Legacy of Souls

by D. Wallace Peach

  One after another, the stairs blurred beneath her feet, but not fast enough. At the bottom she risked a glance up. Johzar pursued her, his face filled with a black rage. Why? She sprinted across the tiled sun emblazoning the floor, down the rear hallway, and out the door.

  Daylight speared her eyes, and she winced, blinded. Charging into an ambush would help no one. Nor would she lead her enemies to the door. She breathed, shaking loose the tension contracting her muscles.

  At a less frantic pace, she loped the arc of the Temple’s tower and veered into the intersecting lanes, altering her usual route. When the entrance to the small courtyard squeezed into view, she paused. The air of abandonment appeared the same, the rubble and weeds untrampled. No sentries crowded the shadows; no soldiers lounged against the walls. No stray man, woman, or child idled in practiced ease as if they’d just happened upon the lonely place.

  “Danzell.” The whisper at her back made her jump, though she’d expected it. Johzar had guessed her route well.

  “I don’t see anything, do you?”

  He shook his head. “Let me go first.”

  His offer made sense, though he could stumble into a trap as easily as she. “Be careful.”

  “I always am.” He slipped in, disappeared around the corner, and after an interminably long time, reappeared at the arches. The delay had bucked against her quivering impatience. Was he waiting out invisible spies or giving assassins enough time to finish their work? Whom did he answer to?

  She’d told Nallea of her suspicions, of her souls, of her hopes for the empire and all the wisdom she’d collected, expecting her to share at least a portion of the knowledge. The most perilous information regarded the catacomb itself. And though her souls had muttered at her stupidity, she’d ignored them—because the alternative would have demanded the woman’s death. She’d issued a warning about revealing its location, but what had induced her to think Nallea had the wisdom to comply?

  Johzar beckoned, a subtle gesture she barely noticed. She drew a breath and entered the courtyard. The souls inside her head told her to trust him, but she couldn’t resist a quick pivot to scan the walls. Free of ambush, she walked past him to the weathered doors. Her hand touched the latch and froze. Voices raised in conversation filtered through the cracks. She let go and edged back. Without a sound, she drew her sword and unsheathed her knife.

  The question on Johzar face vanished as the latch lifted from the inside. He stepped to the portal’s other side, equally armed. The door swung open. A soldier in the midst of a chuckle blinked in the daylight, and he met Danzell’s sword as if he wore a target on his chest. She lashed out with her other hand and sliced his throat. Johzar bulled into the falling body, thrusting it aside. He burst into the room and vanished.

  Danzell leapt through the door after him and landed in pitch blackness. She muttered an obscenity and squinted. The spill of light through the door would silhouette her shape, revealing her position to her enemies as it lit up everyone she faced. Feet shuffled behind her. She spun and slammed into a body. Steel scraped the wall, and she slashed at shadows, striking the softness of flesh.

  A soldier bolted for the door. She ducked and caught him above the knees with a sharp edge. He shouted and stumbled into Johzar as the slaver appeared out of nowhere, his blade crafting a deadly cut. Johzar in her sights meant the rest of the ghostly shapes were soldiers. Her vision attuned to the darkness. The bodies strewn at the walls told her she’d failed, too late to do anything but kill the killers.

  She screamed her frustration. Her sword whirled, glimmering in artful strokes as she pressed forward, all restraint cast aside, the souls in her head silenced by her unforgiving fury. Johzar fought behind her, and she shut out the sounds of death, trusting that he covered her back. She carved a woman across her neck, drove her dagger deep into a man’s gut, and lurched upward until she broke his heart. The body thudded to the floor and left her in a roomful of silence.

  Johzar backed up to a column and heaved a breath. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

  “We were too late anyway.” She wanted to blame him, but his eyes echoed his regret. “No walls would have silenced the screams.”

  “We need to run.”

  “And I need to see.” She fumbled with a lantern, carried the light along the walls, and turned over bodies with her boot. Every neck was bare of a soulstone, all of them gone. She silently counted, imprinted her memory with familiar faces while grieving the lost knowledge and stolen wisdom. Tears blurred her eyes. She wiped her cheeks and pressed open the rear door to the furnished quarters, only to find additional bodies, more missing souls, and a single man standing at the altar.

