Souldrifter

by Garrett Calcaterra

  Caile gazed over the busy intersection one last time, and then turned in the direction of another familiar place, The Thirsty Whale. He had no choice now but to sneak into Lightbringer’s Keep itself, he decided. Slinking about in the tunnels below was getting him nowhere. Lady Hildreth had warned him to not show his face anywhere near Lightbringer’s Keep, but he needed to see people’s faces, to ask questions, and he needed to find his belongings; his sword and speaking stone had both been left behind in his haste to get away from the cavalrymen who captured him. His black-dyed hair and disguise of common Sargothian garb would have to suffice, and if anyone recognized him, well, he’d deal with that when the time came.

  With the decision made, he felt a brief glimmer of optimism and moved with new vigor in his step. He pushed his way through the crowds in the street, and then slipped down an alley alongside The Thirsty Whale. He stopped when he came to the back entrance of an abandoned warehouse and glanced about quickly to make sure no one was around to see him. Finding the coast clear, he pushed his way through the boarded-up doorway into the warehouse. It was the same warehouse where he had met with the sorcerer’s guild and offered to help them overthrow Emperor Guderian a year before. And it was in the cellar below where he had met with the sorceress Roanna who tried to kill him. Talitha had saved him on that occasion and sent him back through the tunnels to return to Lightbringer’s Keep where he was being held as a ward. Caile retraced the very same path now. He trotted to the stairwell in the corner of the warehouse and made his way down three flights of dilapidated stone steps to the cellar, which was in shambles thanks to the brief skirmish the two sorcerers had had there. The doorway and parts of the ceiling were collapsed, piles of smashed bricks littered the floor, and the place reeked of old fire.

  Caile grabbed a new torch from the pile he had stashed near the trapdoor leading down into the sewer tunnels. It took him a few moments to light it with the cheap dagger and piece of flint Lady Hildreth had given him, but once the torch came to life, he lowered himself down through the trapdoor, and made his way through the sewer tunnels to where they intersected with the tunnels beneath Lightbringer’s Keep. From there, he made his way through the winding passages. He’d made the trip enough times over the last several days that he didn’t even need the maps the hound-keeper had given him, and even when his path veered from where he had been exploring recently, the memory of his flight the year before was good enough to navigate by. Before long, he found himself standing beneath another trapdoor of sorts, this one beneath the very room he had stayed in when he was held as ward to Emperor Guderian. This is where I killed Lindy, he recalled, still not proud of what he had done. The man had just been doing his duty in keeping an eye on Caile, and Caile had killed him to make his escape. There’s no changing the past now, he reminded himself. Your job is to find Thon, not mourn over what’s already been done.

  He reached his hands up to find the stone that covered the secret passage into the room above. I hope no one’s up there. The stone made a low grating noise as he pushed it up out of its slot and off to the side on the floor above him. He grabbed the dagger from his belt and poked his head up through the hole, ready to duck away if need be, but the room was empty. With a relieved sigh, he sheathed his dagger, and pulled himself up. He replaced the floor stone, then brushed the dust and cobwebs from his hair and clothes. If this was going to work, he needed to look like a common servant, not someone who had been mucking about in the sewer and climbing through abandoned tunnels.

  Satisfied he looked as presentable as he was going to, he opened the bedroom door and stepped out of the corridor to walk toward the mess hall. Walk with purpose, he reminded himself. Act like you know what you’re doing and no one will question you. It had worked for him before, and it worked for him now as he passed a chambermaid with a basketful of dirty linens in the corridor who barely gave notice to him. Caile couldn’t help but grin.

  The corridor intersected with the main hexagonal wing of Lightbringer’s Keep and Caile found himself suddenly intermingling with heavier foot traffic, but everyone was about their own business and paid him little heed. He did the same and made straightaway for the mess hall. The hall was expansive, with two dozen bench tables, meant to accommodate the entire dignitary wing of the palace. It was largely empty now, however. It was well past breakfast and only a handful of staff members sat at the tables eating an early lunch. Caile strode across the long hall toward the serving bar, where a lone cook stood, stirring the various kettles of whatever slop was being served for lunch. This is madness, Caile thought, but he forced himself to walk casually.

  “Lamb shank stew or lamb shank stew?” the cook asked Caile humorlessly.

  “Two bowls of the lamb shank stew,” Caile said. “One for me and my new employer. He’s one of the ambassadors electing a king. I’m to deliver his lunch to him.”

  “That so?” The man’s tone made it clear he didn’t care.

  “Yes indeed. Apparently his other servant just upped and disappeared a couple of days ago, so he hired me to take his place. It’s a bit of a mystery, actually, where the fellow went. I don’t suppose you’ve seen him?” Caile blanched inwardly at the awkward disingenuiness of his story. “His name was Thon? Average height. Dark hair. Wore a flail at his side?”

  “Sounds like half the men I serve,” the cook said, plopping down two overflowing bowls in front of Caile and sloshing half their contents onto the bar top in the process.

