“Very well. If this is truly your wish then I will grant it, but on one condition.”
“And that is?”
“I will treat this as a pilgrimage, and send some of my wisemen with you. They will bring the Word to the west and help expand our tenuous foothold in those kingdoms.”
Dread crawled up Aidah’s spine. Her mind worked as she tried to discern a way that Nerisse would not be discovered. When she uttered her acceptance of the terms, her words seemed distant, as if they belonged to someone else.
Madness Rising
In a coach escorted by a dozen wisemen picked by Elder Hamada, Aidah left Melanil the next morning. Curate Fefnir, a Kheridisian with a dozen piercings in his ears, and a close-cropped mustache and beard, led the Order’s men. The choice brought on smile. She had not gotten a chance to speak to Hamada in private before she left, but he had said to follow Fefnir’s advice if she had any concerns. Aidah rested a hand on the leather pouch at her waist. In it she kept the writ and the decree. Her future.
For the fourth time she read one of the letters sent by Lomin. It spoke of the armsmen’s betrayal. They had succumbed to the temptation of earning the bounty and the chance to rob her. The Blade had killed them all, taken Nerisse, and made for the fishing town of Pomir, less than a day’s ride north of Melanil on the banks of the River Silk.
Clara was humming Kesta’s songs, a common practice whenever she was awake. Aidah’s heart hurt each time. This was not the life she’d dreamed of for herself or the children, and certainly not the life she’d expected when she plotted with her husband to ensure Ainslen’s victory on Succession Day.
She muttered a prayer, thankful for her husband’s foresight in sending the family away when he did. With the memory came a fresh gush of sorrow but not so deep that she couldn’t bear it. She embraced the grief, savored its taste, bitter to the tongue, a reminder of all they had suffered, and it made her stronger. Gathering Clara into her arms Aidah hummed along.
They reached Pomir when Mandrigal was no more than an orange smear on the western horizon. The air had grown colder, an edge to it that tried to seep into Aidah’s skin. She bundled Clara in another layer of clothing and did the same for herself. Wagons clattered along the streets beside which canals flowed, the waters dark and still, lantern light reflecting off slick cobbles. Passersby hurried about their business, the hoods of their cloaks pulled down. A few haggled for the last few wares from merchants who were late to close their stalls and shops.
As they neared the docks, Aidah grew anxious. There, Lomin and Nerisse would meet them. She took a long, slow breath in an attempt to ease the tension, but it remained a weight on her chest. The reek of brine and rotten fish was such that she turned up her nose.
The coach rolled to a stop beside a pier with a large schooner at berth. A group of soldiers clad in the Order’s red and blue uniforms waited before the planks that led onto the ship’s decks, the Star of the Dominion emblazoned on the backs of their cloaks. Two Clerics helped Aidah and Clara from the coach. Once outside, she picked up her daughter, hugged her against the blustery wind, and trod carefully across the slick planks and onto the ship.
The captain introduced himself as Konshen, and Aidah acknowledged him with a nod. Now that she was aboard, the need to see Nerisse was overwhelming. As was the fear of discovery. When Curate Fefnir whisked her below decks to the main cabin Aidah’s legs became like stone. Although she recognized him from her dreams, the reaction came natural after all that had happened.
“There’s nothing for you to fear,” the Curate said as they walked down the passage. “At least not from me. Hamada picked us for a reason. We will not give up your child to the Order.”
Aidah opened and closed her mouth. What if this was just a ploy?
“I can see you thinking. If I intended harm, then why come all the way to the ship? Why not just have your daughter brought to the Grand Chantry?”
She thought to feign ignorance, but instead she said, “After all I’ve been through you should be able to appreciate my skepticism.”
“Hopefully such sentiments dwindle with time. As for now, I can tell you that I know of the box and what it entails. The influx of soul taken in by your eldest daughter should adapt to her and appear normal in another six weeks at most. Although I trust the other wisemen in our pilgrimage, it is always better to be safe. To limit any risk, I shall be the only one of us allowed to speak with you. The children should remain below decks for the duration of this trip, and then in the wagons whenever possible.”
