The Quintessence Cycle- The Complete Series

by Terry C. Simpson

  “The Dominion punished you for your betrayal,” Corgansetti insisted, “not us.”

  “I’ve always found it amusing how quick the Order is to shirk the blame for terrible acts committed by their members, as if the Gods themselves did the slaying. No.” The queen made her voice hard and cold. “It was Cortens Kasandar who returned from his pilgrimage to the Farlands with Vasys Balbas’ secret weapon against my people. It was he who poisoned the rivers and lakes, the food that your people served to us. He did it in the name of the Order and is seen as a hero for the Dracodar genocide.”

  “So Ilsindin’s tyranny played no part in Cortens decision?” Janania asked.

  “You cannot make one man responsible for an entire race.”

  “Isn’t that what you’re doing?” Corgansetti argued.

  “No. I am simply punishing the Order of the Dominion and the line of kings who continued with your heinous change to Far’an Senjin, the ones who treated what was left of my people like nothing more than breeding grounds to empower your own.

  “You murdered and raped without thought, made the Smear like a Purgatory, driving parents to give you their children. And the ones who dared resist? You had them killed by their own.” The queen shuddered. “Oh, I have been tempted to make you all pay, but then I would be no different. Besides, Vasys Balbas and the Farlanders present a greater threat. You two and Ainslen were steps to ensure I got close enough to him to do what must be done.”

  Corgansetti threw his head back and laughed, a low throaty cackle. “You will die before that ever happens, either by the westerners or by the Farlanders themselves.”

  “My poor, poor man,” Terestere said with a shake of her head, “you really do not see it, do you? You think it was coincidence that the western kingdoms declared war when they did? Nothing in life happens without a reason. You might not see the intricate threads woven to bring about a circumstance, but they exist. The sad part is that I wish I could let them run rampant over the Empire, let them spill the blood they seek, that of you and Ainslen, but then my son could not be king if they did.”

  Janania spared a glance for the Patriarch. “Why would they want your blood?”

  “I’ve done nothing to them,” Corgansetti insisted. “They claimed Ainslen sent an assassin to kill their High King.”

  “If you wish to call the wisemen you’ve sent to carry the Word into their lands nothing, then so be it.” Terestere shrugged. “As for the assassin, how would you explain that she bore a decree the High King once gave to Jemare decades ago, a decree with the new queen’s signature? And then she also had the Order’s writ of safe passage signed by you.”

  Corgansetti appeared as if he would choke. He mouthed the name Rostlin. The queen smiled.

  “Even if you managed to somehow usurp the throne, no one would rally behind you,” Janania said. “They all know what monsters the Dracodar are. The Order made certain of that.”

  “Perhaps you did, but I doubt you would know true monsters if you saw them. After all, the Order helped bring the Farlanders here.” The queen cocked her head to one side. “Do you even know the origin of the leather worn by their warriors?”

  “Deer, cows …” Corgansetti shrugged. “Who cares?”

  “What if I said they took it from melders, human melders, Dracodar, innocents, criminals … it matters not to them so long as the soul is strong.”

  A look of horror encompassed the leaders’ faces.

  “You lie,” Corgansetti blurted.

  “Do I? Men hunt derins for the same properties. You nobles search out Dracodar for similar reasons, auction our remains. If soul could be gleaned from men, why wouldn’t someone else follow suit? In fact, when your Order has taken the souls of those from the Smear for harvest, do you believe you’re doing something different? Many of those folk are more human than Dracodar.”

  As realization dawned in Corgansetti’s eyes, Terestere smiled.

  “You can’t do this,” Corgansetti was saying, tears trickling down his face. “You mustn’t. We made a mistake. We can rectify it.”

  Hate blazed in Matriarch Janania’s eyes. “The only mistake we made was leaving any of you beasts alive.”

  “I agree,” the queen said. With that, she willed their hearts to stop beating.

  She sat back in her chair, waiting for the sense of satisfaction, fulfillment, euphoria. None of that came. Only emptiness, a void so deep nothing could fill it. As it had been when she orchestrated Jemare’s death, and when she had killed Joaquin. Is this all that is left to me? Death and the dying? An existence that leaves me cold even when I achieve a goal? She let out a long, slow, shuddering breath.

