Legacy of Souls

by D. Wallace Peach

  Her wild gaze shifted to her future husband. “That’s not what they whisper in my ears. This is a conspiracy, a plot for control of Ildus. I want Laddon. Where is he? Why isn’t he here? They insist he’s dead. That I’m a fool to think otherwise.”

  Benjmur leaned toward her and whispered in her ear. Whatever he spoke calmed her, but only for a heartbeat. She scraped a hand through her hair, pulling tendrils from the upsweep of golden curls. Dislodged charms clattered to the floor. She smoldered at the man she would wed, bitterness and anger hardening her cheeks as tears flooded her eyes. “They say I mustn’t believe you!”

  Her accusation unleashed another murmur in the glittering crowd; eyebrows arched at the scandal. Benjmur ignored it all. “You can trust me, Athren. Of all people, you can trust me.” He cradled her cheek, near enough for a kiss, the moment tender as he peered into her eyes and smiled. “See? I love you. All is well.” She nodded, lips in a pout, palms cupped to her ears. He drew her hands down and hooked his arm in hers. “Let’s go in. The ceremony is about to begin.”

  Benjmur exchanged a worried glance with anyone willing to meet his eyes, then led his bride into the ballroom. Raze exhaled and his back sagged against the wall. The confrontation had knocked him off balance no different than if Athren had thrown a punch. Guests filed past him, their murmuring peppered with sympathy and scorn.

  Across the corridor, Belizae stood with Azalus and Nallea, concern widening her eyes into golden pools. When the trickling line of guests opened a gap, Raze slipped through, and she grasped his hand.

  Nallea didn’t appear to breathe, the young woman blinking back tears. She fingered the star-shaped pendant at her throat, lips trembling. With a gentle touch to her chin, Azalus turned her face toward him. “Shall we walk in the garden?”

  Her hand dropped, and she sighed. “My father said Athren hasn’t acted like herself lately, but this is worse than shocking. She’s always been a suspicious woman, but never this belligerent. Why is my father marrying her? It makes no sense. Why would he wed someone so ill?”

  The reason was obvious to Raze, and Azalus eyed him in tacit agreement. Ildus. Amidst all her madness, Athren had guessed correctly, or the “they” in her rant had told her the truth. She shouldn’t have faith in the man she would soon marry.

  Nallea lowered her voice. “He blames her fragility on Laddon. She loved him, and I hate to think that he might be dead.”

  “She hears voices,” Raze whispered. “Has she been swallowing souls?”

  “A few.” Nallea stared at the floor. “More than a few. According to my father, six or seven, most of them recently. He’s not sure.” She drew herself up into the poised lady of the Vales her father had groomed her to be and took her husband’s arm. “I suppose we should make an entrance.”

  Raze ushered Bel into the cavernous ballroom where candlelit chandeliers twinkled like stars in a moonless sky. Azalus and Nallea joined Lords Rydan and Juntis on a curved dais. Governor Kyzan Tegir slouched beside his sister, Danzell, dutiful emissaries for their elder sibling, the Empress. No seats of honor awaited Raze or Bel, and he would have refused them if tendered. He didn’t belong there in the first place, and being on display like a well-trained horse held no appeal whatsoever.

  Within moments, Benjmur and Athren stood before the officiant, and the ceremony commenced. The Lord of Avanoe reached for his bride’s hand as if concerned she might bolt. She stared at the distant wall, murmuring in a soft conversation with the air.

  Despite her hostility, Raze pitied her. Another person consumed by souls; another life destroyed. Since his musings with Bel, he’d begun to question the practice. Where had the ritual originated? Was it born of the Ezari, or had they adopted it from elsewhere as conquests scattered them across the known lands? How many people around the Shattered Sea swallowed souls to the point of madness?

  He leaned sideways and murmured to Bel, “Do the people of the Far South swallow souls?”

  “Nae,” she whispered.

  “What do they believe about—?”

  “Shhh.”

  He frowned, and she pulled down his ear. “My grandmother was Anchi.”

  Naturally. He straightened and marveled at how little he knew about her. What had she said about her grandmother’s beliefs? For one, that she believed souls were reborn. He bent toward her. “What did—?”

