Soulbreaker

by Terry C. Simpson

  “Terestere, what a pleasant surprise,” Leroi said as he entered the sitting room. The queen turned to face him. He was dressed in fitted trousers and a jacket, silk spilling from its sleeves. His eyes did not reflect his smile. They were wary and cold.

  “Is it really a surprise?” She arched an eyebrow.

  “Of course it is.” He indicated a cushioned chair. “Have a seat.”

  She lifted her dress and obliged the request. Leroi flopped into the chair across from her. A large rug adorned the floor between them, a maned derin prominent at its center. The room smelled of flowers and freshness.

  “I’ve been visiting the other Hills, first to acquaint myself with the new counts and countesses, and then to renew relations with the old,” she said. “A man with your vast connections must have heard.”

  “I did, but since we have a long history, I did not expect you. If I had known you were coming then Countess Amalia would have been here.”

  She smiled. “I’m here to speak to you, not your wife.”

  “Fair enough. How can I be of service?”

  “What did you think of the king’s announcements?” Making no pretense of her intentions would work best with Leroi.

  “They were … interesting.” His tight eyes gave away much more.

  “I gather you aren’t pleased?”

  “For his raising of a Marish savage and a dreg? No. His marriage to you …” Leroi shrugged. “That was a smart move. The Empire is in disarray.”

  “Some might refer to you as a savage also when it comes to heritage,” Terestere said. “It is well known that your family line includes a Marishman, and yet, here you are.”

  “I’m as much Marishman as you’re Kheridisian.” She stiffened at his remark. He waved her off. “That is to say that if you trace the lineages of all Kasinian noble houses, there is mixed blood, but none of us are outright of a different race like this Shaz.” He almost spat that last word.

  “Fair enough, I suppose. Tell me, how do you feel about his abolition of the Day of Accolades? You do know what it means for the nobility.”

  Another shrug. “Unlike most, I did not rely on it for my melders. The inferior production was known to me, and a few others, even if they chose to ignore it. I have found more willing practitioners in other kingdoms.”

  More like you raided other towns and villages. Terestere leaned back, regarding the count with unwavering eyes. Leroi did not flinch, nor did she expect him to. He’d always been a man who faced any challenge head on. When she spoke next, she kept her voice low. “And what is your opinion of my late husband’s transgressions?”

  Leroi’s face darkened, and he trembled visibly. His hand clenched the armchair. The count leaned forward, his eyes like ice. “I hoped you would not broach the subject.” He took a breath. “I did not have the slightest suspicion. If I did, it would have been I who took that bastard’s head.”

  She recognized the pain of loss in Leroi’s face. If things had been different she might have been sympathetic. “If you had nothing against him, why did you withdraw your support?”

  “Jemare had grown weak. We followed him in his endeavor to replace King Tolquan because he promised to achieve what Tolquan had not.”

  “Did he not deliver?” Terestere asked, scowling. “Did he not reclaim Marissinia, Thelusia, and Darshan? Did he not have the Farish Isles ready to bend knee, the Heleganese paying tribute? Did he not decimate the Kheridisians during the Red Swamps?” She stared him down as she spoke, each question laced with obvious anger.

  “Yes, and then he grew soft. He should have subjugated them all, made them a part of us, but he allowed the Islanders some freedom, allowed the Heleganese to roam, and had no control whatsoever over the Kheridisians. Did he think outlawing trade from them would be good enough? Or banning Kheridisian males from Kasinia while allowing in their whores?” Leroi’s face mottled with rage. “Your late husband became a fool. Far’an Senjin shows no mercy to the foolish.”

  “True,” the queen conceded. “That explains his journals, then, for he claimed the same of your sons and daughters, of all the counts who were unaware of the way he used the Trial of Bravery.”

  Leroi snarled. “Are you here to goad me, woman?”

  “On the contrary, no. I spoke as I did because I’m trying to see where you stand, where Hagarath and Fiorenta stand.”

