Soulbreaker

by Terry C. Simpson

  The derin loped over to him. Thar attached the message to the thin strap around her neck and tapped Snow on the rump.

  After she left, Thar returned to his reports again. He had found no references to the melders he defeated in the sewers. That troubled him, but he could only fight what was before him. His thoughts returned to the Farlander speed and weaponry. There had to be a weakness. Everything had a flaw. Discovering it was the challenge. He lived for challenges.

  10

  A Living Sky

  Ainslen stood upon the Golden Spires’ highest balcony, staring at the phenomenon that illuminated the distant western horizon. Enthralled, he barely felt the frigid kiss of air misting his breath, and the wind was a distant howl in the back of his mind. Beside him, High Priest Jarod was muttering another prayer to the Dominion, the golden, ten-pointed, ten-sided star of his Order catching the moon and lamplight.

  Colors lived in the night sky, a swirling blanket of azure, pink, and chartreuse on a black carpet. They rose in a swath, from lands and kingdoms Ainslen couldn’t see and did not know, kingdoms he considered inferior, but that made the sight all the more impressive. A star fell, leaving a blue-red trail that melted when it met the blanket of color.

  “I never thought I’d live to see the Crystal Skies in my time,” Ainslen said, awed voice a hair above a whisper. “It shames the ancient tomes. This is beyond description; it must be seen, and even then it defies comprehension.”

  He thought of the Heleganese Voices. He wasn’t one to dismiss a possible threat out of hand, and while he had his doubts, he’d ordered scouts to the Swords of Humel, both Farlanders and Blades, the former to cut the travel time by at least half, the latter to act as translators where necessary. Word should return from the ancient fortresses in a matter of weeks rather than months. If the worst proved true then he would be ready.

  “It is a sign that the Dominion has blessed your rule.” The High Priest certainly believed the words he spewed, for they rang with truth. With his forefinger Jarod drew a circle on his forehead, dotting the middle. The sleeves of his robe fell away to reveal a pale-skinned arm. He pulled his cloak tighter around him, the scent of incense rising from its folds.

  “Be that as it may, their approval has not made the transition any easier,” Ainslen said.

  “The thorns do not seem sharp until one wears the crown.”

  “And by the time you feel the prick it is too late,” Ainslen finished, the quote attributed to Cortens Kasandar.

  “A wiser man might think you regret sitting upon the throne.” High Priest Jarod glanced up at Ainslen, cobalt blue eyes stark in his pale face.

  “He would be a fool,” Ainslen said. The Soul Throne was his by right. He’d earned it through battle and blood and Far’an Senjin. If not for Jemare it would have been his ages ago, but he’d been forced to tread carefully, to play the Game of Souls as shrewd as any ruler before him.

  He shifted his attention from the Crystal Skies to the city sprawled below him, dissected by alleys, roads, and avenues, poverty and wealth, wood, brick, and metal like some sculptor’s recreation. Wealth, function, and the machinations and rivalries of the Ten Hills divided the city, from the Golden Spires’ Vermillion District, to the workshops, foundries, and smithies of the Artisan Quarter, to the taverns, brothels, and guiser playhalls of Walker’s Row, to the River Quarter and the line of docks with ships at harbor on the River Ost, to the Smear’s squalor, and the great manses and small castles of the Ten Hills. Farther north, granaries and mills littered the Ost’s shores.

  The Winds of Time drew his eye, the monolithic clock tower dwarfing the other nearby structures. It was one of the few intact remnants from before the Thousand Year War swept the world. He often wondered how the melders of that time had managed to build the edifice. The metal work in the gold and bronze hands and the multitude of gears was an art no living smith could duplicate. The Order of the Dominion claimed that Hazline and Antelen had touched the world back then, influencing the melders during the construction, but Ainslen scoffed at the idea. For every claim of godliness there existed a simpler explanation grounded in reality.

  Farther south, well past the Winds and the ensuing districts, the scars left from Succession Day marred Kasandar. Burned out husks and the snow-covered mounds of several great pyres were centered in the Smear, destroyed buildings in the Grey Ward, and the skeletons of unfinished construction on several mansions along the Ten Hills.

