The Quintessence Cycle- The Complete Series

by Terry C. Simpson

  He started and turned. Kir-Tashin stretched her arm toward him, bronzed color carrying the splendor of youth. As with all females, she had long ears, tied together at the tips and hanging over breasts hidden by scales. Winslow completely missed the cup she held until he caught a whiff of its reek. Dolen. He grimaced at the concoction. She’d provided the same drink for those wounded in the earlier contests.

  The dolen immediately reminded Winslow of his bruised body. He hurt from too many places to count. Turning up his nose he took the cup. “Why is it that anything good for you must smell like piss and taste even worse?”

  Kir-Tashin offered him a little smile. “Because if it were sweet then anyone could receive its blessing. Only those with a strong constitution may partake.”

  “Ah, so those with stomachs like iron, then.” Winslow shook his head. Although he’d drunk dolen on several other occasions he doubted he would ever grow to like its smell or taste. “What’s in this again?”

  “Calum root, bloodleaf, hornbear blood, gum from a white ash tree, al—”

  “Stop. I’m sorry I asked. I recall why I vomited the first time I tasted it. Must I really?” Grimacing, he held up the cup.

  “If you plan to go on the hunt in your condition, then, no. If you wish to be healthy before then …” She shrugged.

  A horn bellowed. Winslow turned toward the meeting hut. Dracodar and Aladar were streaming inside.

  “They are ready to make the announcement,” Kir-Tashin said. “Hurry, drink. You must be present.”

  Bracing himself, Winslow put the cup to his mouth and swallowed, trying his best to ignore the foul taste. When he finished, he winced, passed the cup to Kir-Tashin, and followed her. The pain was already dwindling by the time he reached the meeting hut. He was still sore, but he’d manage.

  The majority of the three tribes had gathered inside, the musk of their bodies strong in the air. Apprentices squatted near the front, loincloths almost touching the ground, while the warriors and elders took position according to height. Apologizing as he went, Winslow made his way into the room. A space cleared near the rear of his fellow apprentices. He remained standing in order to see.

  As the lone human in the hut today, his presence drew attention. Most of the apprentices averted their eyes when his gaze passed over them. A few watched him with mild curiosity or with open dislike. Kel-Nasim gave an imperceptible nod. Winslow felt his lip twitch but prevented the full smile lest he got his friend in trouble.

  Uncle Thar had said he might be shunned when living among the tribes, but the reality was greater than Winslow imagined. Even from the children. They either poked fun at him or their eyes grew round with fear when in his presence. From others, there was hate.

  His time in the encampment had brought a better understanding. Although his blood was predominantly Dracodar, his humanity couldn’t be denied. In that last lay the problem. Millennia of suffering at human hands, of enslavement, of being used as little more than breeders to improve the nobility’s stock, of being hunted for their souls, would not be forgotten. Or forgiven. And yet his uncle had given him the task of helping to bridge that divide.

  The alienation made Winslow wish for Keedar’s presence. With his brother beside him things often felt better, became clearer. He could allay his fears and vent his frustrations when needed. Not to mention become a better melder—a core necessity if he were to gain the tribes’ respect. On his best days those last two tasks seemed impossible.

  The First-Born council filed into the hut, two for each of the Dracodar and Aladar tribes. Ky-Sanim and Lo-Janim represented the gold, and like all the other leaders, their scales were prismatic in some areas. Two bronze females, Pir-Mashin and Lon-Pashir, led the Aladar—both beautiful and long-eared. Jin-Tarin and Tak-Larim spoke for the silver. The last two were complete opposites, Jin being perhaps the shortest Dracodar Winslow recalled seeing thus far. The crowd quieted as the First-Born took their positions at the head of the room.

  “Today begins the hunt!” Tak-Larim called out, voice booming, one arm raised, claws curled into a fist.

  A tumult of roars and growls erupted from apprentices and instructors alike. Tak-Larim continued to speak, overriding their furor as he extolled the virtues of war. The excitement was infectious. Winslow found himself smiling despite the nervous flutters in his belly.

  Tak-Larim scanned the apprentices, cold gaze settling on Winslow. For all of a second his pupils narrowed, and his mouth formed the rictus of a snarl, displaying a row of yellowed fangs.

  Winslow shivered at the expression despite the sweat soaking his shirt. A hunger existed in those eyes, one to match the disdain Tak-Larim had for him and for any of the other humans among the tribes. Winslow looked away, but he could feel Tak-Larim’s eyes boring into him. He took a slow, calming breath, the scent of the creatures around him abruptly strong, near unbearable.

  “Choose wisely, for whatever beast you take over the next three weeks will be yours for the Spirit Race and the war to come,” Tak-Larim said. “Whether giant hornbear, derin, or korgan cat will be up to you. Prepare yourselves, and may the Eternals look after you.” He stalked away, and the other tribe leaders followed.

  Frowning, Winslow considered the idea of hunting and killing the giant versions of the beasts that called the Treskelin home. The prospect wasn’t reassuring.

  Yan-Harin’s basso rumble interrupted his thoughts. “Are you ready?”

