Game of Souls

by Terry C. Simpson

  Smoke rose in wisps from incense around the room. Its sweet aroma mingled with that from scented candles. Sitting at a table with a lamp illuminating his many books and papers was his father, Count Ainslen Cardiff. At times like these, when deep into his studies, a person might mistake the count for being anything but an able-bodied, demanding, and dangerous man. With the horn-rimmed glasses on his nose, he appeared more like a professor than a warrior; more some librarian or assistant rather than one of the most accomplished and deadliest melders outside of the King’s Blades.

  People often said Winslow didn’t have much of his father in him. Some even went so far as to spread vile rumors that Count Cardiff was not his father, stating Marjorie had stepped out on him. Of course, they refrained from such statements in public. The report of such a rumor had left more than one man or woman dead. His father’s reaction was the main reason people were careful not to mention his deceased mother or brother within earshot of the count. Referring to them in the wrong light or in any way deemed inappropriate sent his father into a rage. Count Cardiff seldom spoke of them to Winslow. And when he did, his words were steeped in melancholy. On more than one occasion, Winslow had heard his father mutter their names while asleep.

  Winslow still recalled the one time several years ago that he’d asked after his mother and Kenslen. Count Cardiff had broken his ribs. He shuddered to think of seeing that murderous glare in the count’s eyes again.

  As far as looks went, Winslow could see why some folk thought the way they did regardless of how preposterous the idea was to him. Where his hair was long and obsidian, the count’s was cropped short, brown and curly. Winslow also didn’t have quite the same light skin tone. His shade was a touch darker. Some claimed it to be a trait from his mother’s ancestors. But the two things he felt he had in common with the count were his height and his green eyes.

  “It took you long enough to knock on my door. I could smell you from here.” Nose upturned, the count gingerly raised a yellowed piece of vellum to the light and inspected its contents, straining his eyes.

  “I was somewhat lost in thought.” If he’d remembered his father’s ability to sense anyone nearby, Winslow would have presented himself sooner.

  “So you survived the Smear,” the Count said, tone one of disinterest. “I guess this means I’ll have to appoint you to a Blade.”

  “If you think I’m worthy.”

  “That doesn’t matter now, does it?”

  Winslow said nothing. He preferred not to appear enthusiastic lest the count change his mind for the joy of seeing him beg.

  “Well, did you find anyone or anything of interest to report?”

  “No. Several from the Snake’s guild set a trap, but some shopkeeper aided us. He let us through his store.”

  Shadows flitted across the count’s face as he frowned. “Why would he do that?”

  “He didn’t relish the idea of another riot or for the Blades to raid his home.”

  “Smart man. I’m disappointed though. I made sure the guilds knew you and Gaston were both counts’ sons. I would have expected them to use that information.”

  Winslow felt his eyebrows climb his forehead. He brushed away a nattering mosquito.

  “Oh, do not look at me like that. You were both quite safe. Do you think I would risk something happening to my only heir? I had men stationed within the Smear. Still, you weren’t supposed to enter. To be honest, you weren’t to take the Trial at all.” For the first time the count met his gaze, eyes unyielding. “Your mother’s fate could have been yours.”

  It took all of Winslow’s will not to fidget or show any reaction under that heated glare. “Why didn’t you have them help us then?”

  “Did I send you into the Smear? No? Besides any help from me would have defeated the point of you going there. My people lost you in one of those wretched lanes anyway.”

  “And you weren’t worried?”

  “I didn’t say that, but showing my concern around the other counts would have been considered a weakness.”

  Winslow smirked. A little bolder for Ainslen’s admission, he said, “And you cannot afford that, can you?” All that ever seemed to matter to his father was their precious reputation in the eyes of the court.

  “Most certainly not,” the count replied with a shake of his head. “They did mention a young boy trailing you two using the rooftops, but I counted on you being able to handle one child. I’d hate to think all the years having you both tutored in swordmanship and touching your soul went to waste. Unless a person you encountered had developed an actual melding ability, they would not be able to beat either of you, much less both at once.”

