The Quintessence Cycle- The Complete Series

by Terry C. Simpson

  The slant-eyed girl, most likely a Marishwoman, bowed. “As you wish, m’lordship” Her accent confirmed Keedar’s assumption.

  “Bring me a flagon of your finest and your best dish,” he added as he strode toward his chosen table, not waiting for her to lead the way.

  “Yes, m’lordship.”

  When he reached his chair, he waited for her to pull it out, and he sat. He waved her away. Leaning back to appear relaxed, he let the shadow cast by the curtain behind him fall across his face. Chatter and laughter rolled across the room in varying amounts. The more raucous men slapped serving girls on the ass or pulled them close for a feel. A few streetwalkers swayed among the crowd, offering their services from table to table. One man had his hand on a Thelusian’s tit, his pale flesh standing out on her inky skin. Keedar found Winslow and Gaston toward the back in a private booth.

  Surrounded by four women, he thought the young men would be all smiles. Gaston’s pleasure was evident. Expression glum, Winslow stared into a glass and its red contents. One of the women, a Farish Islander with bronze skin and half dozen piercings in her nipples, snaked a hand out to caress Winslow at the elbow of his black satin shirt. He stared at her; she bowed, and eased away.

  “Your drink, m’lordship.” The serving girl placed the flagon and a glass on the table. “The food will be along shortly.” She gave a quick dip of her head and left.

  The night dragged with Keedar keeping an eye on the two young men. On more than one occasion, Gaston had his pants at his hips with a woman’s head in his lap. Winslow still appeared disinterested, no matter how many times his friend tried to cheer him up or sent a girl his way. Whatever was troubling him, Winslow had no interest in revelry.

  To make certain he fit in, Keedar called over one girl or another from time to time, fondled them a bit, before giving them a few copper bits or a silver bit depending on how impressed he was with their bodies. He couldn’t help his manhood’s reaction, but he was able to restrain himself from going further.

  He was dabbing at his mouth, the taste of the roast deer still fresh, and the effects of his drinking bringing on a light buzz, when Winslow stood. The count’s son dropped several silver rounds on the table, judging by the coins’ size. He helped Gaston to his feet. Cursing loudly, words slurred, Gaston made a feeble attempt to push off his friend before collapsing back into his seat. Winslow assisted him once more and headed for the door.

  Keedar made to stand when he noticed a man across the room in an outfit of a blue so dark it appeared black. Under his hat, the man’s cheek bore mottled scars. What had drawn Keedar’s attention was sintu’s unwavering nimbus around him. It was so strong it resonated. Although the stranger was attempting to seem disinterested, his slant-eyed gaze tracked the young nobles several times. No sooner had Winslow and Gaston departed than the stranger stood and pulled the hat down. When he headed for the door, he moved with a hunter’s grace.

  After Keedar dropped two silver bits on the table, and downed the last of his drink, he followed. Out on the Row, Winslow and Gaston were making their way down a side street toward a line of coaches. Not far behind, the man trailed, but he was steadily catching up. Consumed with supporting his friend, Winslow didn’t notice.

  A knot formed in Keedar’s gut with the certainty that this had to be the assassin. He hoped the help Father promised would be nearby.

  As the two young noblemen were passing a point along a building where the wall formed a corner, hiding that part of the street from illumination, the stranger made an impossibly long leap. The nimbus around him bunched and then expanded as he did so.

  Winslow must have sensed the assailant somehow. He turned. Before he was able to extricate Gaston’s arm from around his neck, the man slammed into him, driving all three of them into the cutout behind the building.

  Drawing on the same desperation that goaded him on in the Parmien, Keedar sprinted toward them. He rounded the corner in time to see Winslow, bare-handed, attempting to fend of the man whose arm rose and fell, metal glinting from his fist. Keedar barreled into the attacker’s back, burrowing his face into a cloak and clothes that smelled of pine cones.

  They fell in a heap, but Keedar scrambled to his feet, daggers twirling up into his hands. Already standing, the man swept his hand out. Ripped from his grasp, Keedar’s daggers went flying.