  He shrugged. “You should ask them.”

  She was almost convinced. Almost. “I’m asking you. I know feigned dislike when I see it, as well as feigned love. I saw enough of both while sitting beside Jemare.” The count’s expression became guarded. “If I wished you harm I would have reported my observations to Ainslen. But then, he killed my husband, so why should I?”

  Studying her face, Leroi remained silent for what felt like an eternity. At last, he said, “Should things be as you say, what would be your involvement?”

  “I haven’t decided yet. Convince me as to why I should take your side in this, or why I should say nothing, which is almost as bad. Why is it that you now plot against the king after supporting his rise? When I watch you it doesn’t feel like Far’an Senjin. It feels … personal.”

  The fire in his eyes diminished. “It is because of Jaelen.”

  “Your grandson?”

  “Ainslen’s also,” he said bitterly. “Although he has made no such announcement.”

  “Has the king denied the boy?”

  “No, but without Winslow to lay claim to Jaelen’s heritage, I have to hear all the rumors.”

  “Rumors?” She feigned her ignorance. Her servants couldn’t help their daily gossip.

  “I’ll let you see for yourself.” He climbed wearily to his feet.

  Lips pursed, she watched him leave the room. Over the past months, Leroi and the king had several exchanges, the rift between the men obvious. Leroi seldom appeared happy in the king’s presence. She could tell the animosity surpassed mere affairs of the Empire, partially confirmed by Ainslen’s refusal to simply toss Leroi out on his bottom as he was wont to do with those who infuriated him.

  Also, despite the reasons Leroi had just given, she knew that more than dissatisfaction with Jemare had led to the count’s first change of allegiance. The announcement of a marriage between Elaina and Winslow had confirmed her suspicions, and the pregnancy had most likely forced it. Leroi was an honorable man and would not allow his daughter to be sullied. He would do anything for her. The king had used that weakness to his advantage.

  Count Shenen returned with a baby in his arms. Terestere rose and went to meet them. When she looked into the baby’s face, she understood the rumors, and worked hard to appear indifferent. The child’s olive complexion could be Kasinian. But those eyes. No pure Kasinian’s eyes had that acute slant.

  “Did you question your daughter about your concerns?” she asked after a moment.

  “Yes. She swears she was with only one man. Winslow Cardiff. Even more troubling was that I had been slipping one of Selentus’ tinctures into her tea to prevent this exact thing.” Leroi sighed.

  “How is she handling the rumors?”

  “To be honest, I suspect she’s not doing well. On more than one night the servants have reported her waking from terrible nightmares.”

  “Your daughter and this child were your main reasons for supporting Ainslen against my husband, weren’t they?”

  He didn’t need to answer. The pain etched in his face told her all she needed to know. Leroi thought a great deal of his own prowess. He would have formed his own group to take the throne, not join another count’s endeavor.

  Mind whirling, the queen left Jarina Hill. Could I be mistaken? Shenen is of Marish descent. No. That child does not have two Kasinian parents.

  Her goal had been to help Ainslen salvage the Empire as ordered by Corgansetti, save its
people, while at the same time sowing her own seeds among the nobility for future use. This, however, changed things. Whether for better or worse she was uncertain, but an opportunity existed here that would solidify her future plans.

  ******

  At Cortens’ Shrine, she called on Curate Selentus. A Cleric took her to the wiseman in apartments that smelled of medicine. Dressed in the robes and sash of his station, Selentus sat with a relaxed posture as he regarded her. His dark eyes matched his neatly trimmed hair and impeccably-lined beard and mustache.

  “You husband-to-be told me to expect you,” Selentus said, voice carrying the deference common to wisemen.

  “Yes. We wish to have a child.”

  “Out of curiosity, is that the same reason you were said to be in Elder Hamada’s care?”

  “Among other things, yes.” She narrowed her eyes.

  A slight smile graced the wiseman’s lips. He stood and proceeded to the shelves behind him. Lamplight played off bottles containing various mixtures, herbs, and perhaps a score of vials from which soul emanated. One by one he touched them, a collector playing with prized assets.