  The deeper wounds resided in the people themselves. His forces had decimated the enemy, but their bloodlust had spilled over into the innocents among the Smear’s denizens. Despite his preparations for such an outcome, he’d been unable to prevent the majority of the atrocities committed.

  Up to this day, petitioners representing the Smear’s populace came before him with tales of rape and murder. He gave the appearance of having the complaints duly investigated, a lesser soldier executed here or there, but he couldn’t possibly give the dregs the so-called justice they craved against the nobility. They deserved no such reparations. They weren’t nobles, nor did they possess a standing high enough to be catered to, but they carried a power of their own. He’d learned of it the hard way.

  Years of oppression under past kings, centuries upon centuries of servitude, surrendering their children on the Day of Accolades to become Blades and for the sake of Far’an Senjin, had boiled over. As in the days of Hemene the Savage that began the Empire War and ended the Fabled Era, pockets of resistance grew among the dregs. Not just in the remnants of the guilds, but also the common folk themselves: the shopkeepers, the beggars, the teachers, the fishermen, dockworkers, stonemasons, and so the list continued. He quickly discovered their importance to the city’s prosperity as the economy had slowed to a crawl.

  How dare such miscreants challenge me? The anger he’d felt then bubbled up once more before he squashed it. He’d sent out his militia of Blades, Farlanders, and watchmen. The decision, particularly the use of the foreigners, had only served to incite the dregs even more. The rebels struck fast, and were adept at using the Smear’s warren of alleys and sewers to their advantage, melting into the Undertow. He had lost too many soldiers and watchmen. Worse yet had been the disappearance of several Farlanders and Blades.

  High Priest Jarod and the Order had stepped in. Clerics, Deacons, Bishops, Mystics, and Curates had appeared in droves at several clashes, a sea of blue and red robes, healing the wounded, offering food and medicine to those in need. Most of all, their use of soul magic had quelled much of the anger.

  Such skill hadn’t come as a complete shock to Ainslen. He’d resumed training under the Order for a short time, a requirement to garner their aid in overthrowing Jemare. What was surprising had been their numbers. They could become a threat or an asset to his future goals. He much preferred the latter.

  “Has my offer been delivered?” Ainslen looked down on the white-haired old man, whose bundled clothes hid a body as capable as any. Strenuous exercise was an Order requirement.

  “It has,” the High Priest said. Ainslen waited. Jarod had a need for people to hang on his words. “The Father and Mother are intrigued by your proposition, no doubt, but whether you can deliver on it has come into question.”

  “The tithe I already presented to them is not convincing enough?” Ainslen had tried and failed to pry into the backgrounds of the Patriarch and the Matriarch. Discovering all there was about a potential foe was essential before taking them on, but it was as if the Order’s leaders did not exist prior to their current roles. “A hundred million gold monarchs could purchase a kingdom.” The expense would dent the treasury, but he had already laid the groundwork to earn at least half of it back, selling Dracodar remains provided by Seligula to Darshan and the Farish Isles.

  “Coin is not the most precious commodity there is.”

  Ainslen frowned, uneasiness rising in his chest
. “They want more soul? I was led to believe the supply collected over the years during the Day of Accolades was still bountiful. Or is it that they now want Dracodar soul as recompense?”

  “That too is valuable, but still …”

  Baffled, Ainslen wracked his brain for what else could garner additional support from the Order. If a larger purse and access to the souls of rare melders couldn’t gain him the assurances and use of the Order’s wisemen as he saw fit, then what would? “What is it they ask?”

  “It has ever been the Order’s position that Jemare’s willingness to let the other kingdoms support their own religions and so-called Gods was a mistake. There is only one pantheon, one true religion, and that is in the worship of the Creator and the Dominion.”

  The uneasiness grew until it knotted the king’s gut.

