The Quintessence Cycle- The Complete Series

by Terry C. Simpson

  “In exchange for our services, you will open up more of the Order’s chapterhouses and chantries.” Jarod’s face was an unreadable mask as he spoke. “You will unify the kingdoms in the name of the Dominion.”

  “You want to enforce our religion on the entire Kasinian Empire?” Ainslen exclaimed in disbelief. “Even if it’s possible, such a task would take decades, centuries, perhaps.”

  High Priest Jarod stared out toward the west and the Crystal Skies. “You misunderstand what they require, and your vision is limited. They want you to bring the Order to all the other known parts of Mareshna, to the uncivilized lands in the west, to the Farlanders in the east, perhaps even to the places that exist beyond the Pillars of Dissolution. It might take more than your lifetime, but such is the price.”

  Ainslen gaped. Except for Darshan and the Farish Isles, his hold on the Empire’s kingdoms was tenuous. The Kheridisians had made their position clear, and in truth, their loyalty had always been unreliable. The Order itself had a better relationship with them, if taking in Kheridisian strays and runaways to convert them to wisemen could be called a relationship. As for the other lands, Succession Day had provided a chance and an excuse for them to break away, to seek to overthrow what they saw as a weakened Kasinia. He was already treading dangerously close to another Empire War. Blood would flow, generations snuffed out before he had an iron grip on his rule. And the Order wanted more? “Such a war will cost millions … in lives and in coin.”

  “There will be an abundance of both. The Order will send its accountants among yours to see all is in place.”

  “Let me ask, do they expect me to abolish all other religions?”

  “Heavens, no. Some heresy will be tolerated, but the Order must be dominant. Without the profane there is no pious.”

  And without the pious there is no profane, Ainslen almost finished, but that teaching was frowned upon, considered blasphemy by the Order. Something else that Jarod said niggled at him. ‘Perhaps even to the places that exist beyond the Pillars of Dissolution.’ The High Priest could not be suggesting that each set of Pillars led to something other than one of the Ten Hells. He simply could not. Such sacrilege.

  On the verge of condemning the entire idea as preposterous, Ainslen considered how his ambitions had been the fuel that drove him to where he stood now, the deaths of his wife and son the embers upon which he cast that fuel. Gaining power had sparked a fire, whetted his appetite for more. Why stop at the Kasinian Empire if I can rule the world entire? He pictured it, him standing above all others, like the Dominion, the Creator, a God among men. The image made him tremble with excitement. “I will need to meet with your Patriarch and Matriarch to hear this from their own mouths.”

  “Fair enough. The Father and Mother expected as much. However, they will not leave Melanil, much less the Grand Chantry, or expose their deeper involvement until you have brought Marissinia and Thelusia to heel. Whether you take wives from them both, pay a tithe, or put them to the sword, it matters not, as long as Kasinia is once again unified.”

  Stroking his chin, Ainslen nodded, plans already tumbling through his head. A whiff of sweaty bodies, sewer stench, and a faint animal odor drifted to him, the mélange adding to the ginger spice burning in the braziers within his apartments. A gong announced a visitor.

  Moments later, Sabella, one of his personal Blades, appeared on the other side of the chambers. She got down on one knee, a hand on her sword’s pommel, head bowed. “General Sorinya and Felius Carin have arrived, sire.”

  “Show them in.” Ainslen strode into the Royal Apartments, glad to be out of the freezing air. His mind still reeled from Jarod’s words. Crossing lush wool carpets he headed to his favorite tall chair, carved from priceless black ash with gold inlaid across the legs and back. He gestured for the High Priest to sit in the armchair to his right.

  The massive ivory door on the far side of the room opened. Sorinya the Ebon Blade stood for a moment, a towering man half as broad across the chest as he was tall, midnight skin and uniform stark against the pristine white walls around him.

  A step behind him was Felius Carin, jowls loose, legs and arms stubby, a sow of a man in a pearl-colored uniform. Sabella and Cordelia followed at their heels. A pin displaying a sword stood out on the lapels of their jackets. The other Blades wore Ainslen’s livery, red and gold, the colors he’d taken although he was no longer the Count of House Mandrigal. Both men stank of sweat. The reek of sewage drifted from Felius.