  Winslow turned to face his instructor, head even with Yan-Harin’s mountain of a chest. “If the hunt is what I think, then I’m not so sure.”

  “Today is not the day for doubt. Uncertainty will see you dead. Are you ready?”

  Winslow made to ask how could he be prepared for something he knew so little of, but thought better of it. Yan-Harin’s question was to be answered. Explanations would come later. “Yes,” he declared, trying to put his heart into the response.

  “Much better.” Yan-Harin nodded. “Follow me.”

  Winslow hurried after his instructor’s ground-eating strides. A few Aladar females passed them, their loincloths reaching to their knees. They dipped their heads to Yan-Harin and all but ignored Winslow.

  He and Yan-Harin strode along the dirt road that wound its way between the huts before ending along the shores of the glittering lake. Beyond the water the great white ash trees hid all else from view.

  The rank odor of animals became cloyingly thick as they approached the pens that housed the mounts. Flies congregated around the place, buzzing this way and that. Massive black or brown hornbears let out lingering groans and snorts, many at play, batting at each other. Some snapped at the flies. Ivory ridges ran from the bears’ necks to the crowns of their heads. The tawny korgan cats in the second pen stalked back and forth, bodies rippling with muscle, tails whipping from side to side. In the third were white or grey derins, fangs the length of an arm jutting from either side of their jaws. The cats and derins had to be at least ten feet from foot to shoulder; the bears dwarfed them both. Their size made a mockery of the six-foot wall, yet not once had Winslow seen any animal try to escape.

  “Which will you hunt?” Yan-Harin asked.

  Winslow winced. “So we are hunting these.”

  “Every apprentice must do so unless they pass the Trial of Combat.”

  The thought of facing the beasts brought a new understanding as to the choice of a duel against a master. “Why? To prove what?”

  “Placement in the hunt and the race determine who is worthy of the vanguard. And also to decide your war mount.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me beforehand? I could’ve prepared somehow.”

  “It is forbidden to speak of the details of the race or the hunt before the day they begin.” Yan-Harin nodded toward the animals. “These are one of our best kept secrets in war. Why would one of us choose to reveal it to a half-breed?”

  That last word was said without any malice, but it was an insult all the same. Winslow remembered when he would speak much the
same way of the Smear’s folks, when dreg was simply an expression of who they were. Once he’d lost his status as nobility it hadn’t taken him long to feel the contempt with which folks used the title. No wonder Uncle Thar hadn’t brought Keedar among the tribes. His brother wouldn’t have been able to ignore the slight.

  “Besides, the entire race,” continued Yan-Harin, “and therefore the Trial, was supposed to be cancelled this year. We need any who can fight to be on the field, rather than risk losing some to the hunt.”

  “Then why’s the race still being allowed?”

  “Tak-Larim earned enough votes to demand it.”

  “Why would he force the issue knowing how it could affect the army?”

  “Because Thar insisted on you being a part of the vanguard. Tak-Larim disagrees. He says no human or half-breed should be so honored.”

  “You don’t seem bothered by his objection.”

  “I train for war. Politics is not my concern. Perhaps Tak-Larim is right, or perhaps not. Regardless, enough agree with him.” Yan-Harin faced him, eyes hard. “They believe you are weak and do not belong among us. Many still see your kind as the reason for our downfall and refuse to believe your kind may be our salvation.”

  “My kind?”

  “Humans, half-breeds like the Philodar, your dregs.” The giant Dracodar shrugged. “They see this as our time to retake what was lost. With our numbers they do not think we need help even if your mother has said otherwise. Some believe in a return to the old days when you humans were little more than slaves.”

  “What do you believe?”

  “I believe war is coming, a final war to decide our future. Whatever it takes, I want the Dracodar to live, in any form.”

  “Is that the reason you chose to teach me when the others refused?”

  “I owe your father. Delisar saved my life during the Red Swamps. He was as worthy as any Pure.”

  The mention of his father brought memories of the man, the time spent in his tutelage. Worse, it brought the pain of his death at the hands of Ainslen Cardiff, who’d torn Winslow’s life asunder. Thoughts of the king sparked Winslow’s rage, a red thing that smoldered deep inside.

  He wondered after the lack of encounters with bounty hunters since Delisar’s death. Had the king set aside the order to capture him and Keedar? Or was Ainslen so preoccupied by the western invasion that he’d forgotten? Or perhaps he feels I’ll show myself after the announcement of Jaelen as the Empire’s heir.

  A brief smile curled his lips as he considered his son. He pictured little Jaelen despite not having the chance to see the boy as yet. Each passing week he found himself more and more intrigued by the idea of a son, spurred by a need to provide the relationship he himself never had with Delisar or Ainslen. A marriage with Elaina Shenen was not out of the question if it meant Jaelen could have some semblance of a normal life.

  “So, which will it be?” Yan-Harin asked.

  Winslow shook himself. Those thoughts and dreams were for another time. The here and now was of greater consequence. “In all honesty, I’d rather the derins. I’m used to them. Uncle Thar kept a few as pets.” There was also his experience with korgans and bears. Not so long ago he’d seen korgans tear apart a group of bounty hunters. Bears had almost killed him during the Fast of Madness.