  It was an offhanded and indirect compliment, but Winslow had become used to his father’s unwillingness to give him praise. Too much pampering made a man soft. Glorify him and he stops trying. Winslow didn’t allow himself to relax or feed into his father’s words, keeping his face blank.

  “The boy you mention helped us get into the store through which we escaped,” Winslow said. The admission almost made him cringe.

  “Some would construe that as a violation of the test.”

  “We didn’t ask for his aid,” Winslow protested. “Nor did he physically assist us in a fight.”

  “Well, that’s something, I guess.” Ainslen shrugged. “Still, I wouldn’t reveal it to anyone if I were you. Act as if it never happened.”

  “And if it comes out?”

  “Deny it. We cannot afford such a blemish. Us Cardiffs have the oldest tenure among the Hills. We are as constant as Mandrigal himself, rising to rule each day, despite falling at dusk.” Count Cardiff drew the God of Rebirth’s triangular prayer sign on his forehead. “Remember that every time you feel his warmth. Nothing and no one must stand in the way of us reaching even higher. Mistakes such as the one made today could cost us.”

  Winslow bowed his head, not only at the mention of the God, but also to appear sufficiently chastised. If he had his way, politics would be of no concern to him. But he didn’t. It was as much a part of his life as the air he breathed. Not wanting his father to go on one of his tirades, he remained silent, waiting for dismissal, but none came. The count appeared lost in thought. Relieved, Winslow waited.

  “I was so sure they would see this as an opportunity not to pass up,” the count muttered to himself. “So why do nothing? What are you planning now? I cannot afford for anything to interfere with our day.” He shook his head and focused on Winslow once more. “Anyway, I will decide which Blade you will apprentice under in a day or two, but do not get your hopes too high. You will learn the basics and nothing more.”

  “Yes, Count Cardiff.” Winslow turned to leave.

  “Oh, before I forget, have a messenger sent to Antelen Hill. Tell Gaston I wish to speak to him immediately.”

  Winslow merely nodded. He’d already gone over their story with his friend. The count would discover nothing new about Keedar. And he’d find a way to convince the boy to teach him all he knew.

  Power in Blood

  Count Cardiff watched his son leave. When the door clicked shut behind the boy, he stood, strode across the lush carpets, and peered out the closed windows. To his left and right the Ten Hills and their individual mansions spread before him, each one several miles apart. They circled the temples dedicated to the Dominion, and the soaring, granite, limestone, brick and mortar structure of the Grey Fist, the old king’s palace. Engineers and melders had built each mansion upon man-made inclines several hundred feet high and leveled off at the apexes. Below the counts’ homes were Kasandar’s minor noble houses, each a villa in its own right. As spectacular as the view of the lighted spiderweb of streets and edifices here in the noble district was, the Golden Spires adopted by King Jemare for his new home shamed them all. Their glow dominated the skyline to the east.

  Ainslen ground his teeth. He’d climbed from armsman, to soldier, to King’s Blade, to a member of King Tolquan’s court before Jemare, then a count, took the m
an’s head and his crown. That was the way of succession, the way of the game. Futures were decided not only through politics, but also by might, blood, and violence. Ainslen himself had killed his own father to assume the rule of Mandrigal Hill. But he was a count, when he should be king. Unless he drastically increased his position and power far beyond what he now possessed, he too would die to a dagger, poison, an arrow, or a sword, long before he grew grey or held the title he so richly deserved.

  Turning away from the window, he inhaled deeply, savoring the ginger spice scent of the incense he burned. The smoke chased the many mosquitoes from their homes in the two buckets of stagnant water beneath the rear windows, leading them toward the door where the wisps lessened. Tempted as he was to savor what they’d gorged themselves on, he let the insects be for now. He would have time enough to enjoy them in privacy.

  “So, what do you think, Shaz?” Count Cardiff focused on the shadows near the largest bookshelf across the room.

