Game of Souls

by Terry C. Simpson

  The attendant bobbed his head several times, turned, and shuffled inside. When Winslow made to enter, Count Cardiff reached out and stopped him. They waited a moment before following a dozen feet behind.

  “Say as little as possible to the king. He might decide to test you.”

  “Why?”

  “With all that has been going on with the attack on Marissinia, some of the houses have seen it as a chance to either increase their support for the king or efforts against him. You have never shown much of an interest in Far’an Senjin, but for the Hills, it’s like breathing.”

  Winslow frowned. “But I have no knowledge of anything.”

  “Ah, you might think you don’t,” Count Cardiff said, “and that is exactly what makes you perfect. Your responses due to your ignorance could be more revealing than someone who knows what they are about.”

  “As you say, Count Cardiff,” Winslow replied, resisting the urge to tell Ainslen that he was smarter than the count was willing to admit.

  “No.” Ainslen stopped, his fingers like rivets of steel digging into Winslow’s shoulder. “Promise me you will watch your tongue, and think over any reply.”

  Wincing at the pressure, he nodded. “I promise.” Uneasiness crawled through him. This was the first time the count had reacted in such a fashion. There had to be some underlying reason for this meeting that worried Ainslen. Little enough had that effect for Winslow’s mind not to drift to something ominous as they continued on their way.

  Preoccupied by thoughts of the count’s concern, a knot worming its way in his gut, Winslow hardly noticed the resplendence on display within the tower’s halls. Tapestries, paintings, chandeliers, and elaborate curtains flashed by. The carpet under his feet seemed nonexistent. When the servant brought them to a large, oak door, a likeness of the Ten Hills carved into its surface, Winslow stared with his mouth open at the two Thelusian Blades standing guard, their arms as big as his torso.

  The servant left them with the Blades, who pushed open the door and ushered them in. Count Cardiff’s mood changed completely as they entered, his face showing none of his previous agitation. Sweat beaded Winslow’s forehead. The room smelled of whatever incense was burning in the two braziers in each corner.

  An older man sat at a huge round table, but it wasn’t him that held Winslow’s attention. It was the room’s contents. Ten sculptures representing each God of the Dominion were set against the walls in line with the finely decorated chairs. The stone seat the king rose from was more like a throne. Behind him was a picture of all the Gods coming together to form the Creator. This was the Order of the Dominion’s judgment chamber, from which the Ten High Priests and the king made decisions that affected millions of lives.

  King Jemare wore an immaculate white coat with silver on the sleeves and large silver buttons that matched his braided hair and beard. Buckled at his waist was a belt that held a scabbarded sword with an ornate hilt. The king was almost as large a man as Sorinya, but somehow, Winslow believed if the near seven-foot Ebon Blade were here, Jemare would still dominate the room. Something about the way the king held himself, back erect, jaw rigid, eyes intelligent, grey jewels, spoke of the utmost command.

  “Count Cardiff, come, come,” Jemare said, waving them in, “and this must be Winslow.” He signaled, and the two Blades left, closing the door behind them. “I had hoped to see you alone, young man, pick that brain of yours for a one who might be a future Blade, but I see your father has no intention of letting you out of his sight.”

  “The boy is unpracticed at this, Your Majesty, I simply wanted to make sure he didn’t make a fool out of Mandrigal Hill.” The count wore a smile as if he said the words in jest.

  “He’s smart enough and old enough to be on his own, aren’t you, Winslow?”

  Uneasy, Winslow glanced at Ainslen from the corner of his eye and nodded, “Yes, sire.”.

  “See? Regardless, you’re here and that’s fine by me, Ainslen.”

  Count Cardiff glowered for a moment before he bowed.

  “Where are my manners?” Jemare said. “I might be king but there is no need not to offer you seats. Sit, both of you.” He indicated chairs away from the table.

  After they sat, King Jemare did the same on the stone seat. “So,” he began, “Winslow, how fares your training?”

  Winslow got the distinct impression that those grey eyes were studying his soul. “Difficult. It certainly isn’t what I expected.”