  “Shhh.” She narrowed her eyes at him and puffed a breath of exasperation.

  Benjmur spoke his vows, and just as Raze had pitied Athren, a welling of sympathy colored his opinion of Benjmur. What if the man’s compassion was authentic? There was no proof of anything untoward. Only a prickly feeling, and feelings didn’t necessarily translate into truth. To wed Athren in such a state could be a sign of commitment and quite possibly of love. The tenderness the man had demonstrated in the corridor, the patience and lack of ire spoke of sincere care and kindness. So why did Raze assume the worst? Living with such illness would test anyone, and he hoped Benjmur was up to the task.

  The ceremony ended with a kiss. Raze smiled at Bel, and when his eyes sought his brother, he spied the slaver Johzar standing beside a tattooed woman. They’d rejected their armor for the finery of Vales nobility—long surcoats with midnight-blue sashes and a pair of leather belts, each limited to a single ornamental blade.

  Johzar conversed with Danzell Tegir. What was their relationship? What did a princess of Ezar have in common with a slaver? As though sensing Raze’s scrutiny, Johzar’s eyes swung his way. Raze met the lingering gaze. “Johzar is here,” he said to Bel, but before he could point the man out, the slavers had vanished. Danzell stood alone, staring at him, a mysterious dare to her lips.

  ~

  Raze stood aside as servants whisked Athren from the lavish hall. She cursed and her fists lashed out, punching the family’s old steward in the teeth hard enough to split his lip. An apology etched fine lines across Benjmur’s forehead, and he faced his guests with a look of sadness more than embarrassment. Not long afterward, Bel and Nallea escaped to Nallea’s old suite, offended at Johzar’s presence and that he had the gall to wheedle an invitation to the wedding.

  Fatigue left Raze with a crick in his neck and an itch to leave. How much longer could his father endure mingling with Avanoe’s elite, most of them strangers? Rydan smiled and nodded with the vacant expression of a man whose mind had drifted and therefore had nothing sensible to add.

  The topic of slavers buzzed among the guests. The murders and abductions in Celes had sent shudders through the provinces like a swarm of angry wasps. Landowners, merchants, and lawmakers all shared a degree of risk, and Nallea’s flight from death terrified those who’d once depended upon their status for protection, which included nearly everyone present.

  Lord Juntis railed against the liberties seized by slavers, the costs of rebuilding his burned districts, and the bonding of his citizens. He graciously refrained from mentioning Benjmur’s hand in the laws that permitted it all to continue or the Ezari rulers who granted free rein to their criminals. The connection was obvious to Raze, and the awkward silence at Benjmur’s approach, likely meant it was clear to the other Vale’s nobles as well.

  Benjmur clasped his hands behind his back and joined the group. “My sincerest sympathies, Lord Juntis, for the injustices your province faced this spring. I heard Celes suffered a score of deaths.”

  The stout lord’s jowls sagged with his frown. “The slavers threw half of my captured citizens off the cliffs and shipped them to Ezar, never to be seen again.”

  “It’s no wonder your people are calling for revenge.” Benjmur hailed a servant for a goblet of wine.

  Juntis mirrored the gesture and raised his cup. “If slavers dare show their faces in Celes, I won’t stop anyone from drowning them.”

  “Taunting our masters is best avoided. However…” Benjmur raised a hand to forestall an interruption. “The situation is untenable. I judge the time is ripe for the Vales to address our concerns with Empress Tegir.”


  “The best suggestion I’ve heard all day.” Juntis pursed his lips.

  “I propose that we do so during the Ezalion Challenge,” Benjmur said. “We might avail ourselves of the games as well.”

  “Not an opportune time for me,” Juntis said. “If I leave Celes for more than a few days, my dear public will burn me out before I return.”

  Benjmur sipped from his fresh goblet. “I suppose it’s no secret that Athren is unable to travel. And you, Lord Rydan? Your recovery surely requires additional rest. Though I’m grateful that you traveled all this way, I wonder if it’s too soon to venture across the sea.” He faced the informal gathering. “I am happy to represent the Vales and present our plea to the Empress.”