  When she left the Benediction Chamber, Hamada and Merisse were waiting. “It is done. Allow someone else to discover the corpses.”

  “How will we hide the way they died?” Hamada asked.

  “No need. Their hearts stopped beating, such is the way with Matriarchs and Patriarchs. They die together.”

  “What now, my queen?” Merisse asked, bowing.

  “We kill a king to beget a king. Kasinian tradition, is it not? A people will rise from the ashes. Kheridisia will finally join the Empire. Tell the others to keep an eye on all their charges. Their time is soon.”

  “Yes, my queen,” they uttered as one.

  “How has my husband fared?” she asked.

  “His wrath was sated. Jarod is no more.”

  “Good.” Almost all the pieces had fallen. Only a few moves were left. “I’m certain it should have given him an appetite. I’ll see to him.” As she strode away, the queen considered the letter she would send to Thar.

  ******

  A month after his brother’s death, Thar stood upon the bow of the raker, Moonstorm. Dark clouds scudded across the sky, blotting out Antelen’s glow. The events of the past weeks haunted him. Envald had led him through even older tunnels in the Undertow and out to the Treskelin Forest. The Dwellers’ leader brought the entirety of his people with him. They were all extremely strong in soul.

  Deep in the Treskelin, they set up a pyre for Delisar’s body. Thar watched his brother burn until nothing but ashes were left. He scattered those ashes on the wind, as had been done with so many Dracodar descendants over the centuries. They drifted among the trees. When the ashes landed, roots and branches shifted, earth parted, absorbing that which was offered. The forest’s nimbus grew stronger.

  Delisar was well and truly gone. My brother is no more. It had taken these past few weeks for it to sink in.

  “Sir,” a member of the crew said, interrupting his reverie, “the Farlander ship is ahead.”

  Thar took in the hauler. It was larger than any other vessel on the River Ost. From its main mast flew three flags: the Star of the Dominion, the Hand of Soul, and an ereskar. Guiding soul into his legs, Thar pictured coiled springs. Pressure built. He released.

  The ability threw him several hundred feet into the air. At his apex he lightened his weight, manifested wings, and guided himself toward the Farlander vessel. As he drifted toward the ship he increased his mass slowly. At the same time he called on the quintessence cycle.

  His scales burst through his skin, spreading in a rippling, golden wave. The wind was a cold thing, not so much that he felt it, but because he knew how it should feel. Tingles raced through him in hopes that a Kargoshi might be aboard the ship. If not, these Farlanders would have to do. When he landed he was like a golden God or one of Hells’ Angels, emerald blue reflecting from his scales as a wave of lightning swept forth, its crackles joined by a hundred death throes.

  ******

  Keedar and Winslow waited on Tiolin’s docks. The wind was a chill creature, whipping the sails and flags. Near two months and they’d heard nothing from Keshka or had any news concerning Delisar. Two months spent traveling and training. Finally, his father had arrived, and aboard a Farlander ship of all things. Keedar braced for the worst.

  Dressed in dark fur and leather, Keshka strode down the hauler’s wi
de ramp. His hair was tied in a ponytail, the whiteness of it standing out against his cloak. Not once did his gaze waver from them.

  That grim expression, the tightness behind the eyes, and somehow Keedar knew, he knew. A glance at Winslow revealed that his brother must have suspected the same thing. Tears already streamed down his face. Keedar felt wetness on his cheeks.

  Keshka stopped in front of them. “I would tell you that you both look well, but that’s not what you want to hear.”

  Keedar’s heart lurched, but he allowed himself a trickle of hope. “Greetings, Father.” Winslow offered his own welcome.

  “Thanks to the two of you, Delisar was freed from Ainslen’s dungeons.”

  The trickle threatened to become a flood until Keedar noted the tears that welled up in his father’s eyes. Yet, Winslow had not scratched his beard. He glanced at his brother to be sure. Winslow nodded. Truth! The words were true! Delisar was free. Before Keedar’s elation swept him away there came a sense of reason, a sense of what Keshka left unsaid.