  “It must have been a shock to your system. It doesn’t help that Lestin is one of the hardest mentors.” The king glanced over to Ainslen. “I had suggested to your father to allow you to skip that part and begin with the Blades, but he refused.”

  Winslow gaped in Count Cardiff’s direction. He had been enduring Lestin’s torturous habits when there was no need to do so?

  Ainslen shrugged. “It was necessary. You know that as well as I do.”

  “Indeed,” King Jemare said. “The best Blades had to pass through those rigors. Such a promotion would have meant induction, and few survive past their twentieth year when their vital points and cycles were opened by force.”

  A small part of Winslow was glad the count had denied him the chance for an easy path. Another bit wished he had at least been given the choice. There was nothing to be done about it now. He had already committed to whatever Lestin set before him.

  “I hear you’re to marry Elaina Shenen.” The king waggled a finger. “A nice catch she is. With Mandrigal and Hazline paired, you make for even more formidable houses than you are now.”

  “Sire, I’m unaware of what it means of any dealing between the houses. All I know is what I feel for her.”

  “And she’s with child,” the king added. “How do you feel about that?”

  Winslow couldn’t help his smile. The more he thought of it over the months, the more he’d liked the idea of being a father. For his child, he could be what Count Cardiff never really was for him. “I’m proud.”

  “Good. I would expect nothing less from a Cardiff. I hear Count Shenen was not at all pleased when he first learned.”

  The night Keedar saved him and Gaston flashed through Winslow’s mind. “Under the circumstances any father might have felt the same.”

  “Yes, I could agree with you there,” the king said. His gaze took them both in. “Winslow, I’ll be frank. I wanted you here to get a feel for the future of the houses under my rule. Your father has proved his worth time and again, none more so than now with the coin and soldiers he garnered from one of the exiled Thelusian princes. I myself could not approach them, but your father has once again sacrificed of himself for the crown, and for that I owe him. I think you’re smarter than you let on, which is a good thing, and a common trait among the Cardiffs. Ainslen, you should be proud.”

  Count Cardiff beamed and Winslow could not help his own pleasure.

  “Well, young man, if you will excuse us, your father and I have an auction to discuss.”

  Grinning now, Winslow bowed to the king, nodded to Ainslen and strode from the room. With the count engaged in the meeting, it was the perfect time to hurry back home and meet Keedar.

  An Auction of Power

  Drab and grey as the ocean in winter, the coffin-length box sat atop the auction table. From where he hid in the crawlspace’s dark confines above the lamplit room, Keedar recognized its featureless, metallic surface. The container didn’t appear deep enough to hold a corpse, but what was inside might be as bad if not worse. He’d not seen its kind before, but Father had drilled him repeatedly concerning its contents. The old tomes in the Undertow spoke of it also. More often than not, such discussions drove Father into solitude.

  The container was the creation of murderers.

  If the guards caught him, chances were he’d end up in one like it. Just like Mother. When it begins, follow the plans and get out. He repeated Delisar’s advice.

  Father had gone over every painstaking detail if the box was at this secret auction
deep in the bowels of Count Cardiff’s mansion. Keedar hunched into himself with the thought, the crawlspace’s stone walls around him seeming to close in as he did so. The knives hidden at his waistband were a burdensome reminder of the part he was to play. For him, failure was not an option.

  Although confident in his ability to hide, Keedar knew his presence bordered on suicide. He cupped a gloved hand over his mouth to suppress a cough from the dust his breath kicked up. Mold, mildew and old age fought for prominence over his and his accomplices’ sweaty odors. He peered through the crack in the ceiling onto the gathering below.

  Nobles congregated in small groups, dressed in finery to match the occasion, faces covered by masks as if at a masquerade ball. Planning the winning bid, no doubt. Those who passed the container brushed their fingers longingly across its surface. Some were almost reverent in their approach. Keedar could only imagine the riches each of their manservants carried in the coffers across the room’s far side where the King’s Blades kept watch, hands on their swords, gazes ever vigilant, their uniforms baring the Dominion’s rainbow colors.