  Teeth glinting in a face wreathed in shadow, the man took a step forward. Keedar wrenched at his will, demanding that the attacker not see him. He darted first left then right, convinced his skill would work. The assassin’s tracking eyes and an even wider grin said differently.

  Before either of them could react, whistles sounded, followed by footsteps thudding on cobbles. The nightwatch. Thank the Ten Heavens.

  With one last look at them, their assailant fled.

  “Thank you … again,” Winslow wheezed.

  “You’re welcome.” Keedar bent and helped him up.

  Together, they rolled Gaston onto his back. He reeked of liquor. A bruise stood out on his forehead, the area wet, sticky, and red. They checked him thoroughly to ensure he suffered no other wounds. Though unconscious, he was breathing evenly and had a steady pulse.

  Before they could decide what to do next, the nightwatch made it to them. Armor and weapons clinking, the soldiers surrounded them, spears trained on Keedar.

  “Stop it,” Winslow ordered. “Put away your weapons. He’s a friend.”

  A few hesitated, their gazes drifting to one of their order who bore a sword instead of a spear and shield. Unlike the others, he wore a leather coif under his conical helmet. There was something disturbingly familiar about the green eyes that regarded Keedar.

  “What’s your name, sergeant?” Winslow demanded.

  “Costace, young master.”

  Winslow rounded on the other soldiers who still stood wary, eyeing Keedar and their sergeant. “Why are you looking to Sergeant Costace? I’m Count Cardiff’s damn heir.” He pointed at Gaston’s prone form. “And this is Count Rostlin’s son. I gave you an order, now obey.”

  The men mumbled their apologies before easing back.

  “Have a few of your men stay, Costace. The rest can try to find our attacker. He’s a man in blue with a hat.” Winslow nodded in the direction he disappeared. “He went that way.”

  Costace passed out instructions, assigning four of the watch to them, and sending the others down the street. The sergeant then helped Winslow and Keedar carry Gaston to a waiting coach. They eased the wounded noble onto the cushioned seats.

  When Winslow headed to the front to pass orders to the driver, Costace nodded to Keedar. “Thank you for helping the counts’ sons.” Under his breath he added, “Like you, he’s too valuable to lose.”

  Under the lamplight in the coach, Keedar saw the sergeant’s face in its entirety. Martel’s green eyes stared back at him. The Sword cracked a smile.

  “Are you well?” Winslow asked, glancing from Keedar to Costace.

  Keedar hadn’t heard him return. “Um, y-yes,” he managed to say.

  “You look as if you saw a spirit.”

  “No, nothing of the sort. I was a little concerned is all.”

  “No need to worry. You are under my protection.” Winslow dipped his head to Martel. “Sergeant Costace, we will be on our way.”

  “Yes, young master. Safe travels.” Martel bowed and strode over to his remaining men. When the driver flapped his reins and rolled away, they watched until the coach was well on its way.

  Winslow checked on Gaston once more. “He’ll be fine. A knock on the head has never stopped him before.” He opened a flap behind him through which Keedar could see the driver’s legs. “Head to any street near the Smear.” The driver gave a muffled answer that sounded like an assent. Winslow closed the flap.

  Still caught up in the shock of seeing Martel, Keedar was staring out a crack in the curtains as the signs and establishments on Walker’s Row sped by. Father had kept his word in a most unexpected manner.
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  “So, this is the second time you’ve shown up at an opportune moment,” Winslow said after making sure his friend was comfortable. Two lamps on either side of the coach’s velvet interior lit his face. “The Smear I can understand, but what are you doing in Walker’s Row, and dressed as a noble no less?”

  For a moment, Keedar considered lying. “With Count Cardiff still recovering from his wounds, my father thought someone might make an attempt on your life. Infighting on the Hills and all that.”

  Winslow gave him a dubious look. “Two things. First, the business of the Hills is none of yours. And second, no man does something for nothing. What is it that your father wants?”

  “Well, what happens on the Hills is more a concern than you think. My father’s interest is in profits. If he could gather some information on which noble is seeking what and when, or what particular goods the Hills might require, then his profit margins increase. With the right help, he could make certain items cheaper and forestall the usual price fixing that happens within the Consortium.”