The revelation made Aidah nervous, but at the same time it eased some of her fears for Nerisse. Her anxiety came from the realization of how deeply Terestere’s influence must lie within the Order. This was a part of Far’an Senjin far beyond anything she’d experienced.
When Aidah and Clara entered the cabin Nerisse was sitting on the bed reading by way of lamplight. Lomin sat at a table, sharpening his sword.
“Lady Rostlin,” Lomin said, rising from the table to offer her a bow, his eyes never wavering from the Curate.
“Mother, Clara,” Nerisse exclaimed, scrambling from the bed.
Grinning, eyes moist, Aidah rushed to Nerisse and hugged her. Clara clung to her sister’s britches. The elation was such that Aidah wanted it to last.
“Let me look at you.” Aidah took a step back. Nerisse wore a thick woolen shirt and tan colored britches. Her face had a healthy pallor and her eyes shone with joy. “Your wounds … how are they?”
“Healing well. Lomin took me to a man like him.” Nerisse nodded in Fefnir’s direction.
“A wiseman?” She turned to Lomin and arched an eyebrow.
“A Kheridisian medico,” Lomin said. “Their specialty lies in healing melders.”
“And here I thought the only Kheridisian men in Kasinia belonged to the Order.”
“We are a lot of things,” Fefnir said, “but the only person we belong to is our queen.”
A spark of an idea grew in Aidah, one she thought Lomin must have already considered, but she asked anyway. “Could this medico help Clara?”
“Curing induction is beyond our people’s abilities,” Fefnir said.
Aidah accepted the man’s word, but for a brief moment she had hoped. “So it’s Casda Esdan, after all.”
Fefnir nodded. “You must be starved and tired. I shall bring supper.”
After Fefnir left, Aidah told them of her trip to Melanil. She left out the Farlander’s words. The fearful yet murderous glint in the man’s eye when he named Clara one of the Soulless made Aidah shiver. Lomin considered her escape from the Blade and the Farlander to be a matter or pure chance. In ways, she agreed, but then chance was Hazline’s domain. She felt nothing but anger when he recounted the particulars of the armsmen’s betrayal. What she found surprising was Nerisse’s ability to drive the second wagon. All their belongings were now in the ship’s hold.
“Can we trust this Curate?” Lomin asked.
“He is one of Terestere’s.”
Lomin nodded. “Good.”
“Still,” Aidah said, “I want you to sleep in the cabin. He recommends that the girls remain here, and while I agree, I would feel much safer if one of us is always with them.”
“As you wish, m’lady.”
Supper was a hearty fare of meat, fish, fruit, and water. The cook had prepared the meal with tangy spices, not too peppery and not too sweet. It reminded Aidah of a Marish dish. She dug in with zest. So did the others. Afterward, she lay on the bed with the children and read to them from Nerisse’s book.
When Aidah fell asleep, Antelen visited her dreams once more. She woke, drenched in sweat as light shot up into the sky from the pillars at the end of the battlefield. This time, she’d seen him, the taker, she was certain of it. He was fair of hair and complexion, eyes like polished amber, and he
wore a crown. It was the way he looked at Clara that scared her. His eyes had taken on a feral gleam and he’d spoken with a wiseman’s fervor during a sermon. Try as she might she couldn’t recall the exact words.
She lay in the bed, thick blankets pulled up to her neck, unable to sleep afterward. The ship rocked, and she could tell they were on their way down the River Silk to where its waters met the Vordon Sea outside the great city of Tocar, just north of Melanil.
Over the next few nights her dreams came and went much the same as the others, all pointing to Casda Esdan. Fefnir kept them updated, letting her know that the winds favored them. Aidah was thankful for that, because the time at sea brought a chill that crept into her bones.
With her cloak drawn around her shoulders, Aidah watched Clara argue with her dolls one evening. The girl sat cross-legged, scolding Gaston. Moments later the voice of ridicule became giggles.
