The Quintessence Cycle- The Complete Series

by Terry C. Simpson

  “How do you think I did today?”

  “That’s for my father to say, not I.”

  Winslow sighed. “So where is he, and what now?”

  “Now, we wait.” Keedar settled down on a boulder to do exactly that.

  The third part of the test had begun.

  In truth, Winslow’s performance had been surprising. For a person who had not gone through years of practice, he had an uncanny grasp of tern , able to take a bit of soul from one part of his body and apply it to another. Keedar was uncertain if it was a natural occurrence or if it had been induced. Delisar would be able to tell difference. Those adept in tern would excel at the corresponding median cycle, hyzen , which allowed a person to shift nearly all of their soul to a specific body part, thus making it incredibly strong or flexible. It weakened the unprotected parts, but the benefits and need defined its use. Keedar smiled, the sun warming his face, the prospect of watching Winslow’s development exciting him.

  Afternoon dragged into evening with not much passing for conversation between them. On several occasions, Winslow opened his mouth, but then closed it without sharing his thoughts. By his pinched expression and grinding jaw, he was frustrated, but he refused to voice his displeasure. The day birds and animals chittered into silence, and owls and the night’s denizens took up their calls. Antelen rose, casting its silvery glow across the land and water to honor the Goddess after which it was named.

  “Not bad at all.”

  Keedar didn’t react to his father’s voice, but Winslow started. The young noble scrambled to his feet. Expecting an outburst, Keedar waited, but none came. Instead, Winslow dipped his head to Delisar.

  “You passed the first three tests required.” A lamp sparked to life in Delisar’s hands. “A natural ability above others to draw on your soul. Endurance. Patience. You will need all three if you ever hope to become a melder.”

  “Thank you.” Winslow beamed like a child tasting sweets for the first time.

  “Temper your excitement. It may take years yet before you accomplish your first meld. This is but a small step.”

  “I have no care for how long it takes. I promise to be as diligent a student as any you have.” Winslow glanced at Keedar, eyes showing his determination.

  Delisar smiled. “It’s good to set yourself a goal, even if it’s a bit lofty.” He turned to Keedar. “I see you used tern today. Be careful when drawing on it. The weakness it creates in other parts of your body can be glaring. It’s best if you use sintu to help protect what you exposed.”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “Well, that is all for today,” Delisar said. “Make your way to Kasandar. I will see you both on the morrow.” He handed the lamp to Keedar and trotted off into the dark treeline.

  Hours later, they exited the forest where Winslow kept his stallion. In the distance Kasandar’s twinkling eyes shone from the battlements, spires, and towers.

  Winslow mounted and held a hand down to Keedar. “In order to get back into the citadel at this time you’ll need me.”

  “You’re not worried what the count might think if someone reports us entering together?” Keedar grabbed a hold of the outstretched hand, put one foot on the stirrup, and pulled himself up behind Winslow. “I’d hate to have Sorinya after me. I heard what he did in the Smear.”

  Winslow stiffened, and then let out a slow breath. “He won’t kill you. The count will scold me for being seen with a commoner, but beyond that, he won’t do much else. He has other issues to deal with.”

  “If you say so, but it’s your ass.”

  “Indeed, it is.” Winslow flapped his reins, and they set off at a trot.

  It felt strange having someone of Winslow’s stature willing to place themselves at risk on his behalf. At the same time, the gesture was comforting.

  After a while riding in silence with the wind’s chill and crickets’ chirps to keep them company, Winslow slowed the horse to a walk. “Why did you choose to help us that day in the Smear?”

  Keedar shrugged. “I told you, better to lend you a hand than have the Night of Blades repeat itself.”

  “That’s when you lost your mother, wasn’t it?”

  A sudden lump formed in Keedar’s throat. He swallowed. It took a great effort for him not to show any other reaction. “Yes.”

  “They say my mother’s death started the Night of Blades.”

  “Are you certain?” Keedar understood now why Winslow had despised the Smear.

