Thar glanced toward the Cliffs of a Thousand Sorrows. The king’s men could be up there at this very moment, watching, or perhaps weaving through the Undertow. He doubted they crossed into Kheridisia as yet. Snow’s pack would have bayed a warning. Still, he saw no use in waiting.
“Pack lightly, taking what food you might need, but depart before the morning is done. Snow will travel ahead of you with instructions to one of my people at the Treskelin’s edge.”
“And where will you be?”
“Here.”
The Kheridisian looked at him askance. “Is that wise? I’ve been with you a long time, ever since my mother brought you here. For you, this would be the perfect opportunity to hone your skills, test your limits, the odds that might scare another man only serving to spur you on.”
“True, enough,” Thar said, “but I need to see who the king sends, gauge their strengths. No need to worry, I’m no longer the same old Thar. I’m a lot calmer now, more … sensible.”
Stomir smiled. “You mean you’ve learned to respect death.”
“That, and I have a lot more to live for today than I did back then.” Thar gestured with his head toward his son and nephew. His family was so much larger now, an enormous part of their race, and he would not stand to lose any more of them than necessary. He’d lost enough in the past.
“Indeed, you do.”
“So, you understand why I’m trusting you with their lives, as your mother trusted me with yours and so many others.”
“I won’t fail you, that I can promise.”
“Good,” Thar said. “Allow me to speak to the boys while you gather supplies and then you can be on your way.”
“Of course.” Stomir headed inside.
“Keedar, Winslow,” Thar called out.
Clothes soaked in sweat, chests heaving, the boys stopped their exchange of blows and melds. They sheathed their weapons, and strode over to him. Thar couldn’t help but think of Elysse as he watched her two sons. Winslow had her obsidian hair and height and her enthusiasm for learning. Keedar had inherited her walk, determination, stubbornness, and those calculating, amber eyes.
“Uncle,” Winslow said with a nod.
“Father.” Keedar offered a warm smile.
Hearing that word from Keedar lifted Thar’s spirits. Keedar was the last of his children, and although he loved them all, he had an unexplained, special attachment to the final bit of his progeny. “Both of you mean a great deal to me,” Thar began as the first raindrops pattered on the ground. “Watching you grow has been one of many blessings the Dominion has bestowed upon me.”
“What’s wrong,” Keedar asked, eyes narrowed. “This feels like goodbye.”
“Always the one to pick up on things first.” Thar gave a rueful shake of his head. “It’s no longer safe here so I’m sending you away.” The boys grew very still. “This is not a repeat of the past. I believe in you both, but right now you will be of better use elsewhere.” Thar saw the doubt in Winslow’s eyes, the stubborn set of Keedar’s jaw. He decided on a different approach. “Look at me, at my soul, tell me what you see.”
The boys peered at him. After a few moments they squinted. Strained eyes became brows furrowed in confusion. Winslow was the first to give up. As expected, Keedar continued to try.
“I get a hint of something … but … bah.” Keedar blew out a breath. “Every time I think I have a grasp, the sight slips away from me.”
“Do the same to Stomir,” Thar ordered. The Kheridisian was fastening the straps to a pack.
They complied, and within minutes were beaming at the ease of the accomplishment. The Kheridisian’s nimbus was like a thick wisp of luminous smoke, layered about his body.
“Stomir,” Thar said, “the quintessence , use it.” He gave Stomir a moment before turning to the young men. “Now, look for his soul again.”
Winslow and Keedar focused their attention on Stomir once more. Disbelief encompassed their faces. Thar knew what they would be seeing. To their eyes, Stomir’s soul had winked out like a heavy black curtain drawn over a windowpane. For Thar, the nimbus had not changed.
“How?” Keedar sputtered.
“It’s the same as with Na-Rashim,” Winslow said, voice awed. “I could tell his soul was there because mine pushed against it, but I could not see it.”
“It is the opening of the quintessence cycle,” Thar declared. “You first begin to see it when you become a melder. When you passed the Fast of Madness, the outer ring of the cycles should have changed from a smooth circle to one possessing ten sides, and they should be seen throughout your soul rather than only at the vital points. You gain the quintessence if all three rings take on the transformation.”