  The shadows shifted slightly, taking on a solid form. If he chose to strain his eyes, he would be able to see the man hidden there before he became visible to the naked eye. But he chose to conserve his energy instead. Plus, he preferred to keep his abilities as a surprise. A precaution should Shaz change allegiance one day. With his knack for determining a person’s strengths and weaknesses, the assassin was too dangerous to ever trust completely. Ainslen smirked. Betting on Shaz’s loyalty was like putting a wounded deer in front of a wolf and expecting the beast not to attack. It was a losing proposition. But the man had his uses, some of them indispensable for the moment.

  Shaz stepped from the shadows like a black cloak unfurling. The act made Ainslen suppress a sigh. Always one with a flair for the dramatic, Shaz bowed, dark hair spilling from the hood’s edges. When he raised his head to meet Ainslen’s gaze, the assassin’s eyes glinted in the dark.

  “Enough already,” Ainslen said through clenched teeth. “If I wanted a performance, I’d send for Felius. Now, answer my question.”

  Shaz made a sweeping bow. “As you wish, your lordship.” He threw back his hood to reveal his scarred face and drooping eye. The other eye carried the acute slant attributed to Marishmen. “The boy was lying.”

  “Well, I knew that already.”

  “Did you also know he’s grown stronger? Much stronger?”

  Ainslen pressed his lips in a tight line. His siphoning hadn’t indicated any such change in Winslow.

  “Ah,” Shaz said, “so your little insects haven’t made you aware of the change.”

  This time, Ainslen barely managed to hide any hint of surprise at Shaz’s deduction, keeping his expression flat. Shaz’s knowledge of the mosquitoes was troubling and would have to be dealt with in due course. For now, he needed to discover exactly how much Winslow had developed. “Do not worry your little head over them. Tell me what you saw.”

  “Very well. His essence has collected in amounts to match someone three times his age who have never tapped into its depths.” Shaz clasped his hands. “His sintu is thick enough that if he knew how, he could tell when a person near him touches their own energy. By the look of things, he’ll only become more powerful. Maybe enough to rival his brother.”

  The underlying tone and the way Shaz eyed him gave the count pause. The assassin was too smart for his own good. Out of habit, Ainslen glanced at the picture hanging near the hearth.

  Marjorie. The thought of his wife sent a shiver through his body. Easing his eyes closed, he inhaled deeply to calm himself. Far’an Senjin was unforgiving, but to have the light she’d brought to his life cut short by a former King’s Blade was inexcusable. Ever since that day, he’d sworn vengeance. And he would have it. The moment was so close he could almost taste it.

  In the past, his days were torn between regret for losing her and what he’d gained. Too bad Kenslen died so young, his body and mind too fragile.

  The count sifted through Shaz’s words. Winslow’s development might mean he couldn’t touch the boy’s soul without his knowledge. A more than worrying predicament.

  “Tell me, Shaz, is there anything you do not see?”

  “If I missed much, I wouldn’t be such a coveted man.”

  The smug tilt to Shaz’s lips spoke of the Marishman’s arrogance. It was his flaw. Although not of noble birth, Shaz was so absorbed in the game, so wrapped up in the many ways his employers used him, that he thought he could match wits and blades with anyone. Such a belief would get him killed one day. However, today was not that day.

  “I need you to keep an eye on Winslow. Find out as much as you can about this boy he met.” Ainslen had always suspected there would be others like his son. Not encountering any since the woman they discovered during the Night of Blades hadn’t convinced him they were nonexistent. The absence made him more wary.

  “Yes, your lordship.”

  “Now, what news from Antelen Hill?”

  “Count Rostlin’s been mustering as much funds as he can. He’s sent traders all the way to Thelusia, Marissinia, and back. He’s also garnered a partnership, or at least the promise of one, with House Humel and House Keneshin.”

  Ainslen nodded as he contemplated the situation. “So he’s gathered quite a force.”

  “Yes, apparently even Cardinton was interested for a time.”

  “Really? What happened?”

  Shaz shrugged. “My people don’t know for sure, but it seems Cardinton wasn’t overly impressed when he visited.”