  “Delisar died a free man, not some caged animal. He died a hero to our people, never surrendering our secrets.” Keshka’s voice choked up. “I was too late to save him from his wounds, but at least he passed in my arms.”

  “No!” Keedar screamed. “Nooooooo!” Beside him Winslow was sobbing. Numb, Keedar stared in the direction of Kasandar, images of Delisar spiraling through his head. He lost track of time, memories the only things he had. He clung to them, recalling the first days that he discerned his soul, the time in the Parmien Woods when he gained his ability to hide, induced by a derin that had stalked him, a derin that eventually became Snow. There were his falls as he learned how to run Kasandar’s roofs, following Delisar’s path. On and on the recollections swirled, Delisar at his side always. Within them he kept seeing Ainslen’s face. It was not until Keshka held him away and shook him that Keedar realized he’d been in his father’s embrace.

  “You mustn’t blame yourself for this,” Keshka said. “You did what you could.”

  “I don’t. I blame Ainslen and whomever else held my uncle.” Saying those words felt good. After witnessing the fight between the king and the counts he knew he could have done little to save Delisar. But at least I tried. I really tried. He could live with that.

  “I bring other news, good news. First,” Keshka said, reaching over to brush at Winslow’s cheeks, “your son, Jaelen, is alive and well. A plan is in place to see that he gets to know you. Second, Ainslen’s fall is all but assured. You two will be key in that. There are several tasks for which I need you here.” He gestured behind him.

  On the ship, several crewmembers opened the cargo hold. A bellow, somewhere between a trumpet and a bray, echoed from inside. The ship shook. A massive head with horns and tusks appeared from the hold, followed by a slate-grey body bigger than several wagons combined. Keedar recognized it almost instantly. Ereskar.

  “This is my pet,” Keshka said. “We will have a few more like it, and with it we will wreak havoc on the Farlanders.”

  A dozen questions tumbled through Keedar’s head, but he was speechless. He stared as the crew led the beast down the ramp by ropes.

  “One more thing,” Keshka said. “You can start calling me by my true name, Tharkensen. Oh, and your mother is alive and well.”

  Keedar became numb with shock.

  ******

  Uncle Keshka’s words hit Winslow like a sledgehammer blow. His uncle was really Tharkensen, the legendary Lightning Blade. He did not know what to think, how to feel. On one hand he’d lost a father, but he’d also been assured of his son’s wellbeing, and his mother was alive.

  Lys. Elysse the Temptress. My mother. He savored the words.

  He wanted to weep, not just for himself, but for the pain he knew his brother was enduring. At the same time, joy resided in his heart. Even the fabled ereskar meant little in the face of such revelations. Dumbfounded, he barely heard much of Keshka’s words as the old man led them away.

  He was a melder. He was a father. He had a real family. Together, they would find vengeance. Those thoughts made the day a little brighter.

  I nto the F arlands

  An Excerpt from Etien’s Compendium

  T oday, our Darshanese vessel made landfall in the Farlands. The trip was a nightmare of storms and giant waves, and we lost several ships to lida seaworms. The wisemen aboard our vessel claim it was only the will of the Dominion that saw us through. I say it was the strength of the wisemen’s melding. The land here consists of baking deserts with fertile patches in between. While it is winter in Kasinia, here it is as hot as our worst summers. We saw a city in the distance and continued on toward it.

  Cortens Kasandar leads us. Although not a big man, I can see why so many of the Order believe in him. His persona belies his size. His charges follow him fervently. They swear he is doing the Dominion’s work.

  We have been met by the locals. They vary in size and skin color, as do our people, and they had one silver-scaled Dracodar among them. This Dracodar was a slave, confirming stories many thought to be untrue. He carried the bags of the lord, a large flame-haired man named Kierin.

  What was even stranger and shocking was that one among the Farlanders spoke our tongue. And no, not just Kasinian, either. We had a few Thelusians and Marissinians among us, and of course, Darshanese. He spoke all their languages.

