Soulbreaker

by Terry C. Simpson

  The forest. It is not done with you yet, but at least you followed the rules. Unlike the one before you who left the shelter too early and chose to do battle instead.

  Keedar, Winslow thought.

  Yes, that one.

  Winslow’s lips curved in a slight smile. Keedar had beaten this creature. He shook his head with the thought. Thought. His eyes narrowed. He hadn’t called Keedar’s name; it had been a thought, and still Na-Rashim had answered.

  Your brother did not defeat me. He survived. With his current skill he might need another fifty years to best one such as I.

  “Wh-What are you?” Winslow asked, dread balling in his chest.

  Na-Rashim’s eyes distended and flitted about several times, giving a distinct impression of confusion. You stand above us, but do not know us. Strange times, these. I am one of your distant cousins, an Aladar. Look at your skin, what lives beneath it.

  Winslow held out his arm. The thing beneath his skin shifted. “I want to see,” he whispered, hands shaking. A mass of ridges pushed against his skin until they imprinted themselves upon it, and then they pushed through. . He felt no pain and saw very little blood, and by the time the transformation finished, his forearms were completely covered in golden scales. That earlier prick of memory surged. Picture-filled pages flipped through his mind, pages from Ainslen’s books.

  “Dracodar,” he mouthed.

  That is what you are, Na-Rashim answered. A Pure son of a broodmother.

  Winslow found the words hard to comprehend despite the evidence before him. “What is it you want from me?” he asked in an effort to settle his racing thoughts.

  Nothing. It is my task to protect you for two days, feeding you that which will return a portion of your strength. Afterward, you go back the way you came. Then your test will be complete.

  “You claim I stand above you. Why?”

  Na-Rashim shrugged. It is the way of things. Now, less talk and more eating.

  Winslow spent the next two days beside the solitary tree. The Aladar said nothing more in his head. Na-Rashim brought meat, most times raw, and Winslow would practice his new meld to provide a cooking fire. On the first day, he’d stopped calling upon his flame nimbus, no longer needing it for heat as the clearing had taken on the Treskelin’s normal humidity. By the end of the second day Winslow had gained enough strength and control to be able to run, but he was still skin and bones.

  Na-Rashim pointed out into the forest. The worst is over. Now that you have some semblance of strength, the forest creatures will give you a wide berth. Show weakness, though, and they will strike. Now, return the way you came.

  “Thank you,” Winslow said.

  The Aladar nodded once. Winslow set off, jogging at first, and then picked up speed. Before long he was darting through the forest.

  12

  A Message

  “How long does it last?” A wisp of a smile on his face, Keedar marveled at the colors that swathed the distant western skies. The horizon was a crystal held up to the sun and tilted to refract its light. At night the phenomenon was nothing short of spectacular. For three months the colors had waxed and waned. Today they seemed at their most radiant, helped along by skies finally freed of their cloudy prison.

  “I don’t know.” Keshka said. He’d kept to his study in the basement, only coming up to eat or to poke his head out to make certain Keedar was practicing. “Although she spoke about it often enough, your mother never mentioned how long it lasted.”

  “Did she ever say how it came to be?” Keedar liked to hear about his mother. The stories made him feel closer to Keshka. And to her. His memories of Lys were a blur of amber eyes with hints of green, dark hair, and a smile that would make him reach for that face. His questions were also another way to prevent thoughts of Winslow from occupying his mind.

  “She said it’s caused by the release of magics when the Pillars of Dissolution are opened. And, that it is a herald of war,” Keshka said, voice grim.

  Keedar stopped gazing at the sky to regard his father. Face twisted into a scowl, the old man was still focused on the Crystal Skies. A strand of white hair blew across Keshka’s face before it stuck to the sweat trickling down his forehead. “The Pillars of Dissolution.” Keedar returned his attention to the sky. “Delisar mentioned them when he was teaching me about soul. Our people called them the Dragon Gates, didn’t they? Supposedly the Dominion entered the world through them. Some say they lead to the Ten Hells and the banished Angels.”