  “Because of that position,” Jarod continued, “we funded your expeditions to the Farlands, to the far reaches of Helegan, even into the western kingdoms, under the pretext of our pilgrimages. From them, you gained allies and much knowledge into the working of soul magic and the Dracodar. Allies and knowledge that won you the throne.” The High Priest let his words hang.

  Ainslen had known there would be a price for the Order’s help. He’d considered doing away with them, but time and again they proved invaluable. “Go on,” he said, dreading Jarod’s demands even as he said the words.

  “In exchange for our services, you will open up more of the Order’s chapterhouses and chantries.” Jarod’s face was an unreadable mask as he spoke. “You will unify the kingdoms in the name of the Dominion.”

  “You want to enforce our religion on the entire Kasinian Empire?” Ainslen exclaimed in disbelief. “Even if it’s possible, such a task would take decades, centuries, perhaps.”

  High Priest Jarod stared out toward the west and the Crystal Skies. “You misunderstand what they require, and your vision is limited. They want you to bring the Order to all the other known parts of Mareshna, to the uncivilized lands in the west, to the Farlanders in the east, perhaps even to the places that exist beyond the Pillars of Dissolution. It might take more than your lifetime, but such is the price.”

  Ainslen gaped. Except for Darshan and the Farish Isles, his hold on the Empire’s kingdoms was tenuous. The Kheridisians had made their position clear, and in truth, their loyalty had always been unreliable. The Order itself had a better relationship with them, if taking in Kheridisian strays and runaways to convert them to wisemen could be called a relationship. As for the other lands, Succession Day had provided a chance and an excuse for them to break away, to seek to overthrow what they saw as a weakened Kasinia. He was already treading dangerously close to another Empire War. Blood would flow, generations snuffed out before he had an iron grip on his rule. And the Order wanted more? “Such a war will cost millions … in lives and in coin.”

  “There will be an abundance of both. The Order will send its accountants among yours to see all is in place.”

  “Let me ask, do they expect me to abolish all other religions?”

  “Heavens, no. Some heresy will be tolerated, but the Order must be dominant. Without the profane there is no pious.”

  And without the pious there is no profane, Ainslen almost finished, but that teaching was frowned upon, considered blasphemy by the Order. Something else that Jarod said niggled at him. ‘Perhaps even to the places that exist beyond the Pillars of Dissolution.’ The High Priest could not be suggesting that each set of Pillars led to something other than one of the Ten Hells. He simply could not. Such sacrilege.

  On the verge of condemning the entire idea as preposterous, Ainslen considered how his ambitions had been the fuel that drove him to where he stood now, the deaths of his wife and son the embers upon which he cast that fuel. Gaining power had sparked a fire, whetted his appetite for more. Why stop at the Kasinian Empire if I can rule the world entire? He pictured it, him standing above all others, like the Dominion, the Creator, a God among men. The image made him tremble with excitement. “I will need to meet with your Patriarch and Matriarch to hear this from their own mouths.”

  “Fair enough. The Father and Mother expected as much. However, they will not leave Melanil, much less the Grand Chantry, or expose their deeper involvement until you have brought Marissinia and Thelusia to heel. Whether you take wives from them both, pay a tithe, or put them to the sword, it matters not, as long as Kasinia is once again unified.”

  Stroking his chin, Ainslen nodded, plans already tumbling through his head. A whiff of sweaty bodies, sewer stench, and a faint animal odor drifted to him, the mélange adding to the ginger spice burning in the braziers within his apartments. A gong announced a visitor.

  Moments later, Sabella, one of his personal Blades, appeared on the other side of the chambers. She got down on one knee, a hand on her sword’s pommel, head bowed. “General Sorinya and Felius Carin have arrived, sire.”

  “Show them in.” Ainslen strode into the Royal Apartments, glad to be out of the freezing air. His mind still reeled from Jarod’s words. Crossing lush wool carpets he headed to his favorite tall chair, carved from priceless black ash with gold inlaid across the legs and back. He gestured for the High Priest to sit in the armchair to his right.

