The Quintessence Cycle- The Complete Series

by Terry C. Simpson

Days like this, filled with enjoyment, had been scarce over the past months since they fled Kasandar. They spent most days mired in a litany of exercise, training in soul, or preparing for the Fast of Madness: the trial that would see them acknowledged as melders. Keedar had barely passed his test, just managing to gain the first of his inner cycles in the process. Winslow’s turn was a week away. The thought of the Fast brought on a shiver.

  Movement on the sheer face of the Cliffs of a Thousand Sorrows caught his eye. He squinted, trying to make out the white forms on the grey and brown strata. Crag goats, he decided, still straining to make them out. A few of them were lower than they normally climbed. Odd. Despite the wealth of foliage in the Treskelin, the animals preferred to scale the cliffs for sparse offerings or spent their time in the Parmien Forest’s frigid confines. He supposed he might have done the same if he was a korgan cat’s favorite course.

  Above the cliffs, snow crowned the Parmien in white. He still marveled that two forests in such close proximity to each other could be so different. While winter had swallowed much of the land, and had made robes of ice for the Parmien’s trees, it could not penetrate the Treskelin Forest’s oven-like grip. Not unless the great ash trees allowed it. Keedar shook his head.

  Despite knowing all living creatures possessed soul, he hadn’t expected the Treskelin’s ash trees to perform a meld. It was one thing to learn that intelligent beasts like derins could accomplish the feat, but completely another to discover that something as mundane as a tree possessed the ability. Thinking on it made him acutely aware of the day’s heat, the sweat on his brow, and his thick beard. When life returns to normal the first thing I’ll do is shave you. He scratched at his chin. If it ever returns to normal. Keedar let out a long, slow breath.

  After a quick glance over to his brother, he waded into the water. Searching among the reeds he found one that was young, supple, and long enough for the task he had in mind. He separated it from the others with his dagger and then cut it near a joint before returning the weapon to its sheath at his waist.

  “Ready?” Winslow called across the distance, waist deep in the pond.

  Keedar waved once, and then popped the end of the reed into his mouth. He envisioned the thirty-two vital points around his body, soul flowing through them like blood. Three wispy rings enclosed each point, and within them were the cycles. He recalled when the rings were smooth circles before the Fast of Madness. Now they had ten sides. His soul itself had also changed during the test. Countless ten-sided ring combinations, so small he could never had made them out with his bare eye, comprised his soul.

  He summoned sintu, the first cycle, preventing the natural leakage of soul. A nimbus sprang up around his body like a white, misty haze. With the third cycle, tern , he solidified the nimbus around his nose and mouth only, extending it along the reed’s length in a layer no thicker than a blade. Then he lay back in the water, made his soul heavier than normal, and allowed himself to sink. Weight control had been one of the harder abilities to learn under Keshka’s tutelage, but it was one the old man insisted upon. No water penetrated the application of tern.

  Using his feet, arms, and a little soul to propel him, Keedar maneuvered out toward the pond’s center. The water was a murky haze above him, the sky a wavy blue. Fish flitted by.

  Adult yellowtail eels began to appear, bodies like tanned leather, tapering to their namesake tails. They were as long as he was tall and as thick as his leg. Distant cousins to the giant lida sea worms hunted by the Farish Islanders, yellowtails were a Kheridisian delicacy. Some even claimed that rare yellowtails survived this migration and egg laying period here in the Treskelin’s lakes and ponds and would make their way out to sea and evolve into lidas. Keedar doubted it. He’d seen a lida once. The beasts could swallow a small boat.

  Keedar focused on a yellowtail as it glided on a slow path that would take it directly above him. He called on tern to solidify his soul around his arm, and then used shi to meld, manifesting a dagger like the one at his waist. As the eel passed his toes, Keedar lightened his soul in slow increments, causing his body to naturally float up, well aware that the yellowtails reacted only to disturbances on the surface. Within inches of touching the eel, he snapped his hand out, and speared the eel just below the head. He surged out of the pond, arm held aloft. The other yellowtails scattered.