  “Banished Dracodar, if the Order tells it.”

  Keedar frowned. “Why would some of us be banished. Weren’t we the Dominion’s chosen warriors?”

  “We have nothing but stories to rely on for any of this, but the Order’s Word claims a faction among us slew Hazline and Rendorta during that time.”

  Keedar shook his head. Some books claimed the Dominion took the form of gigantic scaled beasts, wings wide enough to span a field. Others said they were creatures in the form of mountains and earth. Why would they have needed warriors to protect them if they possessed near limitless power? And why would the ones they’d chosen betray them? Better yet, how could a mortal kill a God?

  “One thing cannot be disputed: the Dracodar and the Aladar arrived with the Dominion,” Keshka added. “And then, one by one, the Dominion disappeared from the world.”

  Still studying the sky, Keedar frowned. “Didn’t Etien venture to the east to find the Pillars, out into the Farlands?”

  “There’s more than one set of Pillars.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. Those to the east, beyond the Farlands, are the ones through which our forefathers came. Those to the west, in the Fringes—the wastes in the land of Aladel—are the ones through which the brunt of our people fled or were thrown.”

  “Fled? Were thrown?” Keedar grimaced as he considered the words. “Why would—”

  Keshka finally stopped looking up at the sky and faced Keedar. His eyes were tight. “Nightmares of the old days haunted your mother. First came the Blight, the disease begun by Kasinians, curtailing our ability to breed. To escape it, some fled through the Pillars. Others thought it the final part of a curse leveled against us for our predecessors’ betrayal, and flung their own through the Pillars as sacrifices to appease the Gods. The practice continued when men rose to power.

  “It was all an early part of the Thousand Year War that followed, and then came the Culling. The guisers’ tales and minstrels’ songs mostly speak of the glory men earned during those days. The horrific details are overlooked, seen as the great Cortens Kasandar driving the tyrannical, genocidal Dracodar from the world.” Keshka shook his head and let out a breath. “There is some truth to the stories. Emperor Ilsindin was a tyrant, but worse than that, he was a desperate man who allowed his panic to overcome reason. He tried to justify a heinous decision, and thus deserved to be overthrown, but the persecution our people suffered afterward, herded like pack animals, the stockades …”

  “The beginnings of the Smear, the Day of Accolades, Far’an Senjin,” Keedar said, voice soft.

  “Yes, but before that time, the Game of Souls was not about stealing another person’s soul. It was a duel, fought between nobles and common folk alike, for a chance to win the hand of a Dracodarian prince or princess. It was a thing of honor.” Keshka stressed those last words, expression earnest.

  Keedar understood the old man’s feelings. He fingered his shirt as he recalled the clothing he once wore every Day of Accolades, the discarded bits left after a child was taken to be indoctrinated into the Blades, a parent killed for resisting. Many of those children would become heroes of the Empire’s stories: Gothien the Shadow Blade, Myron the Sun Blade, Tharkensen the Lightning Blade, Roslav Quickthrust the Dagger Blade, and so the names went. Despite the status they gained, they were still of the Smear,
ripped from their rightful homes. Not once was their heritage celebrated. In truth, many of the Smear’s people had more right to rule than the nobles.

  Others might forget, but he would not. The nobility had created the monster that was the Smear, the beast that ate people up, swallowed them whole, left them mangled in gutters, or spilling their lifeblood on a sword’s edge. They had done it to his mother. For all of it, they would pay.

  “Have you ever considered asking the old Blades to join our cause?” Keedar asked.

  “We did seek them out, only to discover that most of them died soon after retirement. Some say the lack of action stilled their hearts. Others died from years spent abusing their souls. A few had children, but preferred to remain on the fiefs and estates given them by the kings. A few simply disappeared.”

  “Too bad,” Keedar said, “we could use them.”

  “Yes, we could.”

  Another colorful swath caught Keedar’s eye. “Why did you say the Crystal Skies were a herald of war?”