  “He’d undercut his own?”

  “The guilds know only their coin.” Keedar shrugged. “Whichever leader finds the best way to deliver it, he gets to dictate terms and agreements.”

  “I see. So what do you want?”

  Keedar paused. At this point he was supposed to mention how most in the Smear shunned him, how he didn’t fit in, his lack of friends, how he simply wanted a different life, even something other than Kasandar. He was to casually admit his ability in soul magic and suck Winslow in. Keedar didn’t quite know what to make of Winslow, but the scorn he previously sensed from the young man was absent.

  He told how he truly felt at the moment. “In all honesty, I don’t know.”

  T o Help the Enemy

  W inslow held Keedar’s gaze for a few moments longer. If he concentrated hard enough he had a knack for knowing when people lied to him. No such deception emanated from the commoner. Commoner. The name felt odd instead of using dreg.

  Three times now he’d lived because of Keedar. He couldn’t think of him the same way any more. The idea that the guild member might be dead because of his father had eaten at him. He recalled a time when he wouldn’t have cared, when he would have laughed it off, but he no longer found pleasure in things he once did. His feelings didn’t make sense to him. In truth, he should have despised Keedar. Instead, he’d developed an affinity that he could not help no matter how he tried.

  Tonight compounded matters. He glanced at Gaston’s still form once more. At least his breathing was steady. After tilting his friend’s head to see the gash, he ripped the sleeve from his shirt and used it as a bandage. The smell of blood grew thick as he worked. Once satisfied, he sat back, trying not to let the events of the last few days consume him.

  He should have seen the attack coming, but preoccupied as he was by the disappointment of his apprenticeship, he let any sign of an imminent threat slip his awareness. As he replayed the fight, he swore he’d seen his assailant before, but exactly where he could not say. After a moment, he brushed away the thought. There would be time enough to dwell on it.

  “I can agree to delivering information on goods and the like,” Winslow said. It was past time to try something different in his life.

  “We’ll give you a percentage of—”

  “Coin means nothing to me. I have more than I could possibly spend.” He was uncertain how Keedar would react but acting decisively worked better than being tentative. The training to become a Blade had so far been nothing he could have imagined. He required another way.

  “What can we offer you then?”

  “Regardless of what you say, I know you can meld. My father believes it also. Whoever taught you, I want them to do the same for me.”

  “Even if I can do what you say, what makes you think any mentor of mine wishes to teach a noble?”

  “If gaining an upper hand in the Consortium is as important as it seems, then he should.” Winslow could see the lie forming. It was past time to deliver his own surprise. “Whatever you’re about to claim, it isn’t true.”

  Keedar’s eyes narrowed.

  “I’m no melder yet, but the ability is there. When I look hard enough or when I’m around a person long enough, I can tell when they lie. It’s not constant, and I don’t have full control of it yet, but it happens. It’s as if their soul speaks to me, tells me what’s true and what isn’t.”

  A smirk played across Keedar’s face. Winslow could see the cogs turning in his head, the skepticism.

  “Count Cardiff isn’t your father,” Keedar said.

  “You have to do better than that,” Winslow said, smiling.

  Keedar simply looked at him.

  The sense he’d developed said Keedar believed the words. But he’d learned long ago that a person’s belief didn’t necessarily make a thing true. Regardless, Keedar’s conviction radiated with too much force, too much certainty. Winslow’s mouth dried.

  “No, that cannot be.” Thinking through his life, Winslow shook his head. He remembered the count’s face all the way until he was a child. A child … but not as a baby. Try as he might, he conjured no visions of him in Count Cardiff’s arms. Could that be why Count Cardiff never spoke of his mother or his brother? He remembered his wet nurse but not Ainslen. Shouldn’t I have such images considering my mother died giving birth to me? He stared Keedar in the eye but met a flat expression. “What do you remember of your mother from when you were a baby?” Fidgeting with his hands he awaited the answer.