“What happens if only two of the rings change?” Keedar asked.
“Then that person becomes like Sorinya, a Philodar, a master of seven cycles and three melding types. So far, gaining the quintessence appears limited to Aladar and Dracodar.”
“In other words, it can only be activated by those who can master at least eight cycles and four types,” Keedar added.
“Actually, no,” Thar said. “It was once thought to be restricted to Dracodar, whose scales become golden once they achieve the cycle. Na-Rashim proved that theory to be incorrect, although no other Aladar has achieved what he did. Those who study these things concluded that one must master all ten cycles to have any hope of activating the quintessence , but one does not have to master all the melding types.” He let those words sink in for a moment, the memory of the Farlanders surfacing before he pushed it away.
“I told you this because you’ve just earned the right to call yourself melders, having become adept at the first three cycles, and developing a degree of use for the next three. Of the four remaining regular cycles, Keedar, you can touch lumni, while Winslow still lacks the ability to access any of them thus far.
“The Blades are all masters of six; some adept in two or more types of melding. All of them can touch at least one of the last four. The Farlanders surpass them in skill, some capable of challenging the legendary Blades of old. The ones that wounded me could touch the quintessence .”
Winslow’s expression was one of child-like wonder. “Uncle, can you—”
“You didn’t tell us all that to amaze us, did you?” Keedar asked quietly, a scowl marring his features.
Cocking his head to one side, Winslow regarded his brother. “What do you mean?”
“Ask him.” Keedar nodded in Thar’s direction.
“Uncle?”
“He’s right,” Thar said. “I did not reveal that as a goal for which you should strive, but so you could understand what it is we face, to dispel any misconceptions about what you can accomplish against them. Your abilities are meager. The men and women who will come here are Blades and Farlanders. The two of you would be an annoyance to them. That is why you must leave.”
Thar focused on Keedar. “That is why you mustn’t involve yourself in any fashion. Never challenge one of them until you are much more skilled. Both of you show signs of developing the quintessence . That cycle saved our race during the Blight and the Culling. With it, some of the Dracodar were able to purge the disease that prevented reproduction. Now, promise to do as you’re told.”
Keedar broke eye contact first. “Yes, Father.”
“That is not to say you won’t have a purpose,” Thar added. “I have a task for you, one you can accomplish on your way to safety.” He called Stomir over and told them of his discovery concerning the ereskars. “You should come across a few Farlander ships along the Ost. Keep an ear out for reports of strange animals and where those ships might be headed.”
The mission brightened Keedar’s mood a bit, which pleased Thar. Winslow was like a child, fascinated by the idea of the ereskars. After a few hugs and well wishes the three of them disappeared into the eastern part of the Treskelin.
After they left, Thar called Heart to him. “Fetch Na-Rashim.” The derin bounded off, and Thar settl
ed down on the porch to wait.
N ews in S halgere
R ain’s fresh scents filled the Treskelin, the water a welcome change to the forest’s humidity. The massive ash trees were great ghostly sentinels that spoke to each other in rustles, clacking branches, and dripping water. The run through the forest reminded Winslow of the Fast of Madness, requiring similar control on soul.
Every six hours they stopped to take a short rest, eat dried meat and fruits, and drink from their water pouches. They kept moving until Antelen was a great silver orb in the sky, then they slept for some five hours, rising before Mandrigal’s first rays pricked the eastern skies. On most nights they were so exhausted they fell asleep as soon as they got the chance.
Winslow dreamed of Jaelen, and what it would be like to raise the boy. Who did his son resemble? When was the boy conceived? He recalled many nights spent with Elaina in the upstairs rooms of Jarina’s Hands, nights of unfettered pleasure when she wished to dissuade him from visiting Walker’s Row. Interspersed among those were dreams of freeing Delisar, of living some semblance of a normal life again.