  Keshka peered off into the sky again. “Because Elysse would say it, almost like a promise, and she always kept her promises. I told you how we met, how she had gathered many others like herself—Dracodar women proven to be at the height of fertility, to replenish our people, to orchestrate the fall of the Kasinian Empire. But not only that, she was also preparing for a threat against those who wield soul, a threat from the Farlands. According to her, that was the Blight’s origin. I’ve seen enough to believe a lot of the things she said. Some may not understand it yet, but the war is already here.” Keshka strode away, heading toward the cottage, leaving Keedar to ponder his words.

  Some time later, Keedar was rubbing Snow’s head when her ears pricked up. The derin stared off into the woods before settling back down. Keedar regarded the man who stepped from the tree line. He hadn’t seen Martel since Succession Day.

  Draped in a hooded cloak with thick woolens underneath, Martel the Sword was a mix of Farish Islander and Thelusian, not quite as dark as the latter, larger across the back and shoulders and taller than the former. Sweat poured down his face and beaded his baldhead. His expression was one of disgust as he repeatedly blew air out his nose, failing to clear whatever it was that bothered him.

  Keedar fought back a smile. Trekking from the Parmien Forest’s frigid air and down into the Treskelin’s humidity and reek of leafy detritus had taken a toll on Martel. Such drastic changes would have that effect on anyone not accustomed to them.

  “I swear this place is one of the Ten Purgatories.” Martel stomped his feet, trying in vain to clear mud caked on the bottom of his boots.

  “Greetings to you, too, Martel. What brings you here?” Keedar smiled as he watched the big man poke at the mud with a stick.

  Martel grumbled under his breath before he answered. “I’ve brought news.”

  “News that couldn’t be delivered by the derins?”

  Martel stopped fussing with the boot. “You know me, I tend to be careful sometimes.” He offered a shrug and a smile that did not reach his eyes. “Couldn’t risk this being intercepted.” Even during the plots leading up to Succession Day, Martel had been easygoing, finding humor in most things. The look in his eyes was worrying.

  “Won’t they miss you in the city?”

  Martel shook his head. “As far as they know I’m off tracking a melder who tried to kill the king.”

  “Someone tried to kill Ainslen?” Keedar’s eyebrows shot up.

  “Yes. Big fellow with iron skin, or so it’s being said. That’s one reason I need to see Keshka.”

  “He’s inside.” Keedar nodded to the door behind him, thoughts caught up in who might fit such a description.

  Martel hurried into the cottage. Keedar leaned back, trying to eavesdrop, but the clump of Martel’s boots descended into the basement. An attempt on Ainslen’s life might warrant Martel’s visit, but he sensed more. Was it the man with iron skin or something else? All it took would be for one person to follow Martel from the city for his position in the watchmen to be uncovered. Keedar grunted. Martel was almost part animal when he wanted to be; he would have known if someone was on his trail.

  Thinking of the would-be assassin, Keedar was still petting Snow when hurried footsteps headed up from the study and out to the door next to him. Keshka was standing there, baldric thrown over his shoulder, Martel beside him.

  “Something of great urgency has come up. I must leave for Kasandar,” Keshka announced.

  Keedar stopped stroking the derin’s head. “Now? What of Winslow?”

  “Unfortunately, I won’t be here when he returns. I will send someone to help.”

  “Wait,” Keedar said, grimacing, “you sent him on the test, you know how dangerous it is, but you won’t stay to make certain he’s safe?”

  “Believe me, if another way existed I would choose it.”

  “What could be more important than your own family?” A sour taste in his mouth, Keedar relived the knowledge that Keshka had abandoned him, left him to be raised by Delisar.

  Keshka’s voice became soft. “Sometimes the measure of a man is in making the hard choices, choices that could make those he loves most hate him. The bigger picture, son, that is the important canvas. Remember that war I spoke of earlier?” Keedar nodded glumly. “If I do not do this, we might lose it before it truly begins. And then, we lose everything.”