  “Derins are harder to handle than any animal, particularly for one as inexperienced as you. Even I am wary around the beasts.”

  Winslow couldn’t imagine Yan-Harin being wary around anything. He studied his other choices. “Which one is easier to tame?”

  “The hornbears.”

  “Then I chose them.”

  Yan-Harin nodded his approval. “Good. My favorite old mount was a hornbear. A fellow I named Shags. Now that you have chosen, there is but one issue. The other apprentices will overpower their mounts by strength.” He held up his hand as Winslow made to speak. “If you are thinking of melds, let me be the one to warn you: any direct assault on a hornbear using soul makes the creature untamable.”

  “Couldn’t I use a sword? After all, it is a hunt.”

  “Weapons of any kind are not allowed by those who took the Trial of Combat.”

  “But your claws and teeth and scales might as well be weapons,” Winslow protested. He’d been a fool to ignore Kel-Nasim.

  “Perhaps, but they are a part of us, as they are a part of you.”

  A part you know I don’t have the control to use.

  “You should always keep your thoughts shielded,” Yan-Harin said.

  Winslow grumbled under his breath, focused, and resumed the layer of sintu he was to maintain at all times. A nimbus rose around him like a cocoon of luminescent smoke. The use of the first cycle pushed away Yan-Harin’s presence. After a moment the initial activation dissipated, but if he concentrated he would see it still.

  “Better,” Yan-Harin said. “Now, as for the weapons, I have always doubted their worth in the hunt. Wounding your mount might have the same effect as attacking it with soul, or almost as bad would be the time lost for the beast to recover from its injuries.”

  “So what other options are there?”

  “For you? Not much if any at all.” Yan-Harin glanced toward the meeting hut. “You have but a few weeks to accomplish the task. My best suggestion would be to study the bears. There is a place northeast of here, at the edge of the forest, where they like to congregate. You might find an answer there.”

  “Couldn’t you help me?”

  “The rules demand this be done by the apprentice without a tribe member’s assistance or interference.”

  A horn wailed, its low croon echoing through the camp. From the meeting hut came roars and bellows that made Winslow start. The apprentices charged outside, gold and silver Dracodar and bronze Aladar scattering into the Upper Treskelin Forest’s gigantic white ash trees.

  Tak-Larim and Ky-Sanim watched from the hut’s door. Ky-Sanim said something and Tak-Larim chortled, the sound like a series of snarls. The two Dracodar strode in the opposite direction.

  “So it begins,” Yan-Harin said solemnly. “May the Eternals watch over you.” He was staring off into the trees.

  “You’re not just talking about me, are you? Did you at least get to see him?”

  “Yes, I … I did.” The huge Dracodar’s chest rose slowly and then deflated. “I followed him until he left the forest, heading west into the wastelands before Berendal. As with all the others before him, he remembers nothing of us … nothing of me. My son is one with the Longing. Na-Rashim always loved the forest. Hopefully he is in a place filled with the trees of his dreams.” He strode away.

  Winslow studied him for a bit before turning to face the Treskelin. His heart fluttered as he set off into its dark embrace.

  T he A bandoned

  “D oom.” King Ainslen Cardiff smiled as he uttered the word and maneuvered a gold-limbed Dracodar warrior across the game board and onto a black square in Queen Terestere’s castle.

  The queen pursed her lips and tipped over her dragon king. “Well played.”

  “Same to you.” He analyzed the board, all the pieces he’d lost, and considered the previous contests. Terestere had managed two draws and a win in five games. “It’s become increasingly difficult to defeat you.” He shook his head, the sentiment delivered with equal parts respect and annoyance. Wife or not, skilled or not, he should be destroying her in Dragon Gatess, not feeling a sense of accomplishment with two victories.

  “Would you prefer if I let you win? If I deceived you into believing you could easily defeat me?” She tilted her head to one side, one thin, shaped brow arched, the hints of green in her amber eyes making the expression all the more alluring.

  “Ten Heavens, no.”

  “Good. Had that been your wish, I would’ve been obliged to disappoint you. Life is filled with enough illusions as is.”

  “Some might argue that life itself is an illusion,” he said.

  “And they might be right. Our lives may just be a
dream fashioned by some great being’s whim.”

  Ainslen smiled at that, leaned across the little table and kissed Terestere. Her lips were feathers brushing lightly against his before his lust surged, and he shoved away the game board to kiss her even harder, toppling the pieces. Her skin smelled of saffron and mint with a hint of ginger spice and had the sweet taste that brought dreams at night. For months now he’d been able to take her as he wanted, and still every time was as memorable as the first.

  Hours later, they lay on the lush carpets, entwined in each other’s embrace. Her head rested on his chest, dark hair spread like some great bird’s plumage. He inhaled, relishing the scent of the ginger spice soap she used to wash her hair. If the decision were his alone he would stay like this for the rest of his days.

  “Do you know what you will say to the westerners today?” She stroked his cheek.

  “Yes. I’ll give them a choice: bend knee or feel my wrath.”

  The hand