  His name was Akari, and for some reason I swore he was Kasinian. He had our olive skin and sandy hair. I asked the others about it. Everyone mentioned seeing the man differently, but all of them felt he was no threat. He befriended everyone, and I myself found that I wanted to trust him. I concluded that he had to be a Mesmer, that his appearance was a mindbend of some type. I cannot summon sintu so I cannot tell if my suspicions are true. When I confronted him over his knowledge, he said he spoke all tongues, that such understanding was a gift passed to him by one of their Gods, Azuth.

  Akari was forthcoming on most questions I asked. What we call the Farlands is known to them as Jiantona. He became guarded when I asked after the Pillars of Dissolution. He then had some odd questions of his own for me, about forging and binding, and I was forced to tell him that I was no smith or artisan of any kind. He noted that I was no melder, either.

  Cortens took the man from me soon after. The Elder was curious to know how it was that the Farlanders had Dracodar as servants. I have an ill-feeling about it. I will write more when I can.

  ******

  Do not miss the epic conclusion in Crown of Souls.

  C rown Of Souls

  R ed S eas B lue S kies

  W rists and ankles chafed by manacles, Tharkensen followed the line of prisoners along a beach churned by battle. Heads down, they trudged beside their leather clad Farlander captors, offering as much resistance as a feather might to the wind that billowed the dark Farlander cloaks. The clink of chains between hands or feet was near incessant, so was the crash of distant waves against cliffs, and the caws and shrieks of seatrels as they wheeled above, great white wings spread to catch the eddies. Mandrigal’s single eye was a ball of golden haze in the sky, its heat beating down on him as he dragged his feet through sand tinged with red.

  Licking salt from his lips, he raised his hands to wipe sweat from his forehead. To his left the expanse of sand stopped hard against the Steppes of the World’s tiered cliffs, while the Renigen Sea was an endless blue to his right. Or, rather, the sea should have been an endless blue. Instead, the cold waves frothed red; the sand bled.

  Carried on a cool spring breeze, the ripe smell of old death tainted the normally salty air. The stench originated from the corpses piled on the beach’s far ends. A reminder for any who would dare stand against the Farlanders. Thar muttered a prayer for the dead Thelusians, killed because they had chosen to disregard the alliance decided upon by their Stonelords and had allowed anger, pride, and foolish rebel leaders to sway them into a charge doomed before it began.

  Frowning, he studied the corpses once
more. The numbers were off. There were too many by far, and not all of them dark-skinned Thelusians. Despite the blood, clothes, and discoloration of death and rot, he could make out the yellowish tan of Marishmen, a few swarthy Darshanese, and even one or two tattooed Farish Islanders. The discrepancy was unsettling, a meal that refused to digest.

  He got the same uneasy feeling when he gazed out to sea at the forest of masts. Farlander ships congested Thelusia’s coastline—rakers, battle galleys, haulers, and many more he didn’t recognize, the fleet’s size a daunting spectacle. Each ship flew three flags: the Farlander Ereskar, the Empire’s Hand of Soul, and the ten-pointed Star of the Dominion. Smaller rowboats took prisoners out to them.

  But the ships themselves were not the reason he was on edge. That honor belonged to the firebreathers, the monstrosities of painted black metal perhaps a dozen feet in length with a gaping mouth on one end, closed and rounded on the other, the tapered shape reminding him of a hollow tree trunk. They were the bigger cousins to firesticks and shot kerin balls the size of a man’s head. He’d watched them tear into the ill-fated Thelusian rebels, making mush of men, blowing apart limbs with the force to match a Caster’s most violent meld. The memory brought a shiver.

  The shouts of a Farlander guard drew his attention. Cloak flapping in the wind to display the white silhouette of a tusked ereskar with a long snout, the guard was striding toward Sorinya, a massive, ebon-skinned Thelusian who had stumbled and fell to his knees. The Farlander, a blond-haired Vailonder, whose flattened forehead looked as if someone had taken a plank to it, drew up short beside Sorinya. Several prods with the butt of a lance got Sorinya to his feet in time for him to shuffle into the line in front of Thar, his girth blotting out the guard’s view.