The Quintessence Cycle- The Complete Series

by Terry C. Simpson

  Until she countered.

  By taking both Aladar across the soul cycle line, he freed her Dracodar warriors. The move was a secondary method to give one of them the ability to leave the castle. In a few swift moves she brought a Dracodar warrior into one of his Dragon Gates at 1 Antelen, thus making it a queen. With the piece now capable of moving in any direction for any number of squares as long as one of his pieces did not block its path, his king was in danger. Her first act was to chase down the cycler that had just crossed the soul cycle line, thus gaining its promotion to melder. Due to that transformation it was one of his strongest pieces.

  Believing he discerned a way out, he maneuvered the new melder so that two cyclers blocked her queen’s path. A ploy of delay. In the turns she used to position her queen so she could capture both pieces without losing hers, he moved the melder to her Dragon Gate at 9 Rendorta. It now became a dragon king. However, in so doing, he was sacrificing his previous king. All he could do now was run, play for a draw, or rely on her to make a mistake of impatience. She made none. Without the help of his Dracodar warriors, who were still relegated to his castle, and without his queen, it was only a matter of time before she placed his king in trap, and then into doom. So focused was he on not losing that he took away his king’s best protection: the castle and the warriors.

  Doom. The word rang like a death knell in his head as he recalled the expressionless mask of her face as she declared the game’s end. It was also the name of the strategy she had employed: Queen’s Doom.

  Ainslen growled under his breath at the loss. He still got what he wanted: her hand in marriage and promise of an heir, but he hated losing. To anyone. He promised himself to show no mercy when next they played.

  Thinking of her, he considered the time spent together so far. He’d expected her to lie to him in order to save herself, but probing her with soul revealed only truth in her words. When the topic of Winslow arose, she appeared oblivious to the fact that the boy was not his true son. A positive, for he disliked the idea of killing her. Most surprising was her lack of knowledge as to Jemare’s atrocities with the Soul Throne. On several occasions he steered conversations toward a revelation, and not once had she reacted.

  In ways, she reminded him of Marjorie, willing to tell him how she felt or what she thought regardless of whether he wanted to hear it or not. Unlike others, she was not afraid of him. She was strong, both in character and in soul. He wondered if she knew just how strong. He could see why Jemare had married her. Even more refreshing was that he no longer thought of Marjorie when in Terestere’s presence, and at night, when in bed, he missed the scent of the queen’s favored mint and saffron.

  He was smiling to himself when Shaz turned the corner from the corridor up ahead. In his preferred black, the Marishman stood out next to the golden walls. Shaz’s face was a mask of concern, his drooping eye and puckered burns complementing the expression.

  “Wait here,” Ainslen said to his escort. He strode to meet Shaz. “What is it?”

  Concern changed to confusion. “You didn’t sense it?”

  “Sense what?”

  “Felius was taken.”

  On the verge of asking the Marishman if he was certain, Ainslen focused, searching for the feel of his link to Felius. Giving the fat bastard a chance to do as he pleased down in the River Quarter had provided the perfect way to influence him into imbibing a special meld. It was easy enough to imitate the man’s drinks, one passed off to Felius when he was well and truly drunk. If Felius was still in Kasandar, Ainslen could pinpoint his location to within thirty feet. If outside the city he could discern the direction.

  “Somewhere near Cortens’ Shrine,” Ainslen said.

  “Doesn’t make sense. The guards or the wisemen would have seen them.”

  “Not if they traveled beneath the city.” Ainslen’s mouth curled into a smile. “Gather the best Blades and Farlanders at our disposal, we go now.”

  With several Blade squads and a score of Farlanders, Ainslen rode hard for the shrine’s bronze and black spires. Such was his excitement that he barely felt the cold wind. When they arrived, High Priest Jarod was waiting at the entrance to the portion of the shrine used as the Order’s chantry. Ainslen dismounted even as Sabella and Shaz passed out orders.

  “Sire, what brings you here?” Jarod asked, gaze flitting to the Blades and Farlanders for an instant before he offered a smile to Ainslen.

  Ainslen frowned. “I used a meld to track one of the Consortium’s men and it led here.”

