Soul of the World

by David Mealing

  As he died she felt the faintest stirring of the sensation that had crippled her before, a droplet of pleasure washing over her mind.

  And then grief.

  “Sarine,” Donatien said.

  She affected not to hear him, lost in a sea of gray. It was her fault. It had been her responsibility to protect these people, and she had failed. The remainder of their journey passed in a daze, long streets made for wagonloads of goods hauled from the ships, reaching out from the harbor like the fingers of a corpse. She walked their paths inward, knowing she had blood on her hands. Never mind the men she had cut down like chaff with the gifts of the storm spirits; she had lost a dozen or more of her charges before coming to her senses. Zi had tried to warn her, tried to stay her from this course. She was a fool.

  “Sarine,” Donatien said again. “Isn’t that …?”

  She looked up.

  Axerian stood in a relaxed posture, hands at his waist, short curved blades dangling from his belt. Waiting for them at the end of the last street, where their path ended at the entrance to the harbor.

  “It wasn’t your fault,” Donatien said quietly as they moved toward where Axerian stood.

  The nobles behind them moved in a ragged procession, as if they carried some glimmer of the burden on her shoulders. She looked back and saw their haunted eyes reflecting her guilt, wincing as she turned away. It was her fault.

  “Sarine, I—” Donatien said.

  “Donatien,” she said. “Let it be. Please.”

  He said nothing more and she didn’t look back.

  Axerian grinned at her approach, the first she’d seen him since the day they’d rescued the captain. If he noticed the hollowness she felt behind her eyes he made no comment on it. This had been his way since he’d first come to the chapel: showing up when he had word of d’Agarre’s activities, then vanishing for days at a time, only to reappear wearing a half smile as if his arrival were a matter of course.

  “Trouble crossing the city?” Axerian said, casting a glance up and down her column as he fell into step beside her.

  She nodded. No need to bear repeating the details.

  “We ran into d’Agarre’s militia,” Donatien said. “Isn’t that what you are supposed to be out stopping?”

  The upbraiding sounded foolish to her ears. Not that Donatien had cause to know he was speaking to a God.

  Axerian seemed similarly amused. “How under the heavens did you manage without me, my noble lordling?”

  “There was a kaas-mage with them,” she said.

  Axerian’s eyes shone as his smile faded into a look of concern. “Ah,” was all he said.

  “Sarine cut the man down,” Donatien said as he walked a step behind. “She saved us all.”

  “You’d hardly be standing here if she hadn’t, my lord,” Axerian said, his smile returning.

  “Why are you here?” she asked Axerian, coming to a halt at the mouth of the harbor. The streets beyond were quiet for all that it was still midafternoon. She glanced down the docks, craning her neck to try to tell one ship from another. They all looked the same to her, knots of rigging and white sails packed and bound to masts as tall as buildings. Some empty, some swarming with sailors preparing to sail. If Captain Vaudreuil had been here he could have shown the way to the Redoubtable, but he was dead. Because of her.

  “As it happens, I have need of your assistance,” Axerian said. “The city has need of your assistance. There have been certain developments over the last two days.”

  His words flowed through her like water through a sieve. She cast another blank look up and down the harbor. “After,” she said. “First I have to save the nobles, to get them to the ship.”

  He grinned more broadly. “I’d guessed you might do that.”

  “What do you mean?” she said.

  “My dear,” he said, a spark showing in his eyes, “I took the liberty of releasing the Redoubtable’s crew and seeing to it they were provisioned for a lengthy voyage. I trust I guessed aright?”

  “What? You sent them away?”

  He laughed, forestalling the beginnings of her anger. “No, no. I know you too well. As soon as the captain gave his name I knew you’d come. I have the crew set and waiting for your charges, here at the northern docks.”

  She gave him a long look.

  “Shall we?” he asked, offering an arm.

  With a wordless nod, she disdained his gesture as she strode past him. He laughed again, walking beside her as the column of nobles trailed in their wake. A glance behind revealed Donatien simmering but silent, meeting her eyes with a look that nonetheless bespoke compassion.

  They made the short walk to the north end of the harbor in relative silence, passing sailors eyeing them with dubious looks. She was past caring. So long as they made it to the ship.

  Yellow, came the thought from Zi.

  Panic flooded her veins, whirling around to find the source.

  Axerian held out a hand as a calming gesture. “It’s only me,” he said. “A warding, to ensure the ship could remain here safely. There, see?”

  The sensation faded from her mind, though her pulse did not slow. She nodded.

  And there it was. A cheer went up from the nobles when they read the name etched on its hull.

  The Redoubtable.

  She found a stack of crates, and seated herself atop one, watching as the nobles made their way onto the ship. The crew had made quick work of preparations, unfurling rope lines and barking orders across the deck. Vaudreuil’s first officer—the captain now—had assured her they’d be under way within the hour. She’d stolen away to have a few moments to herself. Here on the dock, before she had to say her goodbyes.

  The thought came again: She was a fool.

  “What was it, Zi?” she whispered. “What happened to me?”

  Black, he thought to her.

  “Killing?”

  Yes.