  Despair and fury lit her like a brand. She pointed her sword at his chest, but something about him pinched her nerves and stayed her strike. He wasn’t Ezari, his hair blond and skin of a richer hue. He appeared younger than she, and he wore the long surcoat of the Vales in the deep teal of Ildus. “Who are you?”

  “Laddon,” the man said.

  Johzar canted a tight-eyed look her way. “Danzell? Who do you speak to?”

  The prickling in her skin intensified, the suspicion in the slaver’s eyes catching her tongue. She blinked, as certain of the blond man’s presence as she was of his illusion. Laddon approached her, and she inched back. He halted at her retreat, a trace of a smile edging his lips. “I’m an unbound soul, slain by Sajem.”

  “Why are you here?” she asked.

  “Danzell.” Johzar touched her arm. “There’s no one left alive. We have to go.”

  “He’s right,” Laddon said. “I shall answer all your questions on the sea.”

  Danzell steeled her jaw. “Where do you intend I go?”

  “Let’s figure that out when we’re out of here.” Johzar gripped her arm, and she shook him loose.

  “I’m not mad, Johzar.” Nae, this wasn’t madness; her sanity was intact, and she needed answers.

  “Across the Shattered Sea,” Laddon replied. “It’s the nature of wisdom to be both passive and active. Sometimes we are wise to observe, other times to cede. And there are occasions when we are called to act, not to stand against but to stand for. Your time has arrived.”

  Johzar opened his mouth, and she punched him in the chest. “Shut up!” She spun and stormed from the catacombs into the sunlit afternoon.

  ~18~

  His dead mother’s garden thrived under his father’s care. Two decades had passed since her death, and the pink petals curled their fragrance beneath Raze’s nose, luring him into the memories of a boy of six laughing in the sunshine of his mother’s arms. The roses outlived her, would survive his father, had grown, in years, beyond many he knew and loved.

  He strolled with Azalus, unable to offer words of comfort that would banish the ache smoldering in his brother’s eyes. They’d landed in Kestrel five days ago, and Azalus hadn’t forgiven him for leaving Nallea behind, for ignoring his command to hand over the gold that would turn the War Mistress around, for trusting a slaver who’d almost killed his wife.

  At times during their voyage, the old Raze’s fists had knotted, deep-rooted fury sizzling in his skull. He’d blamed Azalus for interrupting his life, for dragging them all to Ezar, for Terrill’s death. The barbs had shot across the deck with frightening precision until the bitterness ran full circle and they called a truce.

  Raze bent over to inhale the scent of a white rose. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t bother,” Azalus said. “We’ll argue about who is sorriest. You were right to leave her…as if you had a choice to begin with. Johzar probably saved our lives; Danzell is probably honorable. And Benjmur is likely an ambitious toad, though I doubt he’d let anything happen to his daughter. I think Nallea’s the one thing he cares about more than gold.”

  Neither of them mentioned Terrill, that wound too raw for sunlight.

  “Still no word?”

  “I’d tell you if there were.” Azalus propped a boot on a bench, and Raze sank to a s
eat. “Kyzan is Emperor of Ezar by now. I can’t imagine what that means for the Vales.”

  A third voice answered his question, “It means my father is the governor.”

  Azalus spun, and Raze bolted from his seat. Nallea stood atop the veranda steps, blue traveling clothes rumpled and her hair windblown straw. But beautiful, tearful, and happy to be home. Azalus leapt the stone stairs three at a time and swept her off her feet. Raze sighed with relief. Now he too could return home where someone waited for him.

  ~

  In the score of days since Raze’s departure, midsummer had ripened into the deeper hues of an approaching harvest. At the fork in the road that would lead him into the foothills, he perceived Briyon’s peace with greater fullness, his love of the meadows and horses, the people in his care. The landscape looked so everyday-ordinary that for a moment he forgot how wondrous it felt to ride the track home.

  Adversity was no stranger, and the chaos in Tegir served as a reminder of how brazenly people walked through their days, as if the future belonged to them. Yet, in truth, life often ended before its time, torn asunder by violence and fractured by greed. And he’d stumbled so swiftly into that tumultuous intensity, suffocated by stress as if the world depended upon him.