  “Are you certain?”

  The king arched an eyebrow, to which the High Priest gave a small, apologetic bow. “Is there a chance any of your wisemen might be working for the guilds?”

  “None.”

  The answer was truth personified. Even without the use of his power Ainslen could tell. “Then I suggest you assign a few of yours for the upcoming battle. We have to assume that the Consortium might be here for revenge or to steal your storage of soul.”

  “You think they would dare come against us?”

  Ainslen lowered his voice. “In the past you complained when the dregs refused to attend the Smear’s chantry, and then declined to use any temples dedicated to the Dominion. If they’re as godless as you say, what do you think would happen if they discovered the Order had a hand in sowing misery within the Smear?”

  Jarod seemed to consider the words for a moment before he replied. “Follow me.” The High Priest whipped his robes about him and strode through the huge bronze doors.

  Two battle-filled hours later, in chambers several floors beneath the shrine, Ainslen stood over Felius’ corpse. An animal had torn the man apart. The king grimaced at the stench of death. Despite his recent failures Felius deserved better.

  “Sire, they are retreating deeper into these old ruins,” Sabella reported.

  “Let them go. I won’t risk losing another man in these hells-forsaken passages. We’ve done enough damage.”

  “Are you certain, sire? I don’t mean to question you but word has it that we wounded their leader. A few of ours that gave chase claim they can pinpoint his location.”

  Ainslen bit back a scathing response as he surveyed their surroundings. Bodies littered nearby rooms. His collection of Blades and Farlanders had killed at least a hundred of the rebels and captured three times that number. One of the prisoners was Tomas Besenderin, new leader of the Red Beggars according to a few who had already pleaded for their lives.

  “He cannot escape me now, and I’d much rather he lead me to whomever is left.” The king glanced down at Felius once more, said a prayer to Mandrigal, created a flame in his hand, and tossed it onto the Blade’s body. “We lost a score of Blades and half that of Farlanders. Until I can spare men from other parts of the kingdom or Seligula sends me reinforcements, we cannot afford more losses. Besides, there’s a wealth of information here that might give us a hint of what they intend. Not to mention prisoners to put to the question.”

  “Yes, sire.” Sabella snapped her heels together, bowed, and left.

  Shaz entered a moment later. “We’ve secured a perimeter and searched all the nearby rooms. There are no living rebels left down here.”

  “Good.” Ainslen stared unblinking at the fire consuming Felius. He hardly noticed the smell of burning flesh. “Collect everything in this room. I wish to know if he told them anything of use.”

  “What of the survivors?”

  “To the Farlander mines, of course. See to it that any melders among them are equipped with the proper chains.”

  “And afterward?”

  “I wish we could burn it all down, but we cannot, not without destroying the shrine and chantry above us. Find out if any of the wisemen knew of this place. I don’t see how they couldn’t. Set traps throughout to warn us should the dregs return.”

  “As you wish, sire.”

  “When all that is done, bring Tomas to my room in the dungeons. I will deal with him personally. Oh, and set some of
your men to keep an eye on Shenen.”

  “Trouble?” Shaz asked, the brow of his good eye arched.

  “Possibly. The man has become too adamant about that grandson of his.” Ainslen found himself smiling despite the earlier loss and Felius’ death. He realized he hadn’t gone far enough with his plans against the guilds, a mistake he would fix in short order. The solution was one of a few things he planned to savor, each whetting a different appetite.

  An Old Legend

  W inslow jerked awake from another nightmare of Elaina and his son. In it, Ainslen was standing behind the boy with a sword in his hand. Keedar was also in a few of his dreams, along with a swarthy man wearing a blue cloak.

  A spear of daylight poked through the room’s lone window. He ran his fingers along a soft mattress and thick blankets. The chair, table, lamp, and coat rack seemed vaguely familiar. After a moment’s contemplation, recognition came to him. This was Uncle Keshka’s room. His shoulders, that had been tense seconds before, finally relaxed, but his head was still heavy, reactions sluggish.