  Holding the yellowtail above his head was like lifting the body of a young bull, but he had already magnified his arm for added strength. Eyes like black orbs stared at him as the eel thrashed against capture and death, the lower half of its body whipping the water into a torrent. Blood trickled down Keedar’s arm, dripping from his elbow into the pond before the disturbance created by the eel swept the redness away.

  A glance up the pond brought on a grin. Winslow gave the water’s surface a frustrated slap and stalked to the shore, a single baby yellowtail slung over his shoulder.

  “So much for two victories,” Keedar yelled.

  An hour later they were basking in the sun, allowing their clothes to dry, and enjoying a meal of roasted yellowtail, the soft, succulent meat making Keedar wish for some curry. The fire they’d built was little more than smoldering coals.

  “Things like what you did today,” Winslow said, holding up a large chunk of eel, “is why I crave to take the trial, to learn as much melding as possible.”

  “I remember when I felt the same way.”

  “And you don’t anymore?”

  “It’s not that, it’s just … the Fast of Madness—” Keedar cut off. Although he wanted to speak of the trial, a part of him couldn’t. Not with someone who had yet to take it. The forest itself enforced the pact of secrecy. Keedar guessed it had to be some kind of unbreakable mindbend.

  “Well?” Winslow asked, expression hopeful.

  “You’ll see when your turn arrives,” Keedar said.

  “Fine.” Hope became a glower.

  Feeling the need to change the subject, Keedar asked, “This son of yours, are you looking forward to seeing him?”

  “Soon, one day soon.” Winslow gazed across the pond toward the cliffs. “I want him to know his father, not experience the same doubts that I had.”

  Keedar hadn’t grown with those doubts, but he could understand them. Uncertainty often niggled at him when he thought of Delisar and Keshka. It was a hard thing learning that the person who raised you as their son was not your father. So many questions surrounded the issue that he routinely brooded over the past and future.

  “Do you believe what Uncle says about us being Dracodar?” Winslow asked.

  “Yes. Mother was one,” Keedar said. “I still have nightmares of her golden scales.” That wasn’t his only reason for believing. The scales beneath his own skin haunted him. At times he could trace the individual edges, could see the rounded shapes bulging. Their growth began during his test and continued as his ability with soul increased. Ever since his mother’s death he’d longed for the change. Now he was uncertain if it was a good thing.

  “I still can’t remember her,” Winslow said with a shake of his head. “Although Uncle Keshka removed the meld that had blocked my memory, I still can’t recall much.”

  “You wouldn’t. Not from that time. You’d just been born. Even when I think of those days I can’t remember you. Much of that time is a blur, a dream. It’s often hard to tell what’s real and what wasn’t. At least the parts my mind dredges up.”

  “But you act as if you know she was real.”

  “That’s because she was. Every part of me says so.”

  “It’s just so much to fathom, all these changes …” Winslow’s eyes took on a dreamy cast. A moment later a wisp of a smile crossed his features. “There’s some good in it, though. Not only will I finally be a melder, but also a Dracodar. It will be like the stories.”

  “Hopefully.” Sentiments like that last reminded Keedar that although Winslow could be as overbearing as any adult, he was still young, not a man grown.

  “I
magine the possibilities.” Winslow’s eyes shone. “We can help free my father, avenge Mother …”

  “Perhaps one day join with the guilds and others like us, defeat the Empire, and free our people from oppression.” Keedar got caught up in the idea for a moment before he recalled days when the King’s Blades had marched into the Smear to hunt those who had avoided the Day of Accolades, on occasion their own parents or other family members. They either dragged their targets off to trial or executed them on the spot. Melancholy claimed him, and he let out a breath. “It’s a good dream, one I’ve had for years, but after Succession Day, I’m no longer certain. Ainslen, the Empire, the Blades, and these Farlanders are not only powerful, but they are many.”

  “If the stories are true, then one Dracodar is the equivalent of ten normal melders,” Winslow argued. “Surely your father has a plan. He’s been at this for more than a century.”

  My father, Keshka. The thought still felt strange. All his life Keedar had been raised to believe Delisar was his father, and Keshka his uncle. In a short span, that had changed to the opposite. A part of him still regarded Delisar as he did before, and a part of him hurt from the lie the men had kept. “We can only hope. Delisar was always vague about the plan, often recommending patience.” Ironic , Keedar thought, picturing his uncle’s face. Where was your patience when you needed it most? The day of the auction surfaced, and he immediately slammed his mind shut against it.