  Winslow nodded.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I have no memory of her,” Winslow shrugged, “so I don’t feel much when it comes up. There was a time I hated everything the Smear stood for, but now … I don’t know. Count Cardiff, on the other hand …” his voice trailed off.

  “My father has always insisted that the Consortium had nothing to do with your mother’s death. And I believe him.”

  “Do you know who killed yours?” Winslow asked.

  “Exactly who? No.”

  “But it’s why you train, why you wish to become a melder, to one day take revenge.”

  “That and the Smear itself, the way we live.” The Day of Accolades was fast approaching. Months remained before it arrived. The thought of watching the suffering soured his stomach.

  Winslow grunted as if he understood. “I wanted to become a melder so my father would be proud of me, but now, I’m not so sure. What would you do if you found out Delisar wasn’t your father?”

  “I … I don’t know.” The thought had never crossed his mind. “I would be hurt. I would want to know who my real parents were and why they abandoned me. Beyond that, I couldn’t say.” He could imagine the turmoil Winslow was experiencing since the revelation. “You asked me once what was it that I wanted. Have you ever been down to the Smear on the Day of Accolades?”

  “A few times when I was younger,” Winslow said. “The last few years … no. The grandest balls are held on that same day. A celebration of life. It’s an old custom. And I always got upset when I watched the children chosen. I wanted to be a Blade, and here I had to see people given a privilege that I thought were undeserving of it.”

  “Undeserving? Trust me, most would rather hold onto their babies. For us in the Smear, it’s anything but a celebration or about being chosen. The wisemen come to take the king’s tribute.” Winslow stiffened. He obviously knew what it meant, but Keedar continued. “Many give up their children who might be gifted in soul magic in order to fill the army’s ranks or for the chance at becoming a Blade. Some, who know their children possess no skill, surrender their babies, or they try to, because the promise of a life in the court, in the armies, is better than how we live in the Smear, even if an early death follows.”

  “I-I’m sorry,” Winslow whispered.

  “What I want is to put an end to the Day of Accolades.” A sense of triumph eased through Keedar at having said the words. He felt comforted.

  They fell into silence the rest of the way. When they arrived at the Keneshin Gate, Winslow announced himself. The guards hurried them inside through the sally port. Not long after, they parted ways.

  As he hurried along the dark streets toward the Smear, Keedar contemplated the day’s events. He’d had a certain dislike for Winslow, but after today, the young noble had gained his respect for passing the tests. It was as Uncle Keshka often said: ‘A man’s strength is the measure of his soul.’

  By the time he realized he was being followed, he’d passed into the Grey Ward, the reek of drains in need of cleaning filling his nostrils. The usual whores occupied one corner or another or bared their assets at one of the dimly lit inns along the cobbled streets. From the corner of his eyes, he picked out the four men who paid no attention to the women, not even in scorn for their moribund appearances. Although they tried to appear nonchalant, at times laughing with each other, he could tell their focus was on him. With his best chance to escape being the rooftops, Keedar veered down an alley.

  He managed one step
toward a wall when he heard a low buzz and something hard struck his knee. Pain shot up his leg, and it buckled. The clatter of metal on stone was a distant sound. He pitched forward.

  A shadow loomed over him, the smell of pine cones drifting from it.

  “A warning.” The voice carried a Marishman’s stilted accent. “Stay away from the counts’ sons if you wish to live. You’re being spared this time because you helped them. The next time, we won’t be as generous.”

  The first kick to his ribs sent fire up his side. When other booted feet joined in, all he saw were bright lights, and then blackness.

  A Child and a Promise

  W ithout bothering to knock, Winslow shoved open the doors to Count Cardiff’s chambers. “Father, what did you do!” he shouted.

  A hand with an iron grip snatched him from the shadowy depths of the drapes near the door. He clawed at the steely fingers, but they didn’t budge. When he glanced up, he met dark, glittering eyes hidden within a hood. A woodland scent drifted from the person. The meager light that trickled through the hood’s depths shone off a scarred cheek. The mottled flesh tried to jog a memory, one that was soon forgotten by the blade pressing against his sternum.