  Keedar grimaced. “I don’t recall a lot. Sometimes, I see her holding me, looking into my face, kissing me, whispering or singing to me, but …” He trailed off, his attention drifting to a crack in the curtains over the coach’s windows. “What I remember most is the night she died. Flames. Heat. Her screams.” Wetness gathered at the corner of his eyes.

  “At least you have that,” Winslow whispered. “I’ve never felt a great connection to my … to Count Cardiff. I often thought it was because he was always away on business, leaving the servants to take care of me. Whenever I would see other nobles or counts playing with their children, I would wish to be in their place.” He considered how he and the count bore little to no similarities in resemblance. It only made him feel worse, a further jolt to a system already in shock. “I-I cannot tell if what you said of me is the truth, just that you believe it. One way or another I will find out.”

  “If it makes you feel any better,” Keedar said, “you were almost right about me. I’m close to being a melder. Most of what I do happens naturally, without my full control, so I haven’t earned the title yet. My father says once I gain the last of the median cycles, I’ll be a true melder, and he’ll know my type. Until then, I’m just a trainee. If you wish, I can ask him to teach you.”

  Winslow couldn’t help his slight smile. He needed something to hold onto. This would do. “I’d like that. For my part, I will help with what you need as long as it doesn’t involve bringing harm to anyone. Regardless of whether he’s my true father or not, the count is the only father I know.” He’s the only family I know.

  A knock on the wood announced that they’d arrived at their destination. “This is your stop.”

  “Thank you, I’ll see you soon.” Keedar flung open the door, leaped from the coach, and disappeared into the night.

  Winslow pulled the door shut and sat back, mind whirling. He’d agreed to help a guild leader, one of the very people his father loathed. Count Cardiff. Did Keedar tell the truth? Was the count not his father? Was he a bastard as some rumors said? He had always been good at analyzing problems, but he found no obvious answers. The rest of the ride to Antelen Hill, he laid back, closed his eyes, and fought back tears.

  When they arrived at the Rostlin mansion’s front steps on Antelen Hill, Winslow was surprised to see Count Cardiff, Kesta Rostlin, and several attendants waiting. The blood Winslow allowed the wiseman to take must have helped. His father still used a crutch tuc
ked under his arm to walk, but his complexion was much healthier. Keedar’s words sprang to mind almost immediately, and he found himself wondering again if they were the truth.

  By Count Kesta Rostlin’s posture and the way he was gesticulating, Winslow could tell Gaston’s father wasn’t pleased. Face expressionless, Count Cardiff looked at Kesta’s pudgy hands then met the man’s gaze. Almost immediately, Kesta’s arms dropped to his side. To his credit, he did continue to speak. Aidah Rostlin stood at the door, wringing her hands.

  Whenever Winslow saw Kesta, he thought of a large tub of jelly. Kesta’s expensive silks and satins looked ridiculous on him, but no one would dare tell him that. Not with his temper, and not if they wanted to live. Unless, of course, if they were one of the other counts.

  Within moments of the coach drawing to a halt, servants flung open the door and helped Winslow lift his friend out. They rested Gaston’s prone form on a litter before rushing off into the house with him. Head throbbing from the lingering effects of the night’s drinking, Winslow watched in silence, muttering a prayer under his breath.

  “What happened?” Kesta Rostlin’s jowls and more than ample belly shook with the question. His normally pink face was red enough to match his bloodshot eyes. He reeked of liquor. “You were supposed to be off enjoying yourselves on the Row, not getting into a fight.”

  “Wasn’t a fight, someone tried to kill us.”

  “What?” Mouth open, Kesta glared from Winslow to Count Cardiff and back again. “Did you see who?”

  “No. It was too dark, and he was too quick, but I’m positive it was a melder.”

  “I warned you this might happen, Kesta.” Count Cardiff rested on the triangular support of his crutch, apparently at ease despite the tightness around his eyes. “Why would you allow them to go to the Row?” He faced Winslow. “And you, didn’t I warn you to be careful? Did I not tell you this would be a good time for one of the other houses to attempt to kill you? When I’m weakened?”