As they made their way through the forest, Stomir pointed out signs of bears, korgan cats, derins, wolves and other predators. Most were hunting the animals that migrated from the border of Kasinia into the Treskelin’s northern edge. Few seemed interested in the group. Winslow supposed if he were some beast he would think twice before attacking three melders. Not once had they spotted any other people. By the time they reached the forest’s eastern outskirts Winslow was sick of the woods. Snow met them on the sixth day, and they followed the derin.
“You’ve been very quiet of late,” Winslow said to Keedar. His brother was striding next to him, expression grim, as it had been ever since leaving Keshka.
“Not much to talk about.”
“We’re being sent to a place we don’t know much of … my uncle, your father, might soon do battle against men who almost killed him, and then there’s this mission to look for creatures many consider little more than myth, and you don’t think there’s much to talk about?”
“What purpose would talking serve?” Keedar said, scowling. “We can’t change any of it, no matter how much we might wish to.”
Winslow understood his brother’s frustration. He’d experienced the same feeling when Ainslen hadn’t allowed him to take the Trial of Bravery. “Do you think the old man will be fine?”
“I tell myself that he will, but the truth is, I don’t know. If they defeated him once, they could do so again.” Keedar sighed heavily.
“It was an ambush,” Winslow argued. “Keshka expects them this time, and he has the derin pack.”
“Memories of the fight between Delisar and Sorinya still haunt me,” Keedar said. “The Blades alone are bad enough, but with these strange Farlanders … I, I just don’t know.”
“Keshka caught us from a two thousand foot drop. I’m ready to trust in what he says.”
“It’s not a lack of trust. I’m worried—no, I’m frightened for him. I’ve lost enough already as it is.” With the admission his brother’s expression softened, shoulders slumping.
They drifted into silence, broken only by the rustle of their footsteps through humus, or the twitter of birds and calls of beasts. Winslow wondered what he would be doing at this very moment if his life hadn’t changed. He envisioned himself playing with Jaelen, perhaps marrying Elaina, and becoming the new Count Cardiff, leader of Mandrigal Hill. Other than the idea of his son, none of it brought a sense of joy.
They continued to follow Snow and soon came upon a house. It was tiny, one room at best, set among the branches of a white ash tree. If not for Snow scaling the tree like a tawny korgan, they would have missed it, such was the way the leaves and branches had grown into the home, forming the door and windows. Snow pawed at the door.
A moment later it opened, and a short Kasinian man in a sleeveless shirt and dark trousers peered out. He disappeared inside and returned with a pile of furs. He threw them to the ground and then followed, scaling the tree hand over hand like one of the long-limbed gomerans that chittered and leaped in the branches above.
“Greetings,” the man said as he approached them in a lazy, carefree walk, “I’m Perlar, the Consortium’s man in this part of the Treskelin. Keshka’s message said to expect you.”
“Greetings,” Stomir replied. Winslow and Keedar nodded to Perlar.
The man gestured to the furs. “Your clothes are there. And you can see your horses from here.” He pointed through the trees. Three dun mares waited. Beyond them was an expanse of snow that seemed to stretch forever. “I would advise you to wait at the edge of the forest just where the cold begins for your body to become accustomed to the change in temperature. I’ve seen it make men collapse when they’ve lived too long in here.”
“Anything special about Shalgere that we ought to keep in mind?” Stomir asked.
“The soldiers at the gates are our men. Only a few Blades are present, sent to prevent the occasional Kheridisian raid. The Consortium still has a presence there, but most stay out of sight.”
“And the Farlander ships?”
“Most of those keep out to the deep waters. They’ve been coming up the Ost regularly since Ainslen took the throne. You’ll see one or two of the Farlanders in town, but I’d avoid them if I were you. They have a thing for challenging those they see as strong in soul.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Stomir said. “What of our ship?”
“The Gilded Lady, already docked at the last pier, just waiting for you three. Captain’s Abrila Ezrakel.” Perlar squinted at the sky. “I’d get going if I were you. Storm’s coming, wouldn’t want to get caught in one of those this year. Let the horses lead once you leave the woods. They know the way better than you do.”
