demanded.

  “The great stag, mirrored in the shadows, a hunter where there should be prey.”

  He considered the smoke, turning the words over in his mind.

  “And mareh’et.” Ilek’Hannat spoke again. “Juna’ren. Ipek’a.”

  “These I know,” he said. “Are there others?”

  Ilek’Hannat turned to look him in the eye, carrying a far-off look he recognized from years spent receiving visions from Ka’Vos. But there was more. A shroud of mist, as if the apprentice’s sight was soiled by some strange corruption. Still he held Ilek’Hannat’s gaze, even as a blood-red cloud of smoke erupted from the center of the fire, surging upward in a violent torrent. The smoke poured out of the fire like blood seeping from a wound, and Ilek’Hannat began to laugh. A wild sound, echoing through the tent, sounding more akin to a scream than any expression of mirth. Blood flew as Ilek’Hannat’s body shook, droplets dissolving into the smoke wherever the two collided.

  “Enough!” Arak’Jur demanded. “Release him.”

  “Death!” the apprentice cried, still howling with laughter. “He has touched that which is forbidden. The time of change comes! An Ascendant of the Wild!”

  Arak’Jur strode forward into the smoke and struck Ilek’Hannat across the face, hard enough to put him in the dirt.

  The fire dissipated into embers, smoke vanishing in a rush. The tent fell silent, save for the slow crackling of the fire, and the heated, shallow breathing from Corenna behind him.

  “Is he …?” she began.

  “The spirits can be cruel masters,” he said, kneeling beside Ilek’Hannat’s finally dormant form. “But he lives.”

  She rose to her feet. “Is it proper for us to tend to him?”

  He shook his head, joining her on his feet. “The spirits will see to his recovery. What passes between the shamans and their spirits is not for us to know.”

  She nodded, her face pale. He had never before seen such a display. Was it merely an Ilek channeling spirits beyond his ability, or a sign of worse portents, the incipient madness he had feared since Ka’Vos’s revelation, so many lifetimes ago? His heart raced, though he kept his outward composure. Once more he lifted the tent flap, following behind Corenna.

  Asseena stood alone, waiting outside the shaman’s tent to receive them.

  “Ilek’Hannat told me he would prepare the ritual tonight,” Asseena began, stifling tears.

  “He lives, honored sister,” he said.

  Asseena let loose a rush of breath. “Thank the spirits,” she said. “It sounded as if death itself walked inside that tent.”

  Corenna moved to her side, offering a steadying arm. “Your apprentice shaman has a powerful gift, sister.”

  “And Arak’Atan?” Asseena asked. “Was Ilek’Hannat able to reveal his location?”

  Corenna gave her a look of sympathy, then shook her head. “No. Ilek’Hannat saw as much and more as we might have hoped, but he could not see where the Jintani guardian hides.”

  True enough, that the spirits channeled by Ilek’Hannat had failed to pierce the shroud around their quarry. But at times, failure to see was sight enough.

  “I know where he is,” Arak’Jur said.

  That drew looks from both women.

  “Since this madness began, no shaman has seen the coming of great beasts at our sacred places. Yet they have been there, each time. If Arak’Atan is hidden from the spirits of things-to-come, he hides where they are already blind.”

  Corenna’s eyes went wide.

  “Would he dare?” Asseena asked, her skin pale even by the light of the moon. “To enter another tribe’s sacred place without their blessing—”

  “Arak’Atan is there,” he said. “Ilek’Hannat’s gift is powerful. If it were otherwise, the apprentice shaman would have seen it.”

  “Then go,” Asseena said. “I give you the blessing of the Nanerat. You may enter Nanek’Hai’Tyat.”

  42

  SARINE

  The Revellion Townhouse

  Gardens District, New Sarresant

  Is m’lady going to lie abed all morning?”

  She squinted. It had been a rough night; she could have wished for any of a hundred sights more pleasant to awaken her than the maid’s all-too-familiar look of disdain.

  “Good morning, Agnes,” she croaked, turning to stretch into the untouched portion of the bed. It wasn’t the first night she’d spent at the townhouse, but it was the first without waking to Donatien beside her. Last night’s exchange had been heated. A painful reminder, to wake alone.

  She rose to sit against the pillows. “Is Lord Revellion at breakfast already?”

  “His lordship is out. On an errand, m’lady.” Agnes sniffed. “I’d have them linens if you please. Some of us have work to do.”