  She brought her knees up to her chin, wrapping her arms around them as she rocked in silence.

  It is one of the ways Axerian corrupts his ascendants, Zi thought. He uses the Veil’s power to compel my kind not to intercede.

  Her thoughts went back to the night of the salon, to the look of madness in Reyne d’Agarre’s eyes when he killed the Comtesse de Rillefort. Had she worn the same look as her charges died around her?

  “There are plenty of murderers in the world. Why me? Why does it affect me? Because of our bond?”

  Yes. It is the price of our gift. You feel some margin of what I collect.

  “This all sounds like things for which I am not prepared,” she said, allowing some measure of bitterness to creep into her voice.

  It is my nature to protect you.

  “I know, Zi,” she said, tears sliding from her eyes. “I’m sorry.”

  The moment lingered, sailors shouting as they worked, relief showing on the nobles’ faces as they walked up the gangplanks. How she wished for a moment she could be like them, not for their finery and poise even in the face of adversity, but for the small kindness of being able to board a ship and sail away from everything. The freedom of it beckoned to her, the adventure of the unknown.

  “Do you know anything of what Axerian spoke? The danger to the city?”

  No. I know only what I see, the same as you do.

  She nodded.

  But it may be d’Agarre. He will be close to ascension.

  “Zi, will you explain what ascension is, please?”

  A long silence stretched, and she felt a measure of anger come creeping back, never mind the softness she had felt before.

  The Seat of the Gods, he thought to her. Three champions, one for each line, at each awakening. Three to decide the fate of creation for each cycle. Three for Life, Three for Death.

  She turned his words over in her mind, repeating them to herself.

  “I don’t understand,” she said.

  The champions decide the image of the world, vying for balance between the Goddess an
d the God. Life and Death.

  “The image of the world …? And what is a champion?”

  Pain lanced through her mind, though it was no sensation of hers.

  Please, he thought. You are not ready.

  Understanding dawned. “Zi, does it hurt you to tell me these things?”

  Only if you are not ready to hear them. It is part of the bond. Like the union of the spirits and the aspects of gold along the ley-threads; there is an appointed time. I am sorry.

  “It’s all right,” she said quietly. “I’m sorry, too, Zi. I’m a fool.”

  So are we all, when we are young.

  She laughed at that, rich and true in spite of her grief. Imagining Zi as a young version of himself was more than she could manage. He was just Zi. As far as she was concerned he had always been exactly as he was.

  “Feeling better?” Donatien asked, approaching from the base of the gangplanks leading onto the deck of the ship.

  She looked up at him, feeling some of her mirth drain away. “Donatien, I—”

  “You’re not coming aboard the ship,” he finished for her.

  Tears welled up, and she shook her head, reaching a hand up to wipe them away as Donatien came to sit beside her.

  “Sarine, it’s all right,” he said. “I understand. I knew this was coming, even if I didn’t want to admit it to myself.”

  “Thank you,” she said, stifling another wave of emotion.

  Donatien offered his arm, and she leaned against him, a roil of conflicting feelings coursing through her. He held her as they listened to the sailors work, making final preparations before the ship cast off.

  “You will stop him,” Donatien said after a time. “D’Agarre I mean.”

  She nodded.

  “Did Axerian disappear again?” he asked.

  She nodded again. “I told him I needed a moment. He said to meet him at the chapel.”

  “Did he know what was happening in the city? The cannons?”

  “I don’t know. He didn’t say anything more.”

  “Be careful with him,” Donatien said. “If he can help you, let him, but—”

  “You’re right,” she said. “And I will.”

  They sat together for a long moment, until one of the sailors called out. Final boarding.

  Donatien rose to his feet, turning to look at her.

  “You are an amazing woman, Sarine,” he said. “I’ve been privileged to have loved you.”

  “Thank you, Donatien,” she said, rising into his arms one last time. “Thank you for everything.”

  They held together as long as they could before breaking away, and she watched as he rounded the dock, looking back at her as he boarded the ship.

  Emotions swelled within her as the mooring lines were cut. Relief for the ones she had saved, regret for the ones she had lost. Sadness for Donatien, but sweetness, too; the same for Zi.

  And determination. A rising swell of determination from deep within her bones. It was past time to see this decided, one way or another.

  55

  ERRIS

  High Command

  Southgate District, New Sarresant

  She leaned over a hastily painted table showing the winding streets of the Gardens, watching as the aides adjusted the placement of red, green, and blue figures.

  “Gods damn it,” she cursed, drawing solemn nods from around the table.

  They’d been too slow. Another half day and they might have staged a battle in the northern plains, between New Sarresant and the barrier. Instead three full brigades of Gand infantry had begun their march into the city, with batteries of artillery in place to shell the Gardens, screening their movements. Those were the red figures. The green figures—hastily painted when it became clear there would be another player on this stage—were the nightmares made flesh set loose on the streets of the city. Tribesmen, natives of the New World. And the terrible beast, the horse-cat that by all accounts was fighting at the tribesmen’s side. She might not have believed it but for seeing it with her own eyes, through the power of Need: a horse-sized cat with eyes of flame.

  All of them marching together. All of them attacking the city.

  Madness.