  Lieutenant Sorinya, the massive Thelusian, garbed in midnight to match his skin and his title of Ebon Blade, stood at their head. The milky whites of his eyes were visible even from where Keedar hid. Keedar shivered, recalling the carnage left the nights the man paid visit to the Snakes.

  “Make room for me,” Gaston said, his voice muffled by a scarf. His lithe form wriggled up beside Keedar.

  “I can’t believe I let you two talk me into this mess.” Keedar shifted over.

  “Shhh.” Winslow glared at him, his eyes shining orbs in the darkness of their hiding place.

  “Relax, Wins, we are too far up for anyone to hear us if we whisper. Besides, even if someone catches us, it’s your father’s auction. We simply let them know Keedar’s our friend. What’s the worst that can happen? A strapping?” Gaston placed his eye to the peephole.

  Winslow glared at the back of his friend’s head. “If only. The count has a special hate for Keedar.”

  “Bah, he’ll probably just have him beaten again and then immediately marry you off to Elaina,” Gaston said, his voice tinged with mirth. Even in the dark Gaston’s teeth flashed with his lopsided grin.

  “That isn’t funny.”

  Gaston let out a mildly suppressed chuckle. “I can see you two now, children and all.”

  Winslow grumbled a few obscenities under his breath.

  Keedar couldn’t help but smile. He’d seen Elaina Shenen. The girl was beyond beautiful. He doubted if he could have avoided her even if he wanted.

  “The crier’s arrived,” Gaston said excitedly.

  “Shhh. Damned fool,” Winslow admonished.

  Keedar put his face to the crack and peered down. Sure enough, the crier, a man with a belly that battled his coat, and arms too short for his girth, stepped up behind the table and onto the dais. The nobles arranged themselves in neat lines, the most prominent among them first. A hushed silence fell across the room like a moment of prayer at a funeral.

  “What do you think it is?” Gaston whispered this time.

  “Who knows,” Winslow said.

  “I’m wagering that it’s those fire sticks from across the Renigen Sea. What do you say Wins, a silver bit?”

  “Please, it’s all nonsense. Sticks that shoot fire and metal balls? I’ll have to see one work before I believe such a weapon exists.”

  “Two bits then,” Gaston said without moving from his spot. “Don’t be cheap. They say that Ernassa fell to those same weapons and the Farlanders.”

  “I’m certain it took more than that to sack the Unbreakable City.”

  Keedar had heard the same rumors, but he couldn’t imagine melders being defeated by any but their own. However, these were the same Farlanders who laid waste to the Dracodar. The thought of one day facing them made him wince.

  A voice rose from below, crisp and clear with an edge that cut the air. “Lords and Ladies of the Kasinian Empire, I, Felius Carin, bring to you another historical occasion, another historical auction.” The crier bowed with a flourish, drawing his brown, silken cloak across his body. How he managed to bend past his gut, Keedar could not fathom, but it was like a wet sack squishing in on itself. At any moment, he expected the man to begin oozing. “First, before we begin, a bit of history concerning this coveted piece.” He gestured toward the grey container like a conductor at a ball, his stubby forearm playing the part of the baton.

  “Here he goes again.” Winslow practically groaned the words.

  They had informed Keedar of the tedious process the crier undertook, but he found it no less intriguing. He wondered if the story the man would tell was the same as the ones he’d read in Father’s books.

  Felius Carin’s voice rose in pitch, but took on the grave qualities of a lecturer. “In the annals of our illustrious Compendium, Etien wrote that our ancestors who crossed the Great Beyond to inhabit our world, the ten Gods we know as the Dominion, created the first intelligent creatures in their own likeness: the Dracodar.

  “Blessed with golden or silver scales as hard as any armor, they stood no taller than we do now. They were fair-featured, bordering on hypnotically beautiful. From them derived all other beings. The one constant among them though, to prove some truth to these legends, was that they were adept in melding beyond anything we know today. To this day, their blessed ability resides among some of us.” He nodded to the nobility. “Of course there are those undeserving of such gifts, but we make use of them as we will.”