  Raze shared a sigh with his father. The man’s face looked haggard, a sheen of sweat glistening on his forehead. He shouldn’t have trekked to Avanoe, and any further travel was impossible. Yet the prospect of sending Benjmur as their sole emissary twisted his stomach. The last negotiations Benjmur had handled regarding slavery produced the weak laws they stomached at present, laws making the man wealthy beyond reason.

  “I’ll represent the Anvrells,” Azalus said. “We need to demonstrate that slavers are a concern in all our provinces. My wife nearly lost her life, and I’d be honored to share my opinion with my cousin, the Empress.”

  “Excellent,” Benjmur said. “Your family’s connection will carry weight. I am genuinely grateful as well as relieved.” He scanned the hall. “Governor Kyzan, a moment if you please.”

  Kyzan Tegir swaggered over, his jacket exaggerating the breadth of his shoulders, black hair swept back from his forehead like a lion’s mane. His stature left him one of the shorter men in the gathering, and yet he managed to peer down his nose. “Lovely wedding.”

  “Thank you, my lord.” Benjmur smiled politely. “If we may impose on your good graces, Azalus Anvrell and I would appreciate your assistance in arranging an audience with the Empress.”

  “Regarding slavers?” Kyzan huffed a sigh. “I suppose we must address this business in Celes.

  “Indeed.” Benjmur finished his wine. “I trust it will serve your needs as well as ours.”

  “You suffer from daydreams, Benjmur.” The governor didn’t bother to hide his disdain. “My sister dislikes news of turmoil in the Vales. Her concerns lie west.”

  “If you would indulge us, I promise to devote my resources to your concerns with the Empress as well.”

  “My concerns? Whatever are you…?” Kyzan’s eyebrows arched as if Benjmur had added more wick to the dim lantern in the governor’s head. “Ah! Of course. That matter. In that case, I would be delighted to arrange an audience.”

  Raze looked askance at the pair, the exchange weighted with innuendo as if the two men shared some secret language. His tired brain leapt to sinister conspiracies though their relationship surely benefitted from scores of innocent favors and mutually gainful finagling. Which one was it?

  Conversation shifted into talk of the games. While Azalus wandered off to discuss travel plans with Terrill, Raze ushered his father to the garden. After hours in the ballroom’s candlelit twilight, the afternoon sun startled him, as if somehow time had rewound. They relaxed on a bench in the shade of a water maple, its red-tinged leaves an enchanting contrast to the white flowers at its roots.

  “Did you notice the odd exchange between Benjmur and Kyzan?” Raze asked.

  “I did.” Rydan leaned forward, elbows sharp on his knees. “Innocent pleasantries or cryptic reminders of a darker scheme?”

  “As the governor, Kyzan assumes an interest. He’s responsible for the Vales, and these troubles don’t speak highly of his rule.”

  “Do you suppose that was the gist of it?”

  “Nae.” Raze rubbed his neck. “If he cared, he would have taken action by now.”

  “Thus, we conclude their plans are suspect? Avarice or treachery?”

  “Pure greed.” The speculation and politics embraced Raze like a bear with its claws and teeth hidden but certain to hurt. Every inch of him bristled with warning. Keep his mouth shut, emotions tempered, his business his own. Responsibilities at home beckoned; the people in his care relied on him. “I saw Johzar chatting with Danzell Tegir after the wedding. He’s the slaver who sent a man after Nallea when she fled. Why is he here, of all places? Twice he’s ridden into the freehold.”

  “Another of Benjmur’s baffling alliances.” His father’s fingers threaded together, and he rested his forehead on his knuckles. “I have to travel with Azalus to the games. My presence will force Benjmur to exercise restraint. I’m still the Lord of Kestrel, and my title will carry greater weight with the Empress.”

  “I’ll go.” Raze tamped down a flare of anger at what felt like manipulation, and more so, his willingness to be manipulated. “The two sons of Lord Rydan will carry the weight for you.”

  His father angled a glance at him. The man looked exhausted. “That wasn’t my intention, Raze. The last thing I desire is to force you into a role you loathe. I attempted that once, and for ten years I lost my son. I can’t ask you to bear this burden for me.”

  “You didn’t ask.” Raze dropped a hand on his father’s shoulder. “I offered.”