  Ainslen tilted his head, frowning. “Cardinton is more interested in soul than any offer of a position beside whomever wins come Succession Day. For a moment, I was worried that Kesta had some poor bastards stashed away or had completed a raid.” He paused, scratching at his chin. “Still let’s not overlook any possibilities. The sooner I make certain Shenen has no moves left but to keep his word, the better. I can sway Rostlin soon after. The others will follow.”

  First, he would need to retrieve his prize. Along the way he’d discover this boy’s identity and exactly what threat, if any, the Consortium posed. He smiled. “Thank you, Shaz. You may leave now. Oh, and before you follow my son, visit High Priest Jarod. Tell him I have a need for his services.”

  With a flourish, Shaz bowed and strode from the room.

  After one last look around the room to ensure all was in place, Ainslen put on his horn-rimmed glasses, gathered his cloak at the door, and threw it over his shoulders. The time had come to pay his respects to King Jemare and arrange for Winslow’s apprenticeship.

  A mosquito buzzed by him, its sac laden with blood. A faint glow surrounded the insect. Grinning, he snatched it from the air and popped it into his mouth. He closed his eyes and waited for the euphoria.

  The Golden Spires stretched like gilded needles piercing the clear night sky, their forms stark against the huge silver disc that was Antelen. On nights like this when the moon was at its fullest, the king’s home was a sight to behold. The ten towers were all a part of one building dedicated to the Dominion. Built by Marish engineers, each one a melder capable of placing a piece of their souls into an object to strengthen it, they were a combination of granite, quartz, and polished steel with precious metals worked in. The skill employed by the engineers was originally said to have belonged to the ebony-skinned Thelusians, but getting a Thelusian to work as a common laborer was like trying to catch the wind in one’s hand. They refused to build for any but their own people, and warred with the slant-eyed Marishmen centuries ago over what they saw as stolen abilities.

  Murder holes dotted the bulwark around the massive gate and portcullis that served as the entrance into the grounds. A guard acknowledged Ainslen with fist to heart as he passed through. Ainslen was the only one seeking passage; all other visitors having been turned away for the day. A cool wind carried the sounds of the ever-vigilant archers on their rounds atop the walls.

  The count strode down the main causeway, which split off into a dozen other avenues. Expansive courtyards, larger than most farme
rs’ fields, surrounded the towers and its shining walls. Paved with flagstones and interconnected by colonnades, all but four yards were practice areas for the King’s Blades. Beautiful, manicured gardens, gurgling fountains, and exquisite sculptures occupied those four. Each statue was a gift from a kingdom within the Kasinian Empire.

  Clad in leather armor, the few Blades who were visible stood guard along one colonnade or another or at the entrances to various courtyards. Soldiers in red and blue uniforms patrolled the grounds. The sounds of training echoed from the other areas that were hidden by walls and columns. Morning, noon, or night mattered not when it came to the art of fighting.

  Ainslen knew better than to think his arrival had gone unannounced. As if reading his thoughts, one of King Jemare’s personal attendants, dressed in all gold, hurried down the stairs that led into the spires’ pristine corridors.

  “The king bids you a warm welcome, Count Cardiff,” the servant said, bobbing his head. “He awaits you in the Mandrigal Wing. If you will follow me?”

  “Lead on.”

  As they passed through the halls with their paneled wood ceilings, walls sprinkled with precious metals, murals, paintings, and various hangings, Ainslen contemplated his visit. He and Jemare had been friends back when they were both armsmen at the start of King Tolquan’s rule. Their competition began then, lasting until they both became Blades, and then Jemare earned the title of count. But as Jemare’s star had continued to rise with his melding skills and the victories he secured for the empire, Ainslen had remained a Blade. When Jemare ascended to the throne, and Ainslen saved him from the spirit-like Heleganese assassins, they had enjoyed another spurt of close friendship for a brief time. That last had come at the cost of Ainslen taking Mandrigal Hill from his father who had sent the assassins.