  He tried to recall how he got to the cottage. He remembered leaving the clearing, filled to bursting with soul, consumed by the thought of reaching the cottage as soon as he could. Instead of dodging rocks and the like tossed at him, he’d manifested his flame nimbus and blasted them apart. Slowly the attacks had increased until he was running for his life, chased by several bears, clutching tenuously to his soul. The rest was a haze of stumbles and falls, ragged breaths, and prayers to the Dominion.

  The sweet aroma of pickled eggs, coffee, and cinnamon fritters set his belly rumbling. Winslow sat up. A bout of dizziness took him, and he spent the next few moments regaining his bearings. He wore a loose shirt and trousers: his clothes, but they fit as if they belonged to someone else. Drawn to the scent of breakfast he flung his legs over the side of the bed and stood.

  When Winslow entered the kitchen Keedar was sitting at the table, one hand around a coffee cup, a fritter in the other. Winslow licked his lips at the sight of the fried dough mixed with cinnamon, certain it contained honey too. His brother froze with his mouth open.

  “Good morning,” a gravelly voice said. The stranger from Winslow’s dream hovered over the stove, turning several fritters in a pan of oil.

  Those two words broke whatever spell held Keedar. He leaped to his feet, dashed to Winslow’s side, and threw his arms around him. Before long they were laughing and crying and laughing some more. Keedar told him all that had happened.

  A bout of coughing wracked Winslow’s chest. The stranger brought over a steaming cup. Keedar had named him Stomir, a Kheridisian, and the man who had rescued them in the Smear.

  “Tea,” Stomir said, “to shake that cough.”

  Winslow took the cup gratefully and sipped from it, the spicy ingredients clearing his head. Within minutes he was sitting at the table, wolfing down pickled eggs and fritters. Food never tasted so good. When he finished, he slouched back, smiling, rubbing his belly. He straightened. “Where’s Uncle Keshka?”

  “Something in the city required his attention.” Resentment colored Keedar’s tone.

  “Must have been very important, then,” Winslow said. Not for one moment did he believe Keshka would’ve left otherwise. “How long have I been here?”

  “Two days,” Keedar said.

  “And how long was I gone?”

  “A little over three months.”

  Three months. Three months with only water. Three months haunted by my shortcomings. He inhaled long and slow.

  “You could’ve warned me of what to expect,” Winslow said, reliving his suffering.

  “I wanted to, but I couldn’t.” Keedar averted his eyes.

  Winslow shook his head. “We’re supposed to be brothers … after all we’ve been through …” His lips quivered. “I would’ve done it for you.”

  “No, you wouldn’t have,” Stomir said. “A condition of the trial, and one of Na-Rashim’s skills, is that you can never speak of him or what is experienced during the test with someone who has not been through it.” The man busied himself with putting out the coals in the heating chamber beneath the stove.

  “Did you have them too? The nightmares? The visits?” Winslow met Keedar’s eyes. Melancholy filled them.

  “Yes, after a while they became too much.”

  “That’s when you left and fought him.”

  “You mean, it ,” Keedar said.

  “No. Him. His name is Na-Rashim-ha-Den, and he’s an Aladar.”

  “You two spoke?” Keedar exclaimed.

  “Yes. He protects a person once they’ve completed the test in the hollow. Helps you recover a bit before the last part, which is returning here. I think encountering him was the point of the trial.”

  “Survival,” Stomir corrected, “is the only point of the trial. Opening your shi to become a melder and then surviving. It doesn’t matter how you did it, as long as it’s done.”

  “Has anyone ever beaten him,” Keedar inquired.

  “There’s an old legend passed down among Kheridisian melders, that only one man has ever defeated Na-Rashim.” Stomir paused, and then added, “Tharkensen the Lightning Blade. Some say the victory was because he was a Blade, already a melder, but not even the greatest Kheridisians who were melders prior to the Fast of Madness have ever bested Na-Rashim.”

  The name, Tharkensen the Lightning Blade, jogged Winslow’s memory. He had been one of the most renowned Blades in the Empire’s history, responsible for many victories over the centuries. He defeated the great Marish general, Toran Tanal during the Battle of Keshan Dark when Tanal had carved out a small territory for himself and declared it a sovereign kingdom. He had bested countless Blades when King Jemare won the throne, and was named an honorary Stonelord by the Thelusians for rescuing one of their princesses from the Caradorii. The list of Tharkensen’s accomplishments was as long as his name. Some folks worshipped him as if he were a God.