  He didn’t want the image of Ainslen ingesting Delisar’s soul to haunt him as it had on many occasions. The single thought of the king brought a surge of hate so strong that Keedar tasted its bitterness.

  The echo of a korgan cat’s pain-filled scream cut through the air. Forehead wrinkled, Keedar gazed toward the sound’s origins. The location made little sense. Any predators big enough to threaten a korgan remained in the Treskelin’s deeper, darker confines, even with the plethora of food that migrated down to the warmer clime. He studied the cliffs. The crag goats were still there. He paused, counting. There were half dozen less. The goats always fled to the safety of the sheer rock face when threatened. Why would so many of them climb down?

  A sense of danger twisted in Keedar’s gut, one he couldn’t ignore. Life on the Smear’s streets, where indecision could mean death, had taught him to follow those instincts.

  “Do you hear that?” Winslow asked, eyes focused on the trees.

  Keedar didn’t need to ask after his brother’s meaning. He knew. The chorus of nearby wildlife was no more. Only distant sounds reached them. As he made to mention his concerns, four men stepped from the Treskelin’s undergrowth.

  “Hells’ Angels,” he cursed under his breath. Beside him, Winslow tensed. They scrambled to their feet. “Stay calm. First we find out what they want.”

  “Scratch my beard if I pick up on a lie?” Winslow asked. Keedar nodded.

  The men all wore white fur coats over woolens, unbuttoned in an attempt to alleviate the humid temperature. Their garb confirmed Keedar’s suspicion as to the men’s origin. Three had swords, two of them stained red, the same arterial red that sullied their clothing. One of the men limped, his leg wrapped in bandages that seeped blood. He had a bow slung over his shoulder. Eyes wary, they scanned the area as they approached.

  “Greetings,” the lead man said in crisp Kasinian. He wore his dark hair in a ponytail, bread trimmed to a triangular shape. “I’m Geran. This here’s Lothar, Kroenel, and Meklar.” He nodded to the wounded man first, then to one with a drooping eye, a scar across it, and finally to a gaunt-faced man with tattoos on his fingers.

  Keedar nodded to the men. “I’m Renevar. This is Barstow.” The strangers stopped a few paces from the spit and dead coals.

  “Our friend here is hurt,” Geran said. “We saw your fire, thought maybe there would be help.” The man’s gaze flitted past them to take in the rest of the area.

  He was lying. Keedar knew it even without Winslow’s tell. They’d built a pit for the fire, and unless Geran had been standing over it, he would never have seen the flames. A combination of the smallest, driest twigs also ensured it had been smokeless.

  “What happened?” Winslow asked.

  “A korgan cat attacked our camp, went after our horses.” Geran scowled.

  “Bastard killed two of our friends before we ended it,” Lothar said.

  “One cat?” Keedar asked, frowning.

  “Yes.”

  “Must have been a big brute to take so many of you.” Keedar was certain he and Winslow were thinking along the same lines. Korgan cats hunted in triplets: two females and one male. Either the men were lying again or they had no idea just how much trouble they’d bought themselves. Winslow’s hand remained at his side.

  “Damn thing was scary, tall enough for its head to reach my chest.” Geran nodded toward them. “With beasts like that on the loose, what are you two doing out here? Not the place one would expect to find Kasinians, and ones that haven’t seen twenty summers yet, unless I miss my mark.”

  For at least one of us you are , Keedar thought. “We ran away from home some years ago. Our parents wanted to send us off to the Order, but being a wiseman wasn’t in our blood. We have a thing for the ladies.” Keedar offered the men a lopsided grin and in return got forced smiles.

  “I know what you mean,” Geran said, nodding appreciatively, “but to flee here? That’s a bit much isn’t it, particularly with all the stories about Wild Kheridisians and the like.”

  “Better here than up there freezing our balls off.” Keedar gestured to the Parmien. “As for the Wild Ones, the only wild things we’ve seen have been the animals. And we only come down here for the winter, most of the year we travel the Ost, taking jobs as deckhands.”