  Sorinya’s face was carved from iron. Gone was any jollity or sense of challenge from the big Thelusian. Since learning of the Farlander skirmishes along the Thelusian coast near the Steppes of the World, he had become a cold shell of his former self, no longer broaching the subject of a duel with Ainslen for his freedom. He had also ceased any reference to Ainslen as his father.

  Ainslen had expected to feel bitter about that last. He’d raised Sorinya from a boy, saved him from the headsman when the old Drillmaster declared Sorinya too old to be trained in the ways of the Blades despite his potential in soul. He felt nothing, not even regret, at knowing one day the Thelusian would force his hand and die for it. Sorinya was a tool like so many others, and would be used as such.

  “Sire.” Sorinya offered a dip of his head but remained standing. The other Blades were down on one knee.

  “What news.” Ainslen ignored the slight.

  “Your spies were correct.” Sorinya’s voice was a deep rumble. “We discovered Count Adelfried in a small town, on his way north.”

  “Excellent. You captured him?”

  “No. He managed to escape.”

  “Explain yourself,” the king said between clenched teeth.

  Sorinya shrugged. “He had some two hundred Blades with him. He left them to fight while he made good his escape.”

  “Did you at least manage to kill them all? My orders were to give no quarter to disloyal Blades.”

  “We did.”

  “Good. What of any other soldiers or people in his retinue who survived?”

  “Taken to the mines. We did have one issue.”

  Ainslen arched an eyebrow.

  “Queen Terestere was with him. We captured her.”

  Ainslen’s breath caught in his throat, and it took all he had not to leap from his seat and demand she be brought to him. He schooled his face to calm. “Is she in good health?”

  “She’s seen better days, but there’s nothing about her that some rest, a hot bath, and clean clothes won’t fix.”

  Nodding, Ainslen considered the last time he’d seen Terestere. She’d been sitting beside Jemare, resplendent in a silver gown, amber eyes with a hint of green assessing him. Her smooth, defined cheeks and chin, tanned skin the color of milky coffee, made her appear much younger than the century and a quarter that she had to be. Such appearances were common in people who had grown an affinity with the first two soul cycles. Often the person did not know they maintained them. Too bad she’d not developed into a melder. Warmth crept up his loins to accompany the thoughts of her.

  “Where is she now?” His mind worked as he considered a change in plans that would secure him a unified Empire. He glanced over to Jarod. Their gazes met, and in the High Priest’s eyes Ainslen perceived recognition of what Terestere’s presence could mean.

  “In one of the lower apartments. I had Lieutenant Costace of the watchmen escort her there. I did not know what to do with her, but I assumed you wouldn’t want her confined to the dungeons.”

  “And you were absolutely right,” Ainslen said. “What of this other matter? The missing Blades?”

  “That’s been Felius’ area.”

  Ainslen shifted his attention to Felius. Although he often saw the Minstrel Blade as a waste of soul, the man did have his uses. Of late though, Felius’ results had been disappointing.

  “It appears that not all of the missing were deserters,” Felius said, bald head bowed.

  “Where are they, then?”

  “Cap
tured, I believe. The trackers have assured me that it is a distinct possibility.”

  Ainslen frowned. Who would be so bold or so strong to hunt King’s Blades?

  Before an answer surfaced, a musky scent made the king wrinkle his nose. A wild animal? Up here, some thousand feet in the air? His heart skipped a beat as he held up a hand. Everyone froze. By instinct he added tern to his natural layer of sintu .

  The windowpanes to the balcony shattered, two massive forms crashing through. They were men, or so Ainslen thought, despite their scarred visages, the animal stink about them, and their convex eyes, so much like that of a snake. They were bent low to the ground, one hand resting on the carpet for support, heads slightly up like a dog ready to pounce. Muscles rippled beneath skin pulled so tight it looked as if it would rip. Despite the frigid temperature outside, they were bare-chested, shoulders like huge, rounded boulders. The cuts they sustained from the broken glass bled little, too little to be ordinary. Something glinted within the gashes.

  Sorinya and Felius stepped in front of Ainslen and Jarod, Felius with his sword drawn, and Sorinya having summoned his ebon blade. Jarod had produced a dagger from somewhere.