  ~7~

  Benjmur closed the door to his salon and rubbed his eyes, shaking off his stress like a flea-ridden dog. He needed a drink, a bath, a whore with skills, and someone to mill the knots from his shoulders with balled fists. The past four hours had peeled his pride to the bone.

  Wine lay within his immediate grasp. He filled a goblet, waited for a full-body shudder to ripple through his limbs, and drained the well. The deed was done. He’d wedded a mad woman, and Ildus would soon belong to him. No one would question his love or patience, the genuineness of his care, or the great fortune of the province soon to rest in his hands as opposed to hers. They would thank the blessed gods.

  The Ezalion Challenge lay a month away in the roaring heat of midsummer. A display of athletic and martial skills, the entertainment included events of speed and endurance, a wide variety of weapons, and hundreds of contenders from masters to the inept. High on hazards, the week wouldn’t pass without injury and death.

  Kyzan would arrange their audience, a petition before Empress Ezalion Tegir with little hope of success. Benjmur had stood in the Tegir throne room thrice before. The first time as a young man accompanying his father. That occurred shortly after Hazred Tegir overthrew the Nagiz Empress and started the clock of years over again. Benjmur held the title of prince then, heir to the throne of Avanoe, a realm vast and everlasting. Three years later he’d returned, a deposed man of a conquered land, bending the knee to his emperor. Ezar reduced Avanoe to a province, his father to a tax collector.

  His third visit occurred ten years ago. He attended the coronation of Ezalion after her father’s death. A year later, slavery ended in the Vales, and Benjmur had orchestrated a means to get rich.

  A glint of satisfaction curved his lips. He refilled his goblet and reclined on his settee with his feet up. As difficult as the day had been, he’d accomplished his goals. Azalus would attend the Challenge, and the urge to participate would overwhelm the young lord and his guard. Rydan would insist on accompanying him even if his health warned against it. The old man’s mind was as shrewd as they came, but he was only a man, fashioned of blood and bone like any animal. And just as mortal.

  A knock on the door echoed in his head, birthing the dull throb of a headache. He swung his feet to the floor and stood. “Enter.”

  Johzar let himself in, followed by Draeva, the woman who guarded his back. Benjmur disliked her inevitable presence—another witness, another gossip, and a woman with an attitude. Their attendance at his nuptials had presented challenges. Nallea was livid, and though Johzar’s skin remained unmarred, the woman’s tattoos peeked from her sleeves, whispering “slaver” to his mortified guests, a reflection on his ethics and one which undermined his objectives.

  “You wished to
speak with me,” Johzar said. “Here I am.”

  “Help yourself to wine.” Benjmur topped off his goblet and reclaimed his seat. “You might enjoy it. It’s Ezarine red.”

  Johzar joined him, the suggestion of wine declined. Draeva remained by the door, a hint of mockery in her smile. “Congratulations on your wedding.”

  “My wife is not well,” Benjmur replied without humor.

  Johzar cast his second a warning glance before returning his attention to the matter at hand. “How may I serve you, my lord?”

  “I have a task for you. On behalf of a mutual acquaintance.”

  “Who is?”

  “I’m not at liberty to say.”

  “Is this one as legally and morally questionable as the last?”

  “A matter of perspective.” Benjmur sipped his wine, irritated by the question. “Your self-righteousness never ceases to amaze me, Johzar. There are times when I think Sajem is the more honest of your kind.”

  Johzar pressed on his thighs and stood. “Then summon Sajem and leave me out of it.”

  “Now, now.” Benjmur rubbed his eyes. “Forgive the reproach. It’s proved a wearisome day.”

  The slaver remained on his feet. “What do you want?”

  “The Vales are upset about slavers, and Kyzan agreed to arrange an audience with Ezalion. The Anvrells plan to attend with me, both father and heir. They’ll appeal to her to bring an end to your livelihood, one which benefits both of us, despite our… misunderstandings. Perhaps that meeting shouldn't occur.”

  Johzar narrowed his eyes. “Then why request the audience?”

  “Because your kind have forced the issue,” Benjmur snapped. He sipped his wine. “I’ve often wondered why the Ezari allow women to hold positions of power.”

  Draeva snorted, and Benjmur ignored her, his question directed at Johzar. “How interested are you in gold?”