  When he had hid on the rooftops watching the Day of Accolades play out, Keedar often berated his people for allowing such a travesty. He fingered his clothing as he recalled his patchwork memento of stolen kids, bawling mothers, and dead fathers. Although he knew Keshka was making the right choice, he hated himself for it.

  “Go,” he muttered.

  “I hope you understand.”

  “I do, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it,” Keedar replied. “Go, I’ll see to Winslow.”

  Keshka stared off into the forest. After a moment, he said, “If it makes you feel any better, he passed.”

  “He did?” Keedar sat up straight, the heat no longer as oppressive as before, the Treskelin Forest somehow less malodorous.

  Smiling, Keshka nodded. “There’s dried meat, fruits, and some specially prepared spices and ingredients in the cupboards. Winslow will need them. I might be gone more than a week.” He locked gazes with his son. “I’ll miss you.”

  Keedar remained sitting for a moment before he stood. He’d considered just letting Keshka go, but what if the worst happened, and Keshka didn’t return? He would live regretting not giving the old man a hug. “I’ll miss you too.” They clasped arms and before long they were hugging.

  When the goodbyes were finished, Keshka and Martel headed toward the Treskelin. Keshka paused at edge of the forest. “Here, Heart.” The derin trotted from among the trees to join its master. Keshka gave one last wave to Keedar. “Make certain Winslow rests for at least four days. No training until he’s healthy enough,” he yelled.

  “He’s looked forward to being a melder all his life, how am I supposed to stop him?” Keedar called back, remembering how anxious he had been to practice his new skills.

  “Tell him if he doesn’t rest, his manhood will stop working,” Martel said.

  Keedar laughed before frowning. He’d resumed practice only two days after he returned from his test. “Wait, is that true?”

  Martel’s deep laughter echoing among the trees was the sole response.

  13

  An Ancient Game

  Queen Terestere kept her back straight and head up as Ainslen entered her chambers. For over a week she had been on edge, expecting the king ever since Lieutenant Costace of the watchmen, a rather overlarge mixed Farish Islander, had delivered the message of the visit. The wait had annoyed her, but she knew it was Ainslen’s way of letting her know that she would be seen at his whi
m.

  Tall and imposing, resplendent in a deep blue jacket tapered to the waist, silver scrollwork running down the sleeves, and trousers to match, the king made his way along the plush carpets, gait smooth and sure, face implacable. Below precise brown curls his green eyes shone with their familiar intelligence. He’d chosen to leave his personal guard outside the door despite the rumored attempt on his life. Not surprising. Men’s egos often overrode common sense. She shook her head. When would they learn that a man with too swollen a head usually ended up on the sharp end of a sword?

  In Ainslen’s honor, she’d chosen a Marish gown, candlelight orange with a short V at the neckline. Too deep would seem indecent and inconsistent with her supposed state of mourning. She had her hair in a high bun and added some makeup: a dab of green on her eyelids as well as thin black lines that followed the edge of her eyes, tapered and extended past the outer corners to give them the illusion of a Marish slant. Ginger spice incense burned in braziers around the room, and Terestere wore a hint of the scent to complete the effect. She’d learned from young what the right words, the right touch, and the right appearance could do to a man, or to anyone for that matter.

  A slight bow was all she offered the king as he stopped before her. Here was one of the men at whose feet she could lay the blame for much of her past sorrow. She’d dreamed of this moment, the two of them alone, her hands around his throat or cupping his heart until it slowed and then stopped. But as he stood in front of her, forefinger tapping his lips, brows furrowed, she felt no rage. Only a cold certainty of what she had to do for her people, for Mareshna.

  Ainslen’s finger stopped, and he gestured to the cushioned armchair behind her. “Terestere, please take a seat.” After she complied, he followed suit, sitting across from her. “I hope you are well, and have found the accommodations to your liking.”

  Spoken as if this wasn’t my home before. “I’ve been well enough, my king. As for my … accommodations … if one can call being under guard adequate, then I suppose they’re grand.”