  “Makes sense.”

  Despite the relaxed conversation none of the men had attempted to sheath their weapons. Meklar had a white-knuckled grip on his hilt. Of even more concern was Kroenel, who was peering at Winslow, brows furrowed. For the briefest of moments his eyes narrowed, the drooping one almost closing completely. Keedar swore he saw a spark of recognition. And then Kroenel was back to normal, if a stare that resonated violence could be called normal.

  “Well, there’s enough yellowtail here to share with you, if you wish,” Keedar said, hoping to ease the tension. He had been on the verge of asking after the men’s business but decided against it. He gestured to Lothar. “You’ll want to get some dolin moss rubbed in that wound. Korgans have infectious bites. Wait too long and you’ll lose the leg.”

  The men glanced at each other, no doubt trying to determine if Keedar’s story was true. Keedar waited, heart thumping, ready to dash into the water if the need arose.

  “We wouldn’t want that, would we?” Geran said, eyebrow arched. He sheathed his weapon. The other men followed his lead. “Where can we find this moss?”

  “Just over there.” Keedar pointed to the pond. “Among the reeds. Barstow and I can snag a few, seeing as we know what to look for. Be much faster that way.”

  “Appreciated” Geran nodded to the man with the scar, who was frowning again. “Kroenel, go with them in case they need a hand.” The man didn’t acknowledge Geran. “Kroenel,” Geran repeated, louder this time.

  “What?” Kroenel scowled, making the scar across his eye more prominent.

  “I said go with those two to get that moss.” Geran flicked his head in Winslow and Keedar’s direction. Kroenel nodded.

  A blur of movement within the woods brought a halt to any protest Keedar thought to offer. He did all he could not to react or show his fear. “Let’s go.” He turned on his heels as calmly as he could manage.

  As they walked, Keedar suppressed the urge to flee. One foot in front the other, one foot in front the other . “So, what brings you people to the Treskelin Forest?” He glanced over his shoulder to Kroenel.

  “Hunting.”

  Winslow didn’t scratch his beard.

  “Ah, splendid game out here, I must admit. What are you after? Deer, goa
ts, bears, perhaps some derins?” Considering the time of year he expected one or the other.

  “Bears.”

  Winslow scratched at his beard and neck.

  “You should cut that thing off,” Kroenel said. “It’s why I keep mine shaved. Can’t stand the itching.”

  “It actually soothes me.” Winslow chuckled. “I remember when I once felt as you do, but the ladies like to play in my hair. As long as they’re happy, I’m happy.”

  “Hmmm,” Kroenel said, eyeing Winslow once more. “Something about you seems so familiar, but I can’t place it. What did you say your name was again?”

  “I didn’t,” Winslow answered, “but it’s Renevar.”

  Hells’ Angels . Keedar held his breath, hoping the man didn’t catch the mistake. Seconds felt like forever. At any moment he expected a yell, or to see the man reach for his sword, hear the rasp of steel on leather. He fought against the urge to inch his hand to his dagger’s hilt.

  “Renevar, Renevar … nah, can’t place it, but I never forget a face. It’ll come to me.”

  Relieved, Keedar exhaled slowly. When they reached the water’s edge, he stopped. “We’ll dive among the reeds to gather the moss and drop it here.” Without waiting for Kroenel’s assent he waded into the pond.

  “That was close,” Winslow whispered a moment later. “Sorry about that.”

  “Just be glad this one isn’t too smart,” Keedar said. “If it was Geran we’d be in trouble.” When they were among the tall reeds, he maneuvered so he could see Kroenel. The hunter was peering at several sheets of paper. When Kroenel finished with one he would stuff it back into the satchel at his waist.

  “So how do we escape this,” Winslow asked. “Even wounded, I get the sense that Lothar is a good shot.”

  “Depends on how they handle the korgans.” Keedar grinned cruelly as he gave a slight nod in the direction of the forest behind the men.

  Twice the size of a hunting hound, a male korgan crept from the trees. Its tawny, short hair lay flat on its back, its mane a bush from which grew a face with an elongated snout, black nose, and golden eyes. Another slunk behind it, this one lacking a mane, and tall enough to reach Keedar’s waist.