  Terrill’s death once again laid bare the maze of loss in his life, a reminder that everyone he loved would someday journey onward. In the midst of all life’s turmoil, the world had granted him another day in his skin, another day to love, and as he rode, the nearness of home filled him with gratefulness.

  When he approached the track’s end, he heard the sound of laughter, the high voices of Chellai and Thanelan chattering like birds. The smoke and scent of woodfire drifted through the branches. He reined his horse around the last curve, and the yard opened before him, Bel’s painted wagon right where they’d left it. Crimson apples dangled in the trees, and beneath them his chosen family gathered at the outdoor hearth, enjoying a supper.

  The conversation faltered as one by one they noticed him and climbed to their feet. Bel held a ladle that she dropped into a steaming pot. A brilliant smile dimpled her cheeks in a way that somehow mended his ragged edges.

  “It’s Lord Raze!” Chellai squeaked.

  “It’s the Lord Raze,” Thanelan echoed. “I saw him first.”

  “I saw him first.” Chellai’s face pinched. “You saw him second.”

  “I saw him first, but I didn’t say it first.”

  “No squabbling!” Rozenn huffed and rolled her eyes, little Aryn wriggling in her arms. “Welcome home.”

  “It feels better than wonderful.” Raze dismounted as Vax caught the reins. It seemed a year had passed since he’d ridden off. “How are the horses?”

  “Not much changed since a few weeks ago.” Vax chuckled.

  Raze patted the man’s back in greeting. He kissed Rozenn’s cheek, tickled the children, and traded grips with Samoth. Hungry beyond words, he accepted a plate from Lanya and swapped smiles with Bel wide enough to hurt his cheeks.

  Samoth yielded his spot on Briyon’s twig chair and spoke quietly as they passed. “We’ll talk later. There are things you should know.” The soft words carried the weight of boulders, but Raze let them go and turned his attention to the children who crowded his knees. The bitter news of his travels could wait an hour or two while he enjoyed his homecoming.

  “We was picking blackberries with Bel for pie,” Thanelan said.

  “I saw a rabbit,” Chellai piped in.

  Thanelan’s eyes bulged. “I saw two rabbits.”

  “There was only one, Than.” Chellai sighed. “We got scratched on the briars when we tried to catch it.”

  Thanelan held out his sunny arms, tiny red tracks marring his skin. “See my scratches.”

  “Bah!” Lanya straightened her spectacles. “Let the lord eat his supper!”

  The children sagged, and Raze winked at them. “Why don’t you pick apples and feed them to the goats?”

  “I have a better idea,” Rozenn said. “Why don’t you eat your suppers.”

  “We could pick apples for the horses too.” Thanelan wiped his fingers on his tunic, ignoring his mum.

  “Let’s get a basket!” Chellai squeaked. The children charged into the cabin, and the noise around the fire briefly hushed.

  “How went the Challenge?” Bel asked from across the fire. “Did you speak with the Empress?” Raze’s smile held, but he couldn’t prevent the truth from darkening his eyes. Bel shook her head. “Never mind. There’s time later.”

  “Shara and her brothers will stop by before dusk,” Samoth added. “You can tell us then.”

  Vax changed the subject to horses, and Samoth asked about Raze’s luck finding new hands for the freehold, a task that had slipped from Raze’s mind like rain from the eaves. After supper, he and Bel joined the children at the paddock. She stroked the horses, leaving him to his thoughts. Warrior Wind nickered and pushed his nose into Raze’s shoulder. The children fed apples to the penned goats and laughed as the creatures shoved their muzzles into the basket.

  “This place is so serene,” he said. “I feel as though the world out there left its stink on me, and I need to wash it off.”

  She curled her arms around him. “You smell like Raze to me.”

  “In other words, sweat and horses.” He chuckled and kissed her soft hair. “You smell like lavender.”

  “I brewed up some soap.”

  “Hmmm.” He liked the scent of her. “The Empress listened, Bel. Then an assassin murdered her and blamed us. They killed Terrill. And we were forced to flee. I have no idea what will happen now.” She gazed up at him, eyes welling, her tender beauty wonderful and rare, and he struggled to hold his sadness and worry inside. She pressed her head to his chest, and he accepted her love, the elegant gift of her soul that he would hold tight to his heart as long as his life allowed.