  The reference to the Day of Accolades made Keedar cringe.

  “As time passed and more races were born from the Dracodar, they separated from us, the people, placing themselves on high. Some would argue deservedly so. However, when they decided the time had come to purge the land under their great Emperor Ilsindin, we, the people, led by Cortens Kasandar, fought back. Outnumbered due to their stunted reproduction, the Dracodar fell and disappeared into oblivion.”

  Keedar was as enraptured by the crier’s telling as the nobles in the room below.

  Felius’ voice lowered, as if to divulge some secret missive, spinning the story like a bard at the king’s ball, the crowd and Keedar dangling from his every word. “But, not all of them are gone. Hidden among us by use of melding, Dracodar descendants, the nearest thing to the original beings, live in secret. Why hide?” Arms spread wide he waited as if expecting an answer.

  Before one was offered, he continued, “For within their scales, their meat, their bones, resides their power: an increase in soul, in melding, that can be passed on to one lucky and strong enough to obtain their armor, their bones, or ingest their flesh.” He paused for effect. It was as if everyone below held their collective breaths.

  Keedar’s chest constricted. What Felius described could only be done by the very strongest melders. A person able to steal or harness another’s soul must have passed into the inner cycles to master entope. Mouth open he stared down at all the prospective buyers, for the first time really understanding what their numbers meant.

  How did Father hope to defeat such a gathering?

  “Today, Lords and Ladies, Counts and Countesses, that is what I, Felius Carin, the greatest auctioneer, archaeologist, and historian of our time bring to you.”

  “I present the scales and bones of a Dracodar,” Felius announced, voice a thunderclap. “Let the bidding commence.”

  “Amazing,” Gaston whispered, “this is even better than I thought.”

  “A gold bit,” someone yelled.

  Keedar whistled under his breath. The amount was a small fortune. The one offer began an uproar like a rockslide crashing down a mountain, nobles’ voices lifting over each other. The neat lines of nobility descended into chaos as officers to either side recorded bids.

  “Six gold bits,” said a shrill female voice above the din.

  “A gold round.” This from a noble wearing a mask with an eagle’s beak.

  Next to Ke
edar, Winslow sucked in a breath. Keedar could understand why. A man could purchase a barony with a gold round.

  “A gold monarch,” said a deep voice.

  The room fell into silence. Keedar stiffened. The man making the pronouncement was larger than most, wore an impeccable white uniform, and a golden mask. Silver braids hung to his shoulders.

  “Wait,” yelled someone close behind the nobles.

  The rough pitch of the voice made Keedar’s eyes widen and his heart race. He couldn’t see the person as the nobles swiveled to take in whoever it was, but he didn’t need to.

  “You’re all bidding without seeing the product?” There was a hint of amusement in Father’s voice. “Someone says they have a fabled Dracodar’s bones and scales, and we simply throw coin at them? You’re all too trusting. Not I. Kasandar is a hotbed of Consortium activity. The black market thrives with too many fakes to count. Show us proof.”

  “Who might you be to make demands?” said the man in white.

  “I thought this was a secret gathering,” Father said, “a place where we could rely on our anonymity from the other houses and a reprieve from any of the king’s taxes. At least that is what I paid for. If it is not, let me know, and I will take my gold monarchs with me and see myself to the door.”

  Nervous mutterings ran through the room.

  “Very well.” The man in whites gestured, palm upward, to Felius.

  At the table, Felius nodded to two King’s Blades. Armor clinking, boots thudding on the carpeted floor, they strode forward.

  “Open it,” Felius announced and stepped back.

  The Blades stood to either side of the container. Moments passed where they did nothing but stare at the grey surface. Keedar strained his eyes but made out no changes in the air around them to signify their use of soul. Metallic clicks ensued, ringing through the silent gathering. Without the guards’ touching it, the lid swung up.

  “Show them.” Felius spread his hands out toward the expectant crowd.

  Glinting from the lamps in the sconces around the room, a hint of silver rose from the container. It unfolded. Gasps followed.