They dressed in thick woolens, fur vests, hats, and long, hooded cloaks. The garb was stifling and Winslow couldn’t wait to be out into the cooler air. They left Snow with Perlar and guided their horses to a point where the melding of the great ash trees began to fade at the forest’s edge.
Winslow stared out across a windswept plain, snow swirling up from the mounds of white stretching in every direction. He couldn’t help the sense of unease that was building within him. Thus far, the trip had proven too easy. He’d become accustomed to misfortune.
Storm clouds churned across the sky, a mass of living grey that cut out the already waning sunlight. The trees between them and the River Ost were bent pines, hoarfrost coating limbs like moss, long, pointed fingers of ice dangling. Snow flew in Winslow’s face, clinging to the cloth that covered his mouth and nose. Ice coated the closest parts of the river, a frosty windowpane that surrendered to murky, slow-moving water. Sails pregnant, ships headed north up the Ost, toward the lights of Shalgere, their movement sluggish at this distance.
“Use tern to lessen the effect of the cold,” Stomir instructed. “When you no longer feel bothered by the change, you can drop it. No melding whatsoever when we reach the town.” With that, he kicked his horse to a trot.
Riding from the forest out onto the open plain was like stepping from a blacksmith’s forge onto a freezing mountaintop. Winslow shivered despite his clothing and was glad for the wool-knit gloves under his leather ones. Keedar rode a step ahead of him, cloak pulled around him. It took them the better of an hour to reach the port town, and all the while the tightness in Winslow’s shoulders grew.
Shalgere was a town of multi-storied buildings, most of them timber. Beneath the layer of icy mud and slush were hints of cobblestones. The smell of brine and horse drowned out any other scents. Smoke rose in plumes from many a chimney. The lack of travelers wasn’t surprising, not with the threat of a storm borne on the wings of slate-colored clouds. Those on the roads were often soldiers, most of them wearing Kasinia’s red and gold uniforms, with the occasional blue of Darshan tossed in. They paid little attention to the group.
The piers stretched their fingers out into the ice-flecked river.
Ships basked, masts jutting into the sky, as varied in length and color as type, from slim trade vessels to the larger, broader seafarers out in the middle of the Ost. There were even a few Farish Isle lidahunters, javelins loaded in the large ballistae. Laborers hurried as best they could across black, slippery planks, loading vessels with cargo, much of it covered by canvas. The horses were sure-footed on the wood as if they’d practiced the walk a thousand times.
The Gilded Lady was a sleek ship with five masts and a set of at least fifty oars. A gold-tinged carving of Hazline, cheeks puffed up in the act of blowing, adorned the prow.
Captain Ezrakel waited on the deck, sucking on a pipe, hands on his hips. He was a dark-haired, swarthy Darshanese in a deep blue coat, broad across the shoulders, with a belly that would be the envy of any pregnant woman, and a bulbous nose with more of a bend than his fellow countrymen. Two Darshanese sailors took the mounts up the gangplank, and the group followed the men, joining the captain.
“Hail, Stomir Hentereth, it’s been a long time,” the captain said around the pipe, accent smooth, tone jovial.
“Hail Captain Ezrakel, and yes it has.” Stomir was smiling. “When was the last time again?”
“That mad trip from Bradasha to Kasandar.”
“Ah, yes, we stopped at Serente then, too, didn’t we?”
“And I still say we should have avoided that port. You Kheridisians tax ships far too much.” The captain blew out a plume of smoke. Bloodleaf by the perfumed smell of it.
Stomir laughed. “When you’re smuggling goods from the Farish Isles you have to expect to pay.”
The banter and the realization that they were safely aboard the ship eased the tension from Winslow. He exhaled, long and slow.
“Until this past week I was beginning to wonder when the Consortium would make its move, or if it would make a move at all, especially after rumors of a recent drubbing. And then the members began showing up.”
Winslow frowned.
“We’re just here for the trip.” Stomir leaned in closer. “Any word on the creatures sought by Keshka?” His voice was low enough that only their group could hear.
The Quintessence Cycle- The Complete Series Page 47