  “Let him go.” Sounding mildly amused, Count Cardiff’s voice filtered across the room.

  A pause ensued, and for the briefest moment, the grip tightened. Murderous intent radiated from the eyes within the hood.

  Winslow sucked in a breath, fully expecting to feel the painful jab as the blade pierced his skin. Instead, he found his arm free. Count Cardiff’s protector slipped from the room, the door closing behind him with a barely audible click. Able to breathe once more, Winslow felt his chest unclench.

  Incense burned as usual, its aroma dressing the entire room in fall’s garb. Today, the curtains were thrown back and tied off to allow in afternoon sunlight. The lush carpet beneath his feet matched the furniture and the rest of the room’s attire. In a fine cut grey shirt and jacket, Count Cardiff sat in a cushioned armchair, peering at Winslow over his glasses.

  Across from him was Elaina. She wore a silver silk dress with ruffles on the sleeves, a split from her breastbone on down exposing the yellow satin beneath, its edges trimmed with lace.

  “My wayward son, come, sit.” Count Cardiff gestured toward the nearby chair but his steel-eyed expression said it was a command not a request.

  Seething once more, Winslow strode to the seat located close enough to obtain a whiff of citrus from Elaina. He felt her gaze on him as he sat, no doubt wanting to see his reaction to his favorite scent when they would meet at an inn near Walker’s Row. Since the chase in the Smear he had not indulged in her presence.

  Normally, he would grace her with a smile, but today he was not in the mood. Not for her or Count Cardiff’s insistence on their marriage. He frowned as he met her teary-eyed gaze. Before Winslow could ask, Ainslen spoke.

  “You see, my dear Lady Shenen, my son has decided to latch onto some dreg as a friend.” Count Cardiff stared Winslow in the eye, his gaze cold and unrelenting. “The dreg had to be warned of his proper place. I think my son means to take issue with me on the matter.” A smirk played across his face. “Have at it.”

  “It wasn’t a warning or a lesson. You had him beaten half to death.”

  “Hardly. Wasn’t he able to crawl away? A small mercy. Am I correct, Lady Shenen?”

  “Count Cardiff has the right of it, Winslow,” Elaina said, her voice melodic chimes, despite what her eyes showed. “There’s a reason they belong in the Smear. A reason it is even called the Smear. They have no place among us. Sometimes I wish the king would wipe the district clean.”

  “They’re people, Elaina, not animals. And having no place? Do you say that of the Blades that protect us?”

  She pouted before pressing her thin lips into a line. “The Blades are an exception. The Dominion has shone on them.”

  Expecting anything less from her or any of the other nobles would be too much. None could relate or wanted to familiarize themselves with the suffering of the Smear’s people. When he last spoke with Keedar the previous night, the young commoner’s words and plight had touched him. He spent the night contemplating the Day of Accolades and Far’an Senjin. Not until he’d spent time with Keedar did he put much thought to either or to the lives in the Smear.

  “Perhaps I should send for Sorinya then, since the punishment wasn’t to your liking.”

  “No,” Winslow said quickly, “what you did was quite enough.”

  “So you approve of the dreg’s punishment?”

  “Yes.” Winslow hung his head.

  “Good, now to the matter at hand. Count Shenen has invited you to dinner three months hence. We both expect you to propose to Elaina at that time.”

  “Father—”

  “She’s with child.”

  Winslow opened and closed his mouth. It couldn’t be. He’d taken every precaution. When he turned to look at Elaina, he saw tears well up in her eyes. Why would she be crying?

  “I missed my blood this month. One of the maids noticed and word got to my father. I had no choice but to tell him,” she whispered. “He was very upset. So much so that he sent one of his men to Walker’s Row.”

  Winslow gaped.

  “Now, we know which house and why,” Count Cardiff said.

  Ainslen’s response and demeanor were a far cry from the outrage Winslow would have expected considering that House Hazline and Mandrigal had brokered a deal. In fact, the count’s eyes spoke of satisfaction, pleasure even. This being Count Cardiff, he knew the man was assessing all possibilities, unfolding the game in his head. Winslow understood the lack of concern. With this revelation, their houses would be joined regardless of what anyone else might wish.

  What am I going to do? He could not marry her. Love was out of the question. Children? He was less than prepared. Obviously, revealing how he felt wouldn’t go over well. So, he did nothing but sat wearing a stunned expression.

  “I cannot say that I’m exactly pleased by this,” Count Cardiff said, “but in each situation there’s some good. A union between our two houses will do us well.”

  Winslow stood and walked over to Elaina. Staring into her eyes, he held his hand out. She took it and stood. To avoid losing his nerve, he drew her into his arms, inhaling deeply, her citrus scent strong. He prayed this display would satisfy the count and give him time to think.

  “I’ll do what is necessary for you and the child.” Winslow meant his words.

  In his arms, he felt her chest rise and fall as she relaxed. Her face was cool against his. “Thank you.”

  He considered sneaking away, but doing so would be continuing a vicious trend of parents abandoning their children in his family line. The thought gave him pause. If not the count, then who were his true parents? What heritage did he hold? With the thought and the anguish it brought, he squeezed Elaina harder. She sighed in contentment.

  “Well,” the count said, “with that out of the way, if you will excuse us, Elaina, I have to speak to Winslow.”

  After kissing her on the cheek, Winslow let her take her leave.

  “Now to you,” Count Cardiff began, once the door closed, “you will not be seen with that dreg again. If you are, I will send Sorinya to bring me his head.”

  Winslow shuddered as he recalled the night not so long ago. Sorinya had returned. A servant woke Winslow from his sleep to attend his father. When he walked into this same room, his father had three heads on the floor near the table. They were the Snakes that had shown themselves that night in the Smear.

  Mouth drying, Winslow closed his eyes with the memory. “Sometimes I wonder if you are my father,” he muttered, “or my gaoler.”

  “I’m the person saving you from yourself.”

  “What if I need no saving? Why can I not grow to be who I wish?”

  “To bring the Cardiff name down?” The count leaned forward. “Listen to me, and listen to me well, I am your father and provider, and as a
Cardiff, you will do your duty to see us rise.”

  Not even a hint of a lie.

  “That starts with you marrying Elaina. You did the deed that saw her with child. I will not stand by and see our house pulled down by a conflict with her father now. I would let him kill you long before that day.”

  Again, no deception. Winslow’s insides grew icy.

  “As for this dreg you have befriended, I shall let him be on one condition. Never be seen with him again. Should anyone bring word to me of the contrary, I will have his head.”

  “You won’t hear of me with him again,” Winslow said.

  “Good, because I cannot afford any questions now. The shipment I expected will be here in the coming weeks. With it we will become the Hill’s most influential house, possibly surpass even King Jemare himself. Dangerous times are ahead. You have enough distractions already. You cannot afford any more. From now on, your time with Lestin will be extended.”

  Winslow nodded. He would do exactly as he said.

  C aress of a Maiden

  F our weeks had passed since the beating. Still a bit sore from the broken bones he’d suffered, Keedar winced. The wisemen Father hired had done an admirable job knitting him back together, but they could do little about the spasms he suffered sometimes. Today, he sat by the murky pool, waning sunlight peeking through the trees, and watched as Winslow practiced his breathing and meditation. The noble was learning fast. Despite Winslow’s denial, Keedar wondered how much he knew of the attack that night.

  None of it mattered much. Father insisted on keeping Winslow as an apprentice. It was Keedar’s job to help train him, so he did. However, they no longer returned to Kasandar together. In fact, Winslow had suggested they approach the city from different gates. That didn’t stop them from meeting later at night in the River Quarter. Not nearly as lawless as the Smear, it offered them an outlet from their lives, and with Winslow and Gaston disguised as scruffy sailors, it made for fun Keedar had not experienced since Raishaar was alive.