  Sabella and Cordelia charged the two strangers, bodies enveloped by sintu . Cordelia was the quicker of the two, sword flashing in an arc. Her blade took the closest assailant across the neck. A killing stroke. The weapon shattered with a resounding clang. The man smiled, baring pointed teeth.

  His partner lashed out, whip fast.

  Cordelia flung her arm up to block, and drew on the second of the median cycles, hyzen , placing the majority of her soul into that arm. She augmented her nimbus with tern , making it solid. In that same instant she used the final median cycle, shi , to complete the meld. A refractive surface covered her arm, imitating the hardness of a diamond, from which she had gained her title as a Blade.

  The attacker’s fist struck. Cordelia’s nimbus splintered, tiny cracks running across its surface. The blow lifted her off her feet, flung her across the room, her head striking the wall with a sickening crunch.

  Ainslen stared, mouth open. He’d placed the Diamond Blade within his personal guard for her near unrivaled skill as a Magnifier. She had been a fly to this assailant. And unless his eyes deceived him, the man’s power did not come from his soul. Neither of the hulking men before him possessed enough soul to have made it as a common soldier.

  The man looked down at his fist. It was a mass of smashed flesh and shiny metal. When he glanced up his face wore the same smile as his counterpart.

  For the first time in years, Ainslen found himself frozen, unable to think fast enough, not reacting out of pure instinct, his old calling as the Wind Blade failing him. His heartbeat roared in his ears.

  Sorinya was a black blur. His sword flickered across the killer’s eyes. Yowling, one hand over his face, the killer swung, a wide, sweeping punch. Sorinya danced around the arm, his blade changing shape to a width the size of a finger. It shot into the man’s earhole and punched through to the opposite side with a wet pop. The killer crumpled.

  Wide-eyed, the first assassin spun, managed to duck Sorinya’s next attack, and leaped back through the shattered windowpane. He vaulted over the banister.

  Hells’ Angels. Ainslen ran out to the balcony, boots crunching on glass. He looked down in time to see the assassin hit the ground near a group of soldiers, the sound of the impact an echoing boom. Flagstones fractured, the cracks spreading outward, dust and debris careening in every direction. Nearby soldiers fell, many struck down by shards of stone. The man was off and running before anyone could react.

  “Sire, are you hurt?” Sorinya’s words brought Ainslen out of his shock.

  “No, no, I’m fine.” Ainslen said. Fighting echoed from the direction the man had gone. “Get after him.” At the king’s command, Felius ran for the door, surprisingly fast for a man carrying such weight. “Sorinya, you stay with me. Sabella, send for more guards.” Ainslen gazed over to Cordelia’s unmoving form. Blood spattered the white wall and left a red trail where she’d slid down. “Jarod tend to her.” The High Priest’s dagger disappeared behind his wide, blue belt, and he shuffled over to begin his work.

  King Ainslen manifested his Wind Blade, the weapon silver and blue, its edge keen. He’d tasted fear and hadn’t like its flavor, not one bit, but by the Dominion he would savor it until he discovered who or what those men were, and who was responsible for the attack. His hand gave a spasm where he clenched his sword hilt.

  Scowling, he strode to the dead assassin’s corpse. He took his horn-rimmed glasses from his coat pocket, applied a tiny bit of soul to increase their effect, and studied the body. Although smashed, he could make out tiny details in the grey metal that covered the man’s arm. With a flick of his sword Ainslen sliced open more skin and then pushed it apart. He stared open-mouthed for a moment before he caught himself. Swallowing, he removed his glasses, wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, and replaced them on his nose. What he’d seen did not change.

  Scales. Like a Dracodar.

  By the Dominion. The king made the sign of the circle on his forehead.

  “What is it,” Sorinya asked from behind him.

  Ainslen cursed himself for not noticing the giant man’s approach. “Nothing of concern. Watch the balcony.”

