Unsouled (Cradle Book 1)

by Will Wight

  Her expression darkened as she looked at his disciple’s robes, and she held the sword so steady that it unnerved him. “I don’t hold deals with the Heaven’s Glory School.”

  Lindon hurried to clarify. “I’ve only made some arrangements with them myself, I wouldn’t call them deals. Maybe dealings. But that’s over now, I’m done, I’ve gotten what I can out of them. Time to leave them behind.”

  She squinted at him, her weapon wavering.

  “Let me paint this scene for you: I need to get out of Sacred Valley, and you need to get away from Heaven’s Glory. We can help each other get what we want.”

  She sheathed the sword in one smooth motion, but kept her hand resting on the hilt. “First off, tell me straight. Are you a disciple of the Heaven’s Glory School?”

  “I tricked my way in,” he said. “It’s only been two days, and they’ve tried to kick me out at least three times.”

  “What about the badge?”

  “It’s real. Too real. I only wanted in this school to find you. The…celestial messenger…said that you had a way out.” He felt a little foolish saying it out loud like that, but it was the truth.

  She drummed her fingers on her sword, then added, “I’ll be cutting through Heaven’s Glory until I get what I want or they’ve run out of blood. That bother you any?”

  “Do you have a grudge against the Wei clan?”

  “Who?”

  He gave her a friendly smile, hoping it looked sincere. “Then we have no grudges between us. I owe Heaven’s Glory nothing. Burn them down and scrub the mountain clean, it has nothing to do with me.” She looked into his eyes for what felt like a long time, and then she relaxed.

  Rather than relaxed, it was as though every muscle in her body gave up at the same moment. She slumped down onto a patch of snow, leaning up against the chasm wall. The dark bruises on her face stood out in stark contrast to the mesh of silken scars. “It’s plain you’re lying, but I don’t know how or why. This would be the worst possible trap Heaven’s Glory could set.”

  “Apologies, but let me reassure you that this is not a trap. I want us to work together, and I wouldn’t start a bond like that with a lie.”

  With her eyes closed, she stuck out a hand. Even that was covered in a network of scars, from wrist to fingertips.

  “Swear on your soul.”

  He froze as though the hand itself were a trap. “I’m sorry?”

  “We both swear on our souls, and we can trust each other. Maybe you’re lying and maybe you’re not, but once we both swear, then we’re hitched to the same wagon.”

  Lindon wasn’t clear about what would happen if he violated an oath on his soul, because no one spoke about it. He’d only heard rumors of sacred artists swearing such vows, and normally only in legends. Still, the rumors agreed on one thing: the more powerful your spirit, the more binding the oath. At the Foundation level, he might escape with only minor damage to his core.

  As an Iron—actually, he wasn’t sure what level she’d reached, since she wasn’t wearing a badge—as an Iron or a Jade, her oath would be much more serious. She was taking the bigger risk, and he was dealing in good faith, so there was no reason to refuse.

  Still, he hesitated. His parents hadn’t even sworn to each other on their souls when they were married.

  Yerin cracked one eye open to look at him, and at last he took her hand, gripping her wrist firmly. She gripped his in the same way…only much, much harder. It was all he could do not to wince.

  He was starting to sweat in spite of the cold, and he still hoped she’d call it off once he demonstrated his willingness to swear. “We might want to consider this a little longer before we—” he began, but she cut him off.

  “You try your hardest to get me away from Heaven’s Glory, and I swear on my soul that I’ll take you out of Sacred Valley and keep you safe until you’re stable and settled outside.”

  A bit of her madra slid through his hand and slipped into his veins. It felt sharp, like a knife lightly dragged across his skin. He followed her lead, clumsily forcing his madra to follow hers back into her hand. “I, Wei Shi Lindon, hereby swear on my soul that I will do my best to help Yerin, the disciple of the Sword Sage, escape from the pursuit of the Heaven’s Glory School. In return, I expect guidance away from Sacred Valley and into the lands beyond, as well as reasonable protection during that time.”