  As the best assassin in the Empire, he was tasked with killing Elysse the Temptress, avenging the death of Prince Joaquin. It was the only contract he did not complete. As was custom for any Blade who failed their assignment, Jemare had Tharkensen disavowed as a Kasinian, his name stricken from the books, and had placed a bounty of ten thousand gold monarchs on both their heads. Countless tales chronicled the warriors who took that contract and wound up dead or missing. Eventually it was considered a curse.

  Completing the same test as the Lightning Blade made Winslow giddy. He’d dreamed of becoming a Blade, but this was even better. He pursed his lips as he considered what might have transpired between Tharkensen and his mother. Had she defeated him? Perhaps Keshka knew. However, it was an issue for another day.

  Winslow was still thinking of Na-Rashim when he remembered his own scales. He felt them under his skin, waiting to be called forth. The idea frightened him. He had fully expected to become a melder, but to know he was also becoming a Dracodar, a legend, a thing used in stories by mothers to scare their children, was beyond his imagining. He rubbed at his forearms. “Do you have them also?”

  “Yes.” Keedar nodded. He didn’t appear willing to talk about them, and Winslow understood.

  “Never discuss them around anyone but yourselves or Keshka,” Stomir said. “And do not reveal them to anyone at anytime unless instructed by Keshka. You never know who may be watching. The last thing you need is to be hunted.”

  Those last few words conjured images of the many hunts he’d gone on with Ainslen. The idea of hounds baying, and men on horseback chasing him down, brought on a shudder.

  “So what now?” he asked to change the mood. “I feel as if I can eat a whole goat. Or roasted deer and potatoes. A calf, perhaps, or several yellowtails.” Thoughts of meat turning on a spit set his stomach growling again.

  “Now, you still need more rest, and food, yes, plenty of that to regain your strength,” Stomir said.

  “What about training?” He was anxious to practice melding.

&
nbsp; “Keshka said to wait at least four days before you begin,” Keedar said. “And even then, to make certain you’re strong enough.”

  Winslow groaned. He glanced down at his scrawny arms. “Don’t let these fool you, I’m more than ready.”

  The hint of a smile crossed Keedar’s face. “Martel said that if you practice before you regain full health, your manhood will stop working.”

  “Nonsense,” Winslow blurted, inadvertently drawing his knees together. He expected Keedar and Stomir to burst out in laughter. Their faces were serious. “It’s a jest, isn’t it?”

  Keedar abruptly stood. “It’s my turn to hunt.”

  “I’ll go keep watch,” Stomir said.

  They both headed for the door.

  A G athering

  M andrigal’s light was a pale thing in the east, shrouded by a murky soup from which snow swirled down, coating the city in white. Despite Terestere’s thickest pair of woolen riding britches and underthings, the cold still bit. She praised the Dominion that the wind wasn’t strong enough to cut through her jacket. Ainslen had come to her just before dawn, bade her to dress, and follow him. She found his jovial demeanor disconcerting, particularly after the way he had stalked from her chambers, face scarlet from his defeat in Dragon Gates. The answer to the change in mood arrived as her handmaidens dressed her. During the night, Ainslen had routed a major faction of the Kasandarian rebellion.

  Still, none of that explained this gathering. The counts, countesses, and other nobles wore frowns or whispered to each other, as perplexed as she. She knew many of them well, but three stood out.

  Count Leroi Shenen was the leader of House Hazline. Fair hair matching his complexion, but eyes haunted rather than their normal observant selves, he rode a dun mare. A golden clasp, carved in the image of a face blowing out air to represent Hazline, held his cloak together. His steely gaze strayed a bit too often to Ainslen’s back.

  Twice so far the man had been to see Ainslen, and both times he left angrier than he’d arrived. Terestere wondered if the animosity was a part of the same hate she’d sensed when she brought up the question of Elaina’s son to the king. Elaina rode beside her father, dressed in all black. Word had it that she was mourning Winslow.