  “Right you are,” Caile said, grabbing the wooden bowls and turning away. “Thank you,” he said over his shoulder, and walked back out the way he came, trying not to look suspicious. The man is either too indolent to think anything of me and my questions, or he’s one of those nosy sorts, pretending not to care and selling gossip to whoever is willing to pay the most for it it. He hoped it was the former.

  He made his way back into the main corridor and tossed the two bowls of slop aside into the garbage bucket one of the passing servants carried. The room he had been occupying with Thon was close, and as foolish as it was to go there, Caile had to risk it. He needed his sword and the speaking stone. With the stone, he could at least try contacting Talitha again. Perhaps she had discovered something, assuming she responded.

  At the junction of the main hallway and the side corridor leading to the dignitary rooms, Caile stopped and pretended to tighten the laces of his boots as he shot a glance in the direction of his room. Seeing the corridor empty, he wasted no time and strode down the corridor. He found the door handle to his room unlocked, just as he’d left it, but when he stepped inside his brief glimmer of hope snuffed out. The room had been cleaned out. Not only were his sword and speaking stone gone from the bed, but also his trunk full of clothes and Thon’s few belongings. Even the linens from the bed had been stripped away. The room was barren and clean, awaiting whomever the next occupant might be.

  Caile knew he shouldn’t be surprised, but he was disappointed nonetheless. With a grimace, he turned to make a quick retreat, only to find the doorway barred. A man he’d never seen before was blocking the way. He was tall and broad shouldered, but not exactly imposing. His limbs hung flaccidly at his sides, and his oily brown hair was combed up from the back of his head in a poor attempt to cover his bald pate.

  “Excuse me,” Caile said. “I seem to have stepped into the wrong room.”

  “Is that so?”

  The man’s voice had a distinct accent. He was from the Old World, Caile was certain. “That’s right,” Caile said, smiling politely to distract the man’s attention away from what he was really doing.

  “Leave that dagger in its sheath,” the man said.

  “What dagger?” Caile asked, his skin prickling with danger. “If you wouldn’t mind standing aside, I should be on my way.” He lunged forward, intending to bull rush the man, but before he got within two steps he was flung backwards, his feet flying over his head, his body somersaulting backward to skip off the surface of the bed and land on the cold,
hard floor.

  The breath was gone from him, and his vision was filled with spots, but Caile willed himself to his feet, dagger in hand, intent on hurling it at the man. Again he was too slow. The Old World sorcerer puckered his lips as if he were blowing a kiss, and a gale burst forth from his mouth to hurl Caile into the wall behind him. When his head slammed into the unforgiving basalt a moment later, everything went black.

  24

  The Bloodless War

  Standing at the helm of the airship Casstian’s Breath alongside Admiral Laud, Taera could see for miles in every direction. Behind them to the west, Kal Pyrthin Bay still churned with the after-effects of the behemoth storm that had passed through. The Pyrthin sailing fleet stretched back for miles behind Casstian’s Breath as the ships made their way through the choppy waters toward the Esterian Ocean. Far to the north, the storm itself raged on, spanning across the horizon from the mainland far out into the Esterian Ocean. And to the east was the Old World armada, waiting just as Taera had known it would be—hundreds of ships just sitting there, their masts prickling the eastern horizon against the backdrop of the morning sun. The storm had seemingly barely even touched them. Taera glanced toward Admiral Laud and saw the stunned expression on his face. He had been so certain the storm would destroy the Old World fleet. It’s not his fault, she reminded herself. He has done well, all things considered. Airships, Old World sorcerers: they are completely foreign to him. To all of us.

  “Orders, Your Majesty?” he asked, shaking off his surprise.

  “Drop sails, and signal the other airships to do the same. We wait here until the rest of the fleet catches up.”

  The admiral barked the orders to his first mate, and the crew scrambled to furl the sails. When they were finally stationary in the air, Laud returned to Taera’s side to stare at the Old World Armada before them. “What are they waiting for? The storm has passed. They easily outnumber us.”

  “They’re waiting for their own signal,” Taera said, thinking of the red stone belowdeck in her cabin. Taera had returned to Kal Pyrthin during the storm to find Captain Hierome awaiting her. He had returned from Sol Valaróz the day before on Taera’s ether-powered airship bearing the stone and Makarria’s odd message. Save yourself the trouble and surrender, the note had said, which was so unlike Makarria because it was, indeed, not from her at all. Unlike the letter, the stone had been delivered to the airship’s crew in secrecy by a scholar, one of Makarria’s advisors, Captain Hierome had reported, and the scholar had told him of the pthisicis-corporis.

  As soon as she had seen the red stone, Taera knew what it was—a means to communicate—and when she picked it up out of the box, a flood of visions had washed over her: seven ordinary granite stones sitting on a table, suddenly brought to life by the touch of Makarria and Talitha; Caile calling desperately into his orange stone, but receiving no response; Talitha tucking her silver stone deep beneath the folds of a bed mattress, trying to stifle Caile’s voice; and the yellow stone shattering on the floor, destroyed by the very hands that had created the stones but, at the same time, not Makarria’s hands at all.