  “I must admit that although Hamada is renowned for his skill, I believe I’ve surpassed him. Whatever ails you, I know I can find the cure. Conception is my specialty.”

  He turned to find her a step behind him. His eyes widened, and his mouth opened.

  She laid a hand on his shoulder. “Tell me everything you know.”

  His eyes glazed over. “Yes, my queen.”

  When she had taken every dreg of knowledge, she left Selentus with a series of instructions to be followed when he received word.

  23

  Hard Decisions

  Thar sat back in the chair, watching his nephew and son practice, their melds hardly registering. The time with the strange Dwellers was a blur of tunnels and pain. He recalled the agony of a knife slicing into his flesh, steel tongs digging inside him, the removal of the metal balls, and Envald’s face hovering above him. When he woke again it had been to Heart’s warm tongue on his face.

  Hazline must favor me. He gazed at the sky. Above the Treskelin, a mass of clouds marched in, and a welcome breeze threaded the thick air, carrying the rich scent of impending rain. The presence of the Dwellers bothered him, as did the Blighted Brothers. If all went as planned, he would need to deal with both at some time. If things didn’t, then they would be someone else’s problem.

  The three wounds caused by the metal balls no longer hurt. His scales had healed over his flesh nicely, but the skin atop them was scarred in those spots. He stroked the one on his side, feeling its roughness through his shirt.

  He thought back to the moments before the ambush. He’d thoroughly searched Felius’ body for any signs of a tracking meld. They would have been visible to him. Unless … Frowning, he considered the activation of the meld that killed the Minstrel Blade just when Felius was on the verge of revealing the use of ereskars. As understanding dawned, Thar shook his head, disgusted with himself. He peered over to where Heart was frolicking with Snow, thankful for the derin’s presence while at the same time lamenting what he saw.

  “Stomir.” Thar beckoned the Kheridisian over. Stomir moved with his usual easy grace, joining him on the porch. “I’ve already sent word for the guilds to abandon the salt mines and join the others in the Blooded Daggers.” He indicated the two young men. “Take them there, but don’t use the Undertow. Head east, sticking to the edges of the Treskelin. I’ll have a ship waiting for you at Shalgere. Take it up the Ost to Tiolin and ride the rest of the way.”

  “Why the change in plans?”

  Thar was still looking at Heart. “When I was wounded, most of the Red Beggars fell. I’m unsure whether Tomas died in the attack or if the king’s men captured him, but it’s best to assume the latter. And if so, then Ainslen will break him.”

  “I can understand the move from the mines and avoiding the Undertow, but none of the Consortium leaders know of this place,” Stomir said.

  “Believe me when I say the cottage is no longer safe. The meld used by the king to track Felius was inside the Blade’s body. That’s why I didn’t notice it. In all likelihood it was crafted so as not to pass from Felius’ system by normal means.” Thar nodded toward Heart. “He ate the Minstrel Blade, which means it’s inside him.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “I know what to look for now. I can see it.” The meld had blended with the derin’s insides, but Thar could make out the slight difference between the derin’s soul and that of the king’s.

  “Then we should inform the others. Surely the king himself will come.”

  “He might, and so will those Farlander Dracodar he sent after me in the Undertow. We could gather a few squads to face them, possibly defeat them, but then what? The overall plan would be ruined. The king must remain alive and in power to achieve our goal. Should he decide to just send some Blades along with the Farlanders rather than come himself, we will make it seem like the Wild Kheridisians slew them all. Either way the boys cannot be here.”

  “When should we leave?”

  Thar glanced toward the Cliffs of a Thousand Sorrows. The king’s men could be up there at this very moment, watching, or perhaps weaving through the Undertow. He doubted they crossed into Kheridisia as yet. Snow’s pack would have bayed a warning. Still, he saw no use in waiting.