  The heavens didn’t descend, and he didn’t feel his spirit tighten. His soul did not change. He waited to see if there was any other effect, but Yerin pulled her hand free. “You were all shiny and polished about it, but you didn’t have to be. Say what you want to say, and your soul will do the rest.”

  Lindon looked at his hand uncertainly, as though he expected to see the oath etched in his palm. “Did it work?”

  “It’s not a sacred technique, it’s a promise. It worked.” She leaned her head back against the stone and sighed. “Now that we’re tied tight as string on a bow, you can tell me the truth. You were bait, true?”

  Lindon didn’t have much honor to offend, but her repeated doubts in his given word were beginning to wound his pride. “I’ll swear on my soul again, if that would convince you. A genuine immortal messenger descended from heaven.”

  She squinted at him. “Bleed me like a pig. You’re not joking.”

  “I’m not joking, and I’m not lying. She brought me back from the dead.”

  “And she…she wanted you to save me?” This time Yerin didn’t sound doubtful, but confused. Maybe a touch hopeful.

  Lindon didn’t want to correct her, but he’d been honest so far. “I’m sure she had many purposes in sending me here. But I do know she wanted you to save me.” He thought about hauling her to her feet, but another look at her sword convinced him otherwise. “I’d like to get started on that if we can. How far is the road out?”

  She hesitated. “So you know, I thought you were with them.”

  “You believe me now, though, don’t you?” If a soul-oath wasn’t enough to convince her of his honesty, he didn’t know what was.

  “I do. There’s a chance you’re chipped, and there’s a chance you’re a prophet. One way or the other, I don’t contend that you’re lying. But now I regret I didn’t warn you about the seven armed fighters heading our way.”

  Chapter 17

  Lindon’s gaze snapped up to the top of the chasm. “Where? How do you know? When will they get here?”

  She spun her finger in a circle. “I wrapped this place tight in formation banners. It’s not a powerful boundary, it doesn’t take much energy, but I’ll sense anyone who steps across. It’s about half a mile out in every direction.”

  The bigger the boundary, the more complex the formation and the more madra it took to operate. An alarm boundary would be among the simplest and easiest types, but he still wouldn’t be able to activate one a mile across.

  He scanned the entire chasm quickly, trying to take stock of their options. “You hid from me earlier, so you have to have a hiding place here somewhere. We can wait this out.”

  She pointed to the back of the chasm, where she’d fought off the Irons in his vision. “Crack is right there, presuming you can see it, and it leads to a shallow cave. It’s tighter than the skin on a lizard, so you probably won’t fit. Found it during that last fight, and I squeeze in there every night to try and chase down some sleep.”

  So hiding was no good. He could always walk out and pretend he’d gone looking for the Sword Sage’s disciple on his own. He was wearing Heaven’s Glory clothes, so they might believe him. But if anything went wrong, Yerin would have to face seven sacred artists on her own.

  “All right,” he said, “consider this. You hide in the cave. I’ll go up there and talk to them, and I’ll see if I can lead them in the wrong direction. Where are they now?”

  Yerin slowly stood, but she didn’t head for the cave. Her eyes were on the sky, and her hand on her sword. “First thing my master taught me about the sacred arts: when t
he time’s right, you shed blood. There’s no getting around it.”

  Her words were so cool and matter-of-fact that they sent a chill through Lindon’s bones.

  “The time isn’t right,” Lindon said desperately. He pulled the pile of purple banners out of his pack, rushing around the edges of the chasm to plant them in snow. “I have a boundary formation of my own. We can dig under the snow, hide there, and when they come down…”

  Yerin took one unsteady step toward the wall, her weakness apparent. The wind snatched at the dangling shreds of her robes, and even that much force seemed likely to knock her to the ground. Lindon didn’t see how she could even remain standing, much less fight off seven attackers. He almost said so.

  Then she leaped out of the chasm.

  It looked effortless, as though she had simply begun a step at the bottom of a twenty-foot rock wall and finished the step at the top. He saw her from behind, her hair and her tattered robes blowing in the wind. Her red rope-belt stayed utterly motionless, which attracted his attention until she drew her sword.