  Whatever had happened to Makarria, her stone was gone now and Taera had no means of speaking with her. That was clear enough to Taera. Everything else was a mystery. A half dozen times the previous day, she had nearly spoken into her stone to call out to Caile, but each time the vision of Talitha had come to her—the sorcereress frantically trying to hide the stone while Caile’s voice called out over and over again. Taera had felt Talitha’s fear in that vision, and she could only assume it was fear at getting caught. What if Taera endangered Caile in the same way? What if she called out to Caile at the wrong moment and gave him away to his enemies? She still remembered distinctly her previous vision, of Caile buried and alone beneath Lightbringer’s Keep. And so Taera had waited for the storm to pass, hoping Caile or Talitha would contact her through the stone with some sort of news. But there had been nothing, and now she was out of time. Today, a new King of Sargoth would be elected, and then the Old World armada would attack.

  Taera tore her eyes away from the Old World armada. In Col Sargoth, it would still be a few hours before dawn. With any luck Caile would be sleeping someplace safe. And alone. She had no choice now but to risk using her stone.

  “Admiral,” she said. “I’ll be belowdeck in my cabin. If the Old World ships raise their sails, fetch me immediately. Otherwise I need absolute privacy.”

  • • •

  “Caile… Caile, wake up… Caile, can you hear me? Caile?”

  The voice dragged him from unconsciousness—his sister’s voice. Caile blinked his eyes, but it was dark and the pain in his head throbbed against the back of his eyes. Where am I? He tried to sit up, but discovered his hands were bound together in front of him, as were his feet.

  “Caile?” Taera’s voice came again, and suddenly lamplight illuminated the room.

  Caile squinted his eyes to see a man standing over him. Seeing the face brought everything back. The Old World sorcerer.

  The man was holding open the shutter of his lamp and re-directed the light from Caile to a nearby table where the orange speaking stone sat. “Caile?” came Taera’s voice, thin and distant sounding.

  “Well, it seems your little toy works after all,” the sorcerer said, his voice phlegmy from sleep. “I’m glad I decided to hold onto the thing.”

  Another lamp suddenly came alive, and then another, illuminating the spacious room. Two other men approached the table, lamps held out before them. “Who is it?” one of them asked, a brutish looking lout.

  “It must be his sister, Queen Taera,” the sorcerer replied. “Who else could it be with the dreamwielder dead now?”

  The hair at the nape of Caile’s neck stood on end at hearing the words. With the dreamwielder dead? Impossible, he told himself, but fear and anguish filled him. Could Makarria really be dead? Is that why she had never reached out to him through the stones?

  “Do you want me to drag him up?” one of the brutes asked, motioning in the direction of Caile. “I can make him talk to her.”

  “No, not yet,” the sorcerer said. “Not until I speak to Senator Emil. He’ll be pleased. Capturing the prince was a better asset than we’d dared to hope. Now that we know he can talk to her directly, we’ll let him convince Queen Taera to surrender.”

  “What makes you think I’d do that?” Caile asked, immediately regretting his decision to speak up.

  One of the brutes strode toward him and kicked him in the stomach, leaving him writhing on the floor to regain his breath.

  “Because if you don’t do what we tell you, I’ll kick you to pieces,” the brute said.

  “Yes, and be that as it may,” the sorcerer added, “you’ll have other motives. Once Kobel is elected and the Republic fleet arrives, Sargoth will be ours. With Valaróz already secured, and another fleet of Republic ships waiting at the ready in the Esterian Ocean, your sister is trapped. You can standby and let her fight as thousands of your kinsmen are crushed between Guderian’s war wagons and our fleet, or you can convince her to surrender peacefully and be accepted into the fold of the Republic.”

  Caile breathed uneasily and kept his thoughts to himself this time. Had it really come to this? Had he failed Makarria and his sister both?

  “Fetch my conch,” the sorcerer commanded one of the ruffians, already indifferent toward Caile.

  “Are you sure? It’s still nighttime. Won’t the senator be angry if you disturb him?”

  The sorcerer went to a window and threw open the curtains, revealing the purple sky of the predawn and illuminating the room more fully. “It’s nearly morning here. The sun will be up in Sol Valaróz already and Emil will want to know immediately about the speaking stone.”

  As the ruffian scurried off, Caile took the opportunity to take in his surroundings. He was in an opulent room furnished with velvet couches and chairs, and adjoining the room was another, a bedroom it appeared, even more ornately decorated
than the den. Caile recognized it all immediately. He was still in Lightbringer’s Keep—not in one of the dignitary rooms, but in one of the suites for royal visitors. It had to be King Lorimer’s suite, Caile realized, but before he could give it further thought, the ruffian returned with a golden conch shell.