Lomin crossed the room and sat on the rug next to Aidah. “You said she melded that day in Melanil?”
“Yes, but her mindbend didn’t work against the Blade.”
“Every Blade knows how to use their nimbus to guard against mental attacks. The failure of her mindbending just means he was that much stronger than her. But his skill doesn’t concern me. Clara’s condition does.”
“What do you mean?”
“Her nimbus is weaker now, and the same thing is happening as before. Sometimes she appears to have no soul. I don’t know what to make of it, but it stands to reason that the absence is connected to her melding and to the induction.”
“Soulless,” Aidah muttered without thinking.
“What?”
“That is what the Farlander called her. Soulless. He claimed it was a plague, one she would spread to others, bringing death unless she was killed or turned over to his masters.”
“I’ve never heard of such a thing,” Lomin said.
“Will … will she regain her strength?” Aidah’s lips trembled.
“In all honesty, I don’t know. When her nimbus is completely broken she will no longer be able to control her soul. She will go mad.”
And then one of us will have to kill her. Aidah cringed and tried not to dwell on the idea, but the thought lingered. “How long do you think she has?”
“Six months, eight, a year?” Lomin shrugged. “Only the Gods know. I’m sorry.”
Tears trickled down Aidah’s face. “Speak to the Curate for me, please. Tell him we must hurry.” She went to join Clara with her dolls. She would spend every moment she could with her daughter.
Soulsworn
Aidah remained below with the children until they disembarked a week later at a fishing village on the Vordon Sea’s northern coast, the air cold enough to cause mist to rise with every breath, and for frost to coat the land each morning. They set off in a caravan of three wagons pulled by byagas driven by Lomin and two wisemen. The rest of the pilgrimage were on horseback.
Days became weeks as they traveled, stopping only to eat or to swap out byagas, the new ones brought in from towns or farms they passed along the way. The mostly flat plains of the Lower Wetlands stretched before them, the air carrying the scent of wet earth although much of the muddy ground had frozen over. Fellow travelers became less and less common the farther northwest they rode, until the people they encountered were most often merchants.
Dreams continued to assail Aidah. Clara had become more distant, and hardly acknowledged anyone when they spoke to her. Her condition affected Nerisse to such an extent that Nerisse read to her sister for hours, many days with tears trickling down her face. Late at night, Nerisse would sit, staring out the wagon’s rear with her eyes closed. Lomin said she was meditating, sharpening her soul as one would a blade. The idea frightened Aidah.
The weather grew miserable, filled with rainstorms that turned into wet snow, and made the journey more of a slog than she wanted. Every day she fought against a sense of urgency whenever she watched Clara. Thunder often made Aidah flinch as she relived the terror of the Farlander’s weapon.
Lomin tinkered with the firestick whenever the chance presented itself. He kept it next to him, using it as if it were some sort of walking stick or staff.
True to his word, Fefnir was the sole wiseman allowed to see Aidah and the children. He also had his men use their melds to make the journey easier, keeping the road clear where necessary. Two months of constant travel, even at night, brought them to Danalyn, the first Sword of Humel, aptly named after the God of War’s preferred weapon.
Sitting beside Lomin, Aidah stared at the massive fortress that had grown into a city, similar to the other ten Swords. The main castle was of black basalt and spanned several hundred feet high, surrounded by walls that the city had spilled beyond in its growth. As with the others of its ilk, it had been built centuries past to guard against Caradorii incursions, and also to be a launching point for the Empire’s own endeavors into the western lands.
“If you look over there,” Lomin said, pointing northeast, “you can see Merelyn, and beyond it, Despora.”
Aidah squinted against the sun. She could just make out two separate glints in the distance.
“Even during the worst weather the Swords have ways to signal each other should there be an attack from the west.” Lomin seemed proud of the feat.
Curate Fefnir reined his horse in beside the wagon. “I sent men ahead of us. Having considered that the Swords are part of House Humel’s territory and thus answer to Count Fiorenta, I think it best we collect our guide and head through the city without stopping.”