  There was no other explanation. If the Gandsmen had wanted to take New Sarresant, the civilized thing was to maneuver in the open field until they defeated her army, then obtain a formal surrender. That was how wars were waged. Indiscriminately firing artillery into a city was barbarism of the highest order, to say nothing of marching soldiers through its gates, inviting a pitched battle street-to-street. Even in the best-executed versions of her battle plans, thousands would die, on both sides. Tens of thousands. And still the enemy came, willing to bleed his own ranks if it meant the same in hers.

  “How many of them are there?” Reyne d’Agarre asked. The man stuck out as if he’d worn white to a funeral, dressed in a red coat amid a sea of blue uniforms. If he noticed the insult of wearing the enemy’s colors into her command hall he didn’t seem to care, staring blithely at the figures.

  “Sixty thousand soldiers that we’ve confirmed, Assemblyman,” one of her aides replied. “With perhaps another corps’ worth as yet undeployed.”

  “Making the final count …?” d’Agarre asked.

  “Eighty thousand,” she finished for him. “Give or take.”

  “Sir, the Eighty-Third will be engaged presently,” another of the aides said, pointing, as if she hadn’t been watching that section of the map for the past half hour. News of the Gandsmen’s arrival north of the city had spread like an arc of lightning through the ranks of her soldiers deployed along the colonial trade roads, but they were still hours away from reaching New Sarresant in force. Shorthanded as she was, she’d drawn a line of battle across the southwest sections of the city, putting her forces in place to flank any attempts to seize the bridges across the Verrain River—the natural choke points of the city. The 83rd was the first unit to take up a place along the waterfront. More would be coming to reinforce with every passing hour, but a good many of her soldiers were too damn far behind.

  “And how many of the green figures?” d’Agarre was asking. “The tribesmen?”

  “We don’t know,” an aide replied. “Perhaps twenty thousand, perhaps fewer. Scouts have had difficulties assessing accurate reports.”

  “Difficulties?” d’Agarre said.

  “They’re being killed, Assemblyman,” Erris said absently, looking over the long train of figures representing her troops on their march into the city. She’d managed some semblance of order by virtue of her Need bindings, but less than she might have liked. Everything hinged on holding the line until her full strength arrived. It meant the Gardens was a lost cause, and that Southgate would fall if the enemy so much as breathed heavily in the wrong direction, but if she could hold, her men could pin the enemy troops in the Riverways if they maneuvered east to try to cross the bridges. And that meant she would protect the harbor, the gateway to the city.

  “Sir, we could use an update here, from the Forty-Second,” an aide said, leaning over the table. “Brigade-Colonel Iman should have deployed along the west flank by now, and the tribesmen are moving fast.”

  She nodded. “Very well. I’ll check in on the Eighty-Third and Forty-Second. Anything else?”

  The table shook their heads, as d’Agarre asked, “How many soldiers do we have again?”

  Gods but he was an annoyance. Here to represent the interests of the people, or whatever nonsense to which Voren had agreed without consulting her.

  “Sixty thousand,” she snapped. “Plus however many of your citizens you can convince to pick up a musket.”

  He nodded as she turned her attention back to the maps, burning the disposition of the battle lines into her memory. She’d had light blue figures painted as well, to represent d’Agarre’s militia, but in her mind the count was sixty thousand, no matter what outlandish numbers of armed civilians the man claimed he could put in the field. A good amount of her o
wn soldiers had languished under commanders worth less than shit stuck to her boot; so much the worse for untrained militiamen. They’d be lucky to avoid discharging their muskets while trying to reload. Perhaps if it came to it—if the circumstances were truly dire—she could find a use for them, but that would be paying the butcher in his own coin.

  She drew a deep breath, and reached for Need.

  “Line of battle, boys,” a voice bellowed in her ear. “Let’s give these dogs hot lead to chew on.”

  The roar of friendly soldiers accompanied the command as blue uniforms rushed in front of her, a double-quick march to man a hastily erected barricade of furniture in the middle of the street. Artillery boomed overhead as the Gandsmen continued spitting fire into her city, with Gods only knew what targets in mind. Enough to keep her from attempting a maneuver to seize the northern walls, which was likely the point. Still, a brutal tactic, to shell civilians.

  “Colonel,” she yelled over the din. “Regiment-Colonel, report!”

  “High Commander. Good of you to join us.” He removed his hat, a wide-brimmed sort better suited to the hot months, waving it overhead. “Here, boys, they’re coming. Dig in and show them what it costs! Show them the price they pay for treading on New Sarresant soil!”

  She turned to see the first line of red coats appear at the far end of the street, then just as quickly vanish behind a billowing cloud of smoke as the front ranks fired.

  “We’re engaged, Commander,” the colonel roared. “That’s my report. The Eighty-Third is engaged, under heavy fire at the boundary of the Riverways.” His eyes shone, a man thoroughly in his element. There was a reason she’d placed the 83rd at the head of the line. “Reload, boys, reload. Back line forward, give them another volley!”

  She released Need.

  “The Eighty-Third reports contact with the enemy,” she said. “Two blocks north of King Louis-Fachard Square.”