  The massive ivory door on the far side of the room opened. Sorinya the Ebon Blade stood for a moment, a towering man half as broad across the chest as he was tall, midnight skin and uniform stark against the pristine white walls around him.

  A step behind him was Felius Carin, jowls loose, legs and arms stubby, a sow of a man in a pearl-colored uniform. Sabella and Cordelia followed at their heels. A pin displaying a sword stood out on the lapels of their jackets. The other Blades wore Ainslen’s livery, red and gold, the colors he’d taken although he was no longer the Count of House Mandrigal. Both men stank of sweat. The reek of sewage drifted from Felius.

  Sorinya’s face was carved from iron. Gone was any jollity or sense of challenge from the big Thelusian. Since learning of the Farlander skirmishes along the Thelusian coast near the Steppes of the World, he had become a cold shell of his former self, no longer broaching the subject of a duel with Ainslen for his freedom. He had also ceased any reference to Ainslen as his father.

  Ainslen had expected to feel bitter about that last. He’d raised Sorinya from a boy, saved him from the headsman when the old Drillmaster declared Sorinya too old to be trained in the ways of the Blades despite his potential in soul. He felt nothing, not even regret, at knowing one day the Thelusian would force his hand and die for it. Sorinya was a tool like so many others, and would be used as such.

  “Sire.” Sorinya offered a dip of his head but remained standing. The other Blades were down on one knee.

  “What news.” Ainslen ignored the slight.

  “Your spies were correct.” Sorinya’s voice was a deep rumble. “We discovered Count Adelfried in a small town, on his way north.”

  “Excellent. You captured him?”

  “No. He managed to escape.”

  “Explain yourself,” the king said between clenched teeth.

  Sorinya shrugged. “He had some two hundred Blades with him. He left them to fight while he made good his escape.”

  “Did you at least manage to kill them all? My orders were to give no quarter to disloyal Blades.”

  “We did.”

  “Good. What of any other soldiers or people in his retinue who survived?”

  “Taken to the mines. We did have one issue.”

  Ainslen arched an eyebrow.

  “Queen Terestere was with him. We captured her.”

  Ainslen’s breath caught in his throat, and it took all he had not to leap from his seat and demand she be brought to him. He schooled his face to calm. “Is she in good health?”

  “She’s seen better days, but there’s nothing about her that some rest, a hot bat
h, and clean clothes won’t fix.”

  Nodding, Ainslen considered the last time he’d seen Terestere. She’d been sitting beside Jemare, resplendent in a silver gown, amber eyes with a hint of green assessing him. Her smooth, defined cheeks and chin, tanned skin the color of milky coffee, made her appear much younger than the century and a quarter that she had to be. Such appearances were common in people who had grown an affinity with the first two soul cycles. Often the person did not know they maintained them. Too bad she’d not developed into a melder. Warmth crept up his loins to accompany the thoughts of her.

  “Where is she now?” His mind worked as he considered a change in plans that would secure him a unified Empire. He glanced over to Jarod. Their gazes met, and in the High Priest’s eyes Ainslen perceived recognition of what Terestere’s presence could mean.

  “In one of the lower apartments. I had Lieutenant Costace of the watchmen escort her there. I did not know what to do with her, but I assumed you wouldn’t want her confined to the dungeons.”

  “And you were absolutely right,” Ainslen said. “What of this other matter? The missing Blades?”

  “That’s been Felius’ area.”

  Ainslen shifted his attention to Felius. Although he often saw the Minstrel Blade as a waste of soul, the man did have his uses. Of late though, Felius’ results had been disappointing.

  “It appears that not all of the missing were deserters,” Felius said, bald head bowed.

  “Where are they, then?”

  “Captured, I believe. The trackers have assured me that it is a distinct possibility.”

  Ainslen frowned. Who would be so bold or so strong to hunt King’s Blades?

  Before an answer surfaced, a musky scent made the king wrinkle his nose. A wild animal? Up here, some thousand feet in the air? His heart skipped a beat as he held up a hand. Everyone froze. By instinct he added tern to his natural layer of sintu.