  Hurriedly he finished planting the seven banners and hiding them in snow. If she’d brought her weapon out, that meant…

  A high, young voice rose above the wind, sending Lindon’s spirits even lower. He knew that voice.

  “Your master would be proud of your courage, I can acknowledge that,” Elder Whitehall said. “And your skill is outstanding for someone of your age. Truly outstanding.”

  “You sure you want to talk about age?” Yerin retorted. He could see her from below, and now he understood why she cut her hair so straight: no matter how the wind whipped or pulled it, not a strand covered her eyes. “The Heaven’s Glory School is lower than I suspected. Even dogs don’t send their pups to fight.”

  Whitehall’s voice turned cold. “I’m not trading insults with a disciple. I’m not doing it. I’ve already lowered myself to come here personally, and even a blind man could see your path ends here. You can hardly stand, you clearly haven’t had a whole night’s sleep in weeks, and your robes are ruined. You must be freezing. But I’m here because I respect talent, I really do, and so does Heaven’s Glory.”

  They need her, Lindon realized, and a range of new options opened before him. He had assumed they were only trying to eliminate Yerin, which left her with only two choices: run or fight. But they wanted her, which meant she had something to trade. She had leverage.

  A head popped over the chasm as someone glanced down. Just an idle glance, but it was enough to doom Lindon.

  Kazan Ma Deret looked down on him with a face first confused, and then drenched in self-satisfaction. “The Unsouled is with her,” he called back to Whitehall.

  Lindon rubbed his aching jaw. Maybe meeting a messenger from the heavens had used up all the good luck in his life, because since his visit from Suriel, his fortunes seemed to have gone sour.

  “…Wei Shi Lindon?” Whitehall said blankly. “What…why? How did he get here?”

  “He’s with the Sage’s disciple,” Deret responded, without taking his eyes from Lindon. “This one humbly requests permission to treat him as an enemy.”

  “Permission? I don’t care what happens to one or two Unsouled. If there were a hundred of him, I still wouldn’t care. Kill him, leave him there, carry him back on your shoulders, just don’t bother me while I’m working.”

  Yerin tilted her scarred face toward him, though she kept staring off at what must be Whitehall. “Can you bury him alone?” she asked, which sunk his heart into his stomach even further. He could have pretended he wasn’t with her, or that she had kidnapped him. Now, he only had one option.

  Lindon smiled up at Deret. “I don’t need any help putting down a dog.”

  Red-brown bricks, Forged out of solid madra, condensed in the air behind the Kazan disciple. They fanned out like a bird’s tail as he hopped down into the chasm, landing lightly on his feet.

  “Start begging now,” Deret said, “while you can.”

  Lindon let out a breath of deep relief and moved his hand down to the wooden ward key in his belt. It had been even easier than he’d hoped.

  The strings of a zither filled the air with haunting music, and a transparent avalanche fell from the cliff above. It was clearly fake to Lindon’s eyes, like a portrait overlaid on reality, but Deret screamed and covered his face with his arm.

  “You forgot already?” Lindon said, and Deret turned toward the sound of his voice. The White Fox boundary distorted his senses, and the Iron hurled a Forged brick straight at the wall. “It’s only been one day, and I win again with the same trick. Don’t they say that even a dog remembers a beating?”

  Deret roared, flinging another brick at the wall, once again missing Lindon wildly.

  Above, the sky turned gold for an instant as a beam of destructive white-gold light flashed into existence. Elder Whitehall shouted to his disciples, and someone screamed. Seconds later, a thin line of blood trickled down into the chasm.

  The white-gold light blasted past again, and this time Lindon felt the wave of heat on his face. Another man’s bloody shriek told him that Yerin was holding her own.