  “Here comes Shara,” Thanelan said, climbing from the pen.

  “She’s riding Half Moon.” Chellai pointed at the riders, and Raze returned Shara’s wave. The flame-haired woman steered the white stallion toward the apple trees, her brothers Kace and Harper following her lead. The children scampered off to greet them, and Raze ambled over with Bel.

  “Good to see you back.” Shara handed her reins to Kace. “I was wondering if you’d decided to reclaim your roots.”

  “Kestrel?” He shuddered. “I leave it to my brother. He and my father can sort through the politics.”

  “We bear some sorting of our own,” she said, taking a seat by the fire.

  Raze ducked into the cabin, grabbed his unfinished staff from behind the door and his bag of carving knives from the mantel. Samoth hauled a bench from the hearth for Shara’s redheaded brothers. The men matched their sister’s height and doubled her breadth, and though their broad faces complemented their thick necks, their eyes appeared to crowd in the middle.

  While Rozenn shuffled two disgruntled children and a compliant baby to bed, Bel and Lanya delivered two bottles of Samoth’s homemade mead. Cups passed hand to hand, the conversation light and effortless as dusk smeared a scarlet brushstroke across the Ravenwood sky. Frogs peeped in the pasture and fireflies blinked above the grass in a random dance.

  When the commotion wound down, Race shared all that happened in Tegir without any idea what it would mean for the Vales. “Nallea is home with Azalus, Benjmur is our governor, and the Ezari, it seems, have forgotten us. We saw no sign of them in Kestrel.”

  Samoth leaned on the end of the hearth’s woodpile, whetting the edge of a brush-blade. “Our problems started a few days after you left, so if the events in Tegir are related, the connection isn’t straightforward.”

  Her elbows on her knees, Shara dangled a cup between her hands. “Two freeholds on the rapids were raided by slavers. But instead of stealing everyone or ditching the old and weak, they left bodies in their wakes. They herded their captives to Espen, but the villagers wouldn’t allow them near the cliffs. Everyone remembers what happ
ened in Celes, and they weren’t having it.”

  “Drove the slavers off,” Samoth said. “But it cost them in lives.”

  “It was Sajem,” Bel murmured, and Raze met her gaze. “Everyone knows who he is.”

  Raze ran his thumb along the edge of a small knife, testing its sharpness. Less than two seasons had passed since Azalus’s wedding day when Sajem had sent a man to assassinate Rydan, since he’d captured Bel and murdered her masters. “How many in his company?”

  “More than twelve, less than twenty,” Samoth replied. “It depends on who tells the story. Either way, too many for one freehold.”

  “Almost too many for two,” Kace said. “We need a way to warn each other without burning down our barns.”

  “We’ll set up signal fires tomorrow,” Samoth said.

  Raze cut a groove into the stick. “What other precautions?”

  “Keep your weapons near.” Shara emptied her cup. “We’ve added a new man. That brings our freehold to seven. You have six, Raze. It’s not a bad time to think about those extra hands.”

  Raze nodded. “Vax and I will head into Ferris tomorrow.”

  “I’ll go,” Vax said. “I put the word out on my last trip, and I’m hoping to find a couple of strong backs lined up and ready to ride.”

  “Bel and I cleaned out Talaith’s cave,” Samoth said. “We thought it might come in handy in case we need a place to hide.”

  The whole conversation unsettling, Raze pushed to his feet. He rested his back against the tinker’s wagon, the unfinished staff propped against a wheel. His eyes flickered from Samoth to Bel to Shara, taking in all the dire expressions around the fire. If the slavers attacked, every one of them knew no one would reach the cave.

  ~

  Belizae stroked an idle finger along the curve of Raze’s throat, down the center of his chest, the hard plane of his stomach. He yawned, and she hummed a soft laugh. So many days apart and her body held such little allure that he couldn’t resist drifting to sleep. Not that he’d refused a quick indulgence of passion, but the leisurely exploration that often accompanied their intimacy lay beyond his stamina.