  “Pack lightly, taking what food you might need, but depart before the morning is done. Snow will travel ahead of you with instructions to one of my people at the Treskelin’s edge.”

  “And where will you be?”

  “Here.”

  The Kheridisian looked at him askance. “Is that wise? I’ve been with you a long time, ever since my mother brought you here. For you, this would be the perfect opportunity to hone your skills, test your limits, the odds that might scare another man only serving to spur you on.”

  “True, enough,” Thar said, “but I need to see who the king sends, gauge their strengths. No need to worry, I’m no longer the same old Thar. I’m a lot calmer now, more … sensible.”

  Stomir smiled. “You mean you’ve learned to respect death.”

  “That, and I have a lot more to live for today than I did back then.” Thar gestured with his head toward his son and nephew. His family was so much larger now, an enormous part of their race, and he would not stand to lose any more of them than necessary. He’d lost enough in the past.

  “Indeed, you do.”

  “So, you understand why I’m trusting you with their lives, as your mother trusted me with yours and so many others.”

  “I won’t fail you, that I can promise.”

  “Good,” Thar said. “Allow me to speak to the boys while you gather supplies and then you can be on your way.”

  “Of course.” Stomir headed inside.

  “Keedar, Winslow,” Thar called out.

  Clothes soaked in sweat, chests heaving, the boys stopped their exchange of blows and melds. They sheathed their weapons, and strode over to him. Thar couldn’t help but think of Elysse as he watched her two sons. Winslow had her obsidian hair and height and her enthusiasm for learning. Keedar had inherited her walk, determination, stubbornness, and those calculating, amber eyes.

  “Uncle,” Winslow said with a nod.

  “Father.” Keedar offered a warm smile.

  Hearing that word from Keedar lifted Thar’s spirits. Keedar was the last of his children, and although he loved them all, he had an unexplained, special attachment to the final bit of his progeny. “Both of you mean a great deal to me,” Thar began as the first raindrops pattered on the ground. “Watching you grow has been one of many blessings the Dominion has bestowed upon me.”

  “What’s wrong,” Keedar asked, eyes narrowed. “This feels like goodbye.”

  “Al
ways the one to pick up on things first.” Thar gave a rueful shake of his head. “It’s no longer safe here so I’m sending you away.” The boys grew very still. “This is not a repeat of the past. I believe in you both, but right now you will be of better use elsewhere.” Thar saw the doubt in Winslow’s eyes, the stubborn set of Keedar’s jaw. He decided on a different approach. “Look at me, at my soul, tell me what you see.”

  The boys peered at him. After a few moments they squinted. Strained eyes became brows furrowed in confusion. Winslow was the first to give up. As expected, Keedar continued to try.

  “I get a hint of something … but … bah.” Keedar blew out a breath. “Every time I think I have a grasp, the sight slips away from me.”

  “Do the same to Stomir,” Thar ordered. The Kheridisian was fastening the straps to a pack.

  They complied, and within minutes were beaming at the ease of the accomplishment. The Kheridisian’s nimbus was like a thick wisp of luminous smoke, layered about his body.

  “Stomir,” Thar said, “the quintessence, use it.” He gave Stomir a moment before turning to the young men. “Now, look for his soul again.”

  Winslow and Keedar focused their attention on Stomir once more. Disbelief encompassed their faces. Thar knew what they would be seeing. To their eyes, Stomir’s soul had winked out like a heavy black curtain drawn over a windowpane. For Thar, the nimbus had not changed.

  “How?” Keedar sputtered.

  “It’s the same as with Na-Rashim,” Winslow said, voice awed. “I could tell his soul was there because mine pushed against it, but I could not see it.”

  “It is the opening of the quintessence cycle,” Thar declared. “You first begin to see it when you become a melder. When you passed the Fast of Madness, the outer ring of the cycles should have changed from a smooth circle to one possessing ten sides, and they should be seen throughout your soul rather than only at the vital points. You gain the quintessence if all three rings take on the transformation.”