Aidah nodded. The Curate’s reasoning was sound. Fiorenta was loyal to King Ainslen, and if by chance word of the bounty had reached Danalyn, the general who ran the citadel would have her detained. “Could we just avoid Danalyn altogether? Go around it?” The open expanse of land was inviting, even with the slush and glint of ice among the hardy vegetation.
“We could, if we wished to die. The safest way past any Sword of Humel is through the city itself.” Lomin pointed at the wide avenue upon which they rode. The cobblestones wove a cracked path to Danalyn or northeast to Merelyn. “It’s not only the soldiers and the fortresses that the Caradorii fear, but also the land itself. It’s filled with traps.”
“If it makes you feel any better,” Fefnir added, “it is unlikely for House Humel’s guards or any of the Blades stationed here to question one of The Order’s pilgrimages.”
Aidah nodded and drew her cloak closed against the cold. They followed several merchant caravans, gaining Danalyn’s outskirts, much of it populated by sprawling farmsteads, fields barren in preparation for winter. Herds of lorin, wool thick and white, occupied many open areas, grazing on the sparse supply of ice-flecked grass. Horses and byagas were less abundant.
People watched them for a moment before continuing on with their daily tasks. A few hounds or dogs bounded from one farmhouse or another, chasing after them, barking, but with no real intent to do harm. Eventually the farmhouses gave way to homes with less land and then to houses with no more than a small space between them. The number of people on the road increased until their conversations became an unintelligible din.
Fefnir’s wisemen returned, and after receiving their report, the Curate reined in next to Aidah’s wagon. “Our guide will meet us outside the city to the west. He knows the fastest route to our destination.”
“Shouldn’t we at least be taking on a few guards?” Aidah asked.
Fefnir smiled. “We may not look like it, but we are more than capable. Besides, eastern fighting men are killed on sight in Carador and beyond. If Lomin intends to come, he too must dress as we do, revert to the ways he learned during his tutelage with the Order. Peoples of the west consider it a curse to lay a hand on those of the faith.”
“Even if it isn’t their faith?” Aidah frowned. She couldn’t picture Lomin
in the Order’s robes.
“They say all Gods are connected, theirs and ours.”
Aidah avoided looking at Lomin, but she could feel the Blade’s gaze upon her. Terestere’s orders had been for him to see her safely to Danalyn. He’d accomplished the task. Do I dare ask him to stay? He’s sacrificed so much for my family as it is.
“I’ll stay if it makes you feel safer,” Lomin said.
Aidah couldn’t help her smile as she faced him. “It would.”
“Then it’s decided,” Lomin said. “Curate, if you will have one of your men bring me some robes?”
Fefnir nodded and called out to a Cleric. He rode off to meet the man.
“Thank you,” Aidah said.
“It’s nothing. I had already decided some time ago. I didn’t bring you all this way to see you die now.”
A smile tugged at the corner of Aidah’s mouth. Perhaps she was becoming that mountain after all. “The girls, have you checked on them?”
“Yes. The same since we last spoke. Clara’s nimbus is a bit more stable, and Nerisse’s power has become a part of her.”
Aidah muttered a thankful prayer under her breath. Worrying about her daughters within the Empire had been bad enough, but at least she was aware of the possible threats and how to avoid them. Without such knowledge beyond its borders the risks multiplied tenfold. Their caravan would already stand out. Further attention would not do.
She left Lomin and returned to the wagon’s rear. As had become habit, Nerisse was sitting with Clara, reading a story. Clara interrupted to ask a question of her sister or giggled at certain parts of the tale. Aidah joined them, savoring the sound of her daughter’s voices, somehow comforted by the monotonous trundle of wagon wheels over cobbles.
Time passed, with Aidah taking on the task of storyteller, relishing the feel of her daughters as they rested their heads on her leg. She was deep into her sixth or seventh tale when the wagon drew to a halt.
Soulsworn Page 12