  Sorinya’s eyes narrowed, but he complied. When the Ebon Blade was out of earshot, Ainslen allowed himself to breathe. Searching the vaults of his mind the king attempted to find any reference to Dracodar with iron scales. He found none. Not in Etien’s Compendium or the more than hundred books he’d gathered on the race from throughout the Empire and beyond. Reports of scales either referred to gold, silver, or bronze. And while some mistook bronze scales for Dracodar, the creatures that possessed them were an offshoot, Aladar. Moments like this made Ainslen envy the scholars of the Fabled Era. They had likely forgotten more about Dracodar than most people had since chronicled.

  At least he had some insight into the assassins’ strength. From his experience, they could challenge Delisar. In the opposite circumstance he might have smiled, but they had attempted to take his life. Who sent them? The secretive Kheridisians seemed a likely source for they were the only race he could not account for in his research. Their provision of the Dracodar remains he gave to the other counts had often made him wonder what else they hid. Added to that was Winslow and Keedar’s mysterious savior. However, besides the few Kheridisian males who became wisemen, only their women were allowed in Kasinia, and those women took to whoring like no other. The Order tested all of them. They were weak in soul.

  “She’s dead, sire.”

  Ainslen glanced over to the High Priest. “Have my servants collect her body.”

  “And the other?” Jarod gestured with his head to the assassin. He squinted as he regarded the corpse.

  “A gift, for your wisemen. Find out all you can about it, then do what you will.”

  Jarod nodded his thanks and hurried out.

  Dawn trickled through the windows by the time Felius Carin returned hours later. Licking his lips, he prostrated himself before Ainslen’s chair.

  King Cardiff recognized the look on the man’s face. “I’m tempted to kill you where you grovel.”

  “I’m sorry that he escaped, sire.” Felius Carin kept his head pressed to the carpet.

  Ainslen chortled, but the sound held no mirth. “You failed again as you failed with Winslow and Keedar. You’re the fabled Minstrel Blade, a renowned Mesmer, greatest mindbender in the Empire … if you tell it. Couldn’t you have sung to them with that sweet voice of yours? Made them believe they had no reason to flee?” It took all of him not to put an end to the man, but Felius still had some use.

  “No, sire. That is not how my power works. I cannot force a person to do something contrary to their very being. I may coerce gently, tap into emotions.”

  “What use is that?” Ainslen hissed.

  “It allows me to—”

  “Don
’t you dare, you dimwitted pig. You should be ashamed to call yourself a King’s Blade.” Ainslen quivered with the red tide rising inside him. Someone had to pay for all that was happening of late, for the uprisings, the missing Blades, the insult of an assassination attempt.

  “Sire,” Shaz called from where he stood at the back of the room, “his skills might still prove worthy in the future.”

  Ainslen stopped with his hands hovering over his sword. He’d sent for the slant-eyed, scar-faced Marishman to become a part of his personal guard until Cordelia’s replacement arrived. “What do you suggest?”

  “That is your choice, but killing him might not be for the best, considering this night’s events.”

  Taking a deep breath, Ainslen eyed Felius Carin. With a sneer, he said, “I relieve you of your rank. Consider yourself lucky I did not slay you. Be gone from my sight.”

  After Felius shuffled out, a courier arrived bearing a message. When he saw Leroi Shenen’s name, Ainslen groaned..

  Death of a Boy

  S omething was wrong. Terribly wrong. Winslow opened his eyes. He felt stronger than he ever had before, but he knew his body was a skeletal husk, more sinew than meaty flesh.

  Am I dead? Is this one of the Ten Purgatories?

  When last he woke he could barely move, the inside of his shelter so frigid his fingers had grown stiff. He still felt the cold, but it no longer affected him. The sensation was as if the freezing temperature existed somewhere else, far outside his body, but not seeping into him.

  He coughed, a low hollow sound that rattled his chest. The dome reeked like death. He reeked like death. Frowning, he considered that for a moment. Differentiating between smells had been near impossible for weeks now, but he easily placed the fetid stench of his own mess, piss, sweat, and … he sniffed. Animal droppings? Not from inside. Outside.

  Winslow forced himself to sit up. He inhaled and exhaled slowly, breath escaping his mouth in smoky plumes. He narrowed his eyes. Seeing his breath should have been impossible. The shelter’s interior was a dark pit, but the white walls around him were as clear as if he stood outside on a bright sunlit day.