  A nearby thunderclap drew his attention back to Kazan Ma Deret. The image inside the boundary wasn’t entirely clear to Lindon, and he certainly wasn’t going to drop the ward key for a more detailed look, but it seemed as though the Iron was contending with an army of razor-clawed crabs. He screamed and scratched at his face as though the illusions were drawing blood…

  But he wasn’t using his bricks against the crabs. He may have fallen for the same trick a second time, but it wasn’t as though he’d forgotten. He knew it was a dream, and he only flung Forged madra in the hopes of hitting Lindon or destroying the formation.

  What do I do with him? Lindon wondered.

  Setting up the White Fox boundary had been a last-minute act of desperation, and Lindon hadn’t had time to come up with a real plan. Now that he was face-to-face with an enraged Iron, he realized that he didn’t know what to do.

  Last time, he’d only needed to defeat Deret in front of Elder Rahm. Immobilizing him in the boundary was just as good as beating him senseless. Now…

  Lindon couldn’t leave him here. The formation was fueled by vital aura, but even that would run out eventually. Before that, Deret had good odds of hitting one of the seven banners with his randomly thrown bricks. Besides leaving him, what else was there?

  When the time’s right, you shed blood.

  Like lightning striking inches away, a Forged brick smashed into the rock wall beside his head with all the force an Iron could muster. Chips stung Lindon’s face, and he flinched away so wildly that he fell to the ground. His ear rang like a struck gong.

  Any closer, and he would have died. For a second time.

  Deret still roared in the illusion, with no idea how close he’d come to victory. But that brick caused the reality of Lindon’s situation to come crashing down.

  He had almost died. His story had come within an inch of ending here. The heavens had already intervened once, a celestial messenger had reversed death and caused even time to flow backwards…and none of that would have mattered.

  For reasons he didn’t understand, he reached into his pocket for Suriel’s glass marble. It was warm to the touch, and he rolled it in his fingers as he thought.

  One thing was perfectly clear: with Deret sharing this chasm with him, Lindon was in mortal danger. And he couldn’t trust heaven to save him a second time.

  His gaze was drawn to a spear, abandoned from Yerin’s last fight, half-buried in the snow. He kept low to avoid any potential flying bricks, crawling over to the weapon and cradling it in both hands.

  You shed blood.

  Before he had a chance to inspect the spear, he ran out of time. A brick struck the banner, and the field instantly blew away like mist on the wind. To Lindon, it really was like watching a cloud drift through the air, but Deret actually staggered as he was jerked from one reality to another. The banner
itself wasn’t broken, but it had been knocked out of alignment with the rest of the formation. The boundary was gone. In less than a breath, Deret would regain his bearings and turn around, ready to kill.

  Lindon gathered himself. No matter how he reasoned, there was only one thing to do here. He gripped cold, slick wood in shaking hands.

  Then he stabbed Deret.

  There was less to it than he’d expected. The first stab was basically like sinking a blade into the earth; he jammed it into Deret’s back, then quickly withdrew. The Kazan didn’t react until Lindon pulled the spear out, and then he jerked forward as though something had stung him. He didn’t look wounded at all.

  Lindon panicked. Deret would turn and hurl a brick through Lindon’s head at any second, and that would be the end. So he followed the other man forward, stabbing him again and again, expecting any second to end with a missile of Forged madra through the skull.

  With no art, with no skill, Lindon stabbed Kazan Ma Deret until a bleeding body fell onto the snow-covered ground. He fell with it, swallowing air as though he couldn’t get enough, still clutching the spear.

  And a Remnant rose before him, and he choked back bitter tears.

  Made of Mountain’s Heart power, this Remnant was like the outline of an ogre painted in dirt. It stumbled around for a while, flailing at the air with heavy hands, but it was weak and barely coherent. Lindon held his eyes open until they watered, afraid to blink, but the Remnant never gave any indication that it saw him. It pressed into the wall and oozed away, squeezing into tiny cracks like soft mud.

  Lindon dropped his weapon as the spirit vanished, panting, his stomach churning. He thought he might be sick.

  He’d always accepted the fact that he would kill someone someday. Combat was a part of the sacred arts, and the clans were encouraged to kill one another within reason. He knew his parents had killed people in their younger days, though they rarely talked about it.