  Sarine rubbed her eyes, allowing Agnes to collect the bedsheets as she rose to her feet.

  Unpleasant creature, Zi thought to her.

  She bit back a bitter laugh, drawing another look from the maid as Agnes swept out of the room, bundle of would-be washings in hand.

  “I’ve known worse,” she said after Agnes had gone. She opened the window shutters to pour in sunlight and the quiet hum of activity in the Gardens below. Zi appeared on the edge beside the opening, his scales a soft blue, mirroring the cloudless autumn sky.

  You plan to hunt today?

  She selected a pair of sturdy trousers and a tight-fitting coat from the armoire Donatien had made available for her use. “Over the objections of one Lord Donatien Revellion. Yes, I do.”

  Zi seemed content with that, resting his head on his coils and looking down on the streets below as she settled into the day’s attire. She and Donatien had argued well into the early hours, like as not part of the reason Agnes had decided to wake her. Spiteful woman, but no point in dwelling on it. She rather liked the way Zi put it: She had a hunt ahead of her today.

  “What do you suppose d’Agarre might have hidden down there, in the sewers?”

  You were there.

  “No, Zi, not those tunnels. The north-side ones. His men called it a ‘beast.’ They might describe one of your kind that way. If the Maw gangs have seen a kaas there, it means d’Agarre or one of his lieutenants has been there, hiding something. Or guarding it. Either way I mean to find out what it is.”

  He closed his eyes in reply, lolling his head to the side as if scratching an itch against the awning.

  Well, she hadn’t expected him to be of any help. She’d been speculating on d’Agarre’s plans since the night at his salon. Today she’d get another piece to the puzzle. She’d already begun to understand the extent of his organization: their stockpiles of weapons in the sewers, their secret paths and pass-phrases, their coordinated efforts to mobilize the people of the city. It was what to do next that vexed her.

  Finished dressing, she joined Zi along the window’s edge.

  She was afraid.

  As an untutored girl, and later with the limited understanding and guidance of her uncle, she’d been naïve enough to think her gifts special, but within the bounds of normalcy. So much had changed in recent months. The truth was she’d learned to enjoy the comforts of the Gardens, of Revellion’s affections no matter their recent discord, and to come forward, to report Reyne d’Agarre’s activities to the Lords’ Council, was to risk it all on the hope they would hear her out, and act. Why did it have to be her? Surely the signs could be seen in the anger on the streets, passed from ear to ear among the commonfolk of every district. Surely the mighty lords of S
arresant did not need word carried from Sarine of the Maw to see the threat taking root at the heart of their city. Better for her to lie low, to escape notice. To let others see Reyne d’Agarre for what he was.

  Even as she thought it, she knew it for an empty daydream. Yes, there were binders and fullbinders aplenty in the ranks of the city’s priests, and the army. But she had seen firsthand the power exerted by the kaas. Yellow, Zi had named it. A mob, roused to murderous rage, then scattered by fear. She had never paused to fully consider her companion or the nature of his strange gift, but she began to see it now. The terror he’d inspired among the men in the sewers, and all the times throughout her memory she had survived the wrath of evil men, when by rights she should have died on the streets of the Maw long ago. Even the kindness of her uncle, his willingness to train her, keep her talents hidden from the crown. The more she reflected on it, the more it became clear. Zi could affect the emotions, even perhaps the thoughts of others. And whatever Zi could do, so could the kaas of Reyne d’Agarre. She’d seen him use it, scattering soldiers in the Harbor … and inducing the city watch to fire into the crowd, at the farmers’ market in the Maw. The realization clicked in her mind like the hammer of a pistol. Another evil to lay at his feet; another atrocity no doubt prescribed by his corrupted book.

  With that magic at his side, there was no greater power in all of New Sarresant. None save her. Gods damn her soul if she would abandon New Sarresant to the whims of the evil she’d seen behind d’Agarre’s eyes, not when she had the power to stand in its way. The book, their Codex; that was the root of it. D’Agarre had been willing to murder a woman he counted a friend moments before, because the scene had been written in his book, or he’d interpreted it as such. What if the next premonition pointed to burning half the city, or guillotining every child who refused to perform some other unspeakable horror? Whatever her sympathy to d’Agarre’s cause, he was mad for his devotion to that book, and every other kaas-mage along with him. Hadn’t they proved it, targeting the Sacre-Lin, a place of peace and refuge for the poor, because the man called de Merrain interpreted a passage to mean he ought to burn the chapel as a means of getting her attention?