The Quintessence Cycle- The Complete Series

by Terry C. Simpson

  What had been distant before became a roar, the light breeze, a gale, small creatures steps in the woods were a giant’s footfalls, the sand and tiny pebbles constantly trickling down the cliff face was an avalanche. The crescendo almost made him cover his ears. Working hard to concentrate, he picked out what he sought. “Listen.”

  The hounds were moving away. To the east.

  “Strange,” Keedar said. “Why would they do that if they had our scent?”

  “I don’t know. I’m certain they were on our trail.” The hounds still bayed as if they did, but in the wrong direction. “That’s the second time today the Dominion have shone on us.” Winslow released hyzen. The effect was like traveling from daylight into utter blackness.

  “Tell that to my mother and father, and those women and children the King’s Blades slew,” Keedar said.

  Winslow wanted to chide Keedar for his lack of faith, but he knew it would make no difference. He understood his friend’s sentiments. In ways, he could relate if he lived in the Smear, if he’d gone through the same struggles, if he had suffered through the Day of Accolades. There was little in the arduous, deadly life of the Smear’s inhabitants that would make any among them want to turn to the Dominion. It was no wonder that they had abandoned the temples.

  “Before we start down, banish any thought that this will be as easy as running the Parmien,” Keedar said. “Any lapse in your focus, and you will fall to your death. With this method, we’ll be able to travel faster than any normal climber ever could. The important thing is to relax while you maintain hyzen , almost as if you might float away. Resistance will find you as a red smear on the rocks below.”

  “I will try.” Anxious to be gone lest what bravery he mustered fled him, Winslow added, “Show me where to climb down, and I will follow.”

  Keedar frowned. “Who said anything about climbing?”

  “What?” Eyes bulging, Winslow stared with his jaw unhinged at the forest and the jagged stones leering at him below.

  “You’re the one all big on the Gods. Let’s call this a leap of faith.”

  “You really are a raving madman, aren’t you?” Winslow whispered hoarsely as he ripped his gaze away from the precipice.

  “No, I’m not.” Keedar turned his head ever so slightly and nodded toward the trees. “We don’t have much choice. I figured although someone or something might have gotten the hounds off our trail, any half decent commander would still have a few men continue on in case we’d split up. I guess I was correct.”

  Through the woods, Winslow saw at least two dozen soldiers heading their way. His chest constricted. A man stepped from the tree line within twenty feet of him and Keedar.

  Immediately, Winslow recognized the man’s face with its ruinous scars appearing as if someone had thrust him head first into a fire. Although one of his eyes drooped, the other held a Marishman’s acute slant. The assassin Count Shenen had hired. Not only that but he’d seen the same man before at Mandrigal Hill, leaving his father’s chambers. Winslow licked his lips, the cold, the wind, and the precipice beside him all but forgotten.

  “Killian?” Keedar exclaimed, voice high-pitched.

  “You know him?”

  Keedar stared at the man, his hand rising to brush at his chest. “Yes. Listen, it’s either trust me and pray to your Gods or die to the likes of him,” he said under his breath. “I’d rather leap from this cliff and come to a smashing end than have him touch me. He would enjoy it too much.”

  “Ah, my young friends.” The Marishman smiled, his accent thick and drawling. In one hand he twirled a short sword. “You,” he pointed at Winslow, “got lucky that night because of him.” When his attention turned to Keedar, his eyes reflected nothing but venom. “You, you little bastard, have made a fool of me far too many times, taking to the roofs. No one does that to Shaz.” The assassin glanced around, arms spread wide. “There aren’t any roofs here now.” He paused to let the words sink in, and then he grinned. “I’ll be merciful today. More so than I was with your little whore or Raishaar. I have a proposal. Before the rest of my men get here, you two jump. If not, I’ll make sure you stay alive for at least two weeks. I have a talent for sustaining men at the brink of death.”

  Count Shenen’s ruthlessness was well renowned on the Hills. Word of the activities in his torture chambers had spread among the nobility. He had a habit of skinning his victims alive and using soul magic to prevent them from bleeding out. Winslow shuddered at the prospect of him becoming one of them. Before his emotions overwhelmed him, he forced the tightness from his gut, and relaxed his shoulders.

  “I pray the Gods are on our side,” Winslow muttered so only Keedar could hear.

  “On three, then?”

  At those words, Winslow nodded, his mouth abruptly dry. Involuntarily, his hand snaked down to grip Keedar’s. Across from them, the assassin’s eyes narrowed; a smile spread across his scarred face. As Keedar said ‘three’, the number was a raspy whisper at the back of Winslow’s mind.

  When Keedar’s hand pulled on his, Winslow turned and leaped from the Cliffs of a Thousand Sorrows.

  A mong Family

  K eedar’s stomach lurched into his mouth. Freezing air rushed past him as they dropped from the precipice. Its force took his breath away and brought tears to his eyes. He didn’t know if to scream, cry, laugh or do all three in turn. If he had misunderstood Uncle Keshka and Father, the exhilaration and fear of falling two thousand feet would be the last thing he remembered. How painful would it be when they struck the ground if that were the case? Would every bone break? Would they splatter? The absurdity of his thoughts made him chuckle. The chuckle became a roaring laugh that echoed from the cliff walls as if ten thousand versions of himself cackled insanely.

  Terror should have wrapped him in its icy embrace. Instead, a strange calm suffused him. For a moment he wondered if the Gods were seeing what was happening. Will you come rescue me, reach a hand down and stop my fall? Give me a chance to seek revenge for my parents, for my friends? Feel that I have suffered enough without your intervention? Or has my lack of faith doomed me? No, you shits don’t even know I exist, do you?

  The forest before him was a green monster. Sandy earth and jagged stone fangs raced up to eat him. It was so tempting to close his eyes and wait for death.

  Fascinated by the prospect, he stared as one particular dot below him grew. He chased the distractions away and concentrated on making his soul steady and even. He drew on hyzen , placing almost the entirety of his soul under him.

  The blot, once an inconsequential shadow, materialized into a human form, arms outstretched. Sintu writhed around the person so thick it appeared tangible. A blast of hot air struck Keedar, too hot for the time of year, too hot for the current weather, too hot to be normal.

  He struck something.

  Exactly what, he could not tell. But it was soft, almost like hitting a cushion or some lavish bed loaded with quilts or fur coverings. The person below him, the forest, the sand, and the stones filled his vision. His speed slowed. The last few hundred feet, his descent continued as if he sunk into thick mud. In awe, he stared from one side to the other.

  “Praise be to the Dominion, to the Creator,” Winslow uttered.

  Glancing over, Keedar took in the utter reverence in the serene smile that encompassed Winslow’s face as he held his head to the sky. Keedar couldn’t help but to grin. “Creator, my ass. Look down at your savior, fool.” When Winslow compiled, Keedar grinned even wider at the young noble’s bulging eyes. “It’s rude to stare. Say hello to my Uncle Keshka.”

  Keshka Giorin, white hair wild, eyes tight with concentration, stood with his feet splayed wide, trembling hands out before him as if he lifted a great weight and pushed it up. He drew his arms down inch by inch. Soul spilled from him in such great amounts that Keedar felt it throb against him, its consistency the same as whatever his Uncle had conjured to slow their fall and bring them to safety.

  On several of Keedar�
�s visits, Keshka had forced him to climb the Cliffs of a Thousand Sorrows as part of his training. The session extended well into the evening. The start and end hadn’t gone so well, with him missing a grip or toehold, forgetting to rely on sintu and tern to help him ease his weight or get a better hold. When he fell, Uncle Keshka caught him each time.

  Keedar was glad he had correctly interpreted his uncle’s words from the Undertow. It pained him that Keshka had expected Father to fail.

  The reminder of Delisar brought fresh grief tearing through Keedar. As soon as he touched the rocky earth, he rushed into Keshka’s arms. Tears flowed freely.

  “That bad, huh?” Keshka hugged him tight.

  Keedar sobbed even harder, dimly aware of the stench of derin piss on his Uncle’s clothing. “H-He tried, b-but they knew.” Sniffling, he wiped at his eyes while trying to compose himself. “It was a trap. They came to the Smear and killed everyone.” More sobs tore from him.

  “Of course they knew,” Keshka said. “Delisar grew too careless, too trusting. It is one thing to have a goal, but completely another to chase after it so doggedly you lose sight of the dangers. The count dangled the right bait.” He sighed. “What of my brother?”

  “He fought the Ebon Blade. They were evenly matched until Count Cardiff got involved. I-I … I couldn’t help. They were so strong. I …” Keedar’s voice trailed off.

  Uncle Keshka eased him away from his body and stared into his face. The man had the kindest, most golden eyes Keedar ever saw. “I know, son. And you weren’t meant to help. Not yet. Did they take him or kill him?”

  “I don’t know. He led them away after they cornered us in our old home. Why, Uncle Keshka? Why?”

  “You know the reasons as well as I do.” Those kind eyes became daggers. “Greed. Lust. Their damned Far’an Senjin.” For the first time, Keshka looked over to Winslow. “I guess you’re the one. You have his eyes, a bit of his face, but most of all you resemble her.”

  Keedar frowned. He took a step back and peered from Keshka to Winslow. “Uncle?”

  The same bewildered expression overcame Winslow’s face.

  “Come, I’ll tell you on the way.” Keshka glanced up. “We need to be off before they realize what’s happened down here.”

  Keedar followed his uncle’s gaze, but could make out no one on the cliff’s edge. As Keshka led the way into the forest a few feet away, he made to follow. A tug on his arm brought his attention to Winslow.

  “I’m sorry about your parents,” Winslow said.

  Keedar nodded, wiped at his eyes and followed Keshka. When he entered the embrace of branches and foliage, he took one last glance up the rocky walls. Killian was standing at the precipice’s edge, staring down at them. A moment later the knitted canopy hid him from view.

  They’d been trekking through the Treskelin Forest for some time, its creatures mostly quiet around them. The woods might have been a continuation of the Parmien, with white ash and cypress in dominance, sprinkled in with half a dozen species Keedar didn’t recognize, but the differences were too stark. Whereas the Parmien was lively and inviting, ominous silences, impenetrable shadows, and mourning winds dominated the Treskelin. It smelled old, like a place time had forgotten.

  Vines wrapped around branches and trunks, and moss hung like ropy beards. Some copses were so thick, he couldn’t see beyond the first leafy covering. The onset of cold didn’t affect the Treskelin in the least. Ancient, the forest had a life of its own, a soul. On occasion he felt as if eyes watched him from within the brooding shadows. Those dark splotches reminded him of the tales he once read of the men and women said to have fled to these woods—the shadowbearers—people so twisted by the crimes they’d committed while melding that they were forever lost in madness. He shuddered to think if those stories were true.

  “You know, I told Delisar it was too soon to move. That this was a trap, and he was making a mistake,” Uncle Keshka finally said. “But convincing him of something once his mind is set is like training a derin. Sometimes so aggravating that I give up for a bit.”

  Winslow cleared his throat. “Derins cannot be trained.”

  “Oh? So you’re an expert on these matters?”

  Keedar made to tell Winslow not to answer. His uncle had a foul temper at times. For years, he’d caught derins and attempted to tame them. As far as Keedar knew, he failed every time. Questioning Keshka out loud and reminding him of his attempts would be a good way to spark his uncle’s ugly half. He wished he could see Keshka’s face to tell how he was taking the conversation. Before Keedar could utter a word, Winslow answered.

  “No, but I knew a few hound masters who have tried.” Winslow had a stubborn set to his jaw. “They all failed. They had to put the beasts down every time.”

  “Is a derin a hound or a dog?”

  “No, but it’s still an animal.”

  From the way Keshka missed a step, Keedar suspected it was too late. With a sigh, he committed himself to listening and hoping it wouldn’t get any worse than words.

  “We’re beasts too, if you let some tell it.” Keshka shook his head. “This is the problem with our youth today. You see a thing in one place, and you believe you know it all. I mean, there isn’t a chance some other part of the world works differently.”

  “Well—”

  “Tell me,” Keshka gestured with one hand as he spoke, “could these hound masters train a horse any more than a horse trainer could train a hound?”

  “I couldn’t say one way or another.”

  “I guess I need to ask the derin that pissed on you, then.” Keshka sniffed at his own clothes. “Bitch pissed on me too. Next time, I ought to make her take a chunk out of your ass.”

  Keedar gawked at Uncle Keshka in the same fashion as Winslow. Quick as thought, the encounter began to make sense. “You tamed one and had it lead them away?”

  “Well, I had to do something . They were going to catch you long before you made the Sorrows.”

  “Impossible,” Winslow said in a breathless whisper.

  “Obviously not,” Keshka replied dryly. “Let this be your first lesson. Consider most things as being possible. That way no one can surprise you.”

  “How did you manage it?” Keedar asked. “Was it by melding?”

  “Always back to that, eh, son?” Keshka chuckled before he grew serious. “Melding can help a man or beast to accomplish many extraordinary things, but patience and practice are the best teachers. It’s what Delisar lacked at times. I had hoped your mother would have tempered his urges.”

  “You mention people’s parents often,” Winslow said. “Back there, you said I had his eyes but said I looked mostly like her.” He paused for a moment. “Do you know my mother and father?”

  Keshka stopped so abruptly they almost ran into his back. He stared down at them as a drillmaster might to one of his students: all seriousness and an air that spoke of authority. Yet, Keedar noted the uncertain flicker in his eyes. They hardened into determination once more.

  “Yes, I do,” Keshka said.

  “Who are they?” Winslow asked, the words more a plea than an inquiry.

  “Delisar Giorin is your father. Your mother is Lys.”

  Keedar gawked. Disbelief swept through him. Speechless, he looked from Keshka to Winslow and back again. Winslow’s face bore astonishment to match his own.

  “You’re Keedar’s half brother.”

  “I cannot be a commoner’s child,” Winslow muttered. “I cannot be.”

  Somewhere in the back of his mind, Keedar analyzed his uncle’s words. Half brother? He looked at Winslow. Really looked at him for the first time. As sure as piss was warm, he saw the resemblance. The lines about the face, the eyes … they were Father’s. But Keshka had said they were half brothers. “We have different mothers?”

  “No. Fathers.”

  This time, Keedar lost his breath. The world seemed to have come to a halt. None of this could be true. Delisar had been there from the start. But at th
e same time, he knew his uncle never lied. “Who, who is my father then?” he whispered, still not believing while he hoped it was all a dream.

  “I am.” Keshka’s expression softened as his eyes glistened wetly. “Why do you think I’ve always called you son?”

  R evelations

  “I can see the doubt and a host of other emotions flashing across your faces,” Keshka said. “You have questions, no doubt, but first, let me tell you how this came to be.”

  Too numb to offer any argument or sort the muddle racing through his mind, Winslow nodded. In an effort to clear his head he sucked in a breath. Filled with wood rot and some animal’s droppings, the forests’ odors lent some sense of normalcy. Although early evening, meager light penetrated the green canopy, creating patches of shadow and darkness that made him feel as if something watched them from among the statuesque trunks. When his gaze roved to Keedar, his friend’s crestfallen face was a far cry from his normal confidence.

  “Let’s head on to my place as we talk.” Keshka peered into the trees as if he felt the same uneasiness Winslow experienced before he spun on his heels and strode through fallen leaves.

  As they followed Keshka, branches clicked against each other and leaves rustled. Spurred on by the wind’s moans, the noise commingled with forest critters’ chatter. In the distance, hounds bayed. Winslow tensed.

  “No need to worry about those,” Keshka said. “Even if someone believes you survived that leap, the Kasinians will think three times before crossing into Kheridisia uninvited. Especially out here in the less civilized areas.”

  “Um, Uncle Keshka, can you tell us …” Keedar’s voice trailed off.

  “Ah, yes, your story. Or at least your mother’s story. Well, first, you know her as Lys. For me, and many others, she will always be Queen Elysse. For those who hated her and wanted her dead, she will be Elysse the Temptress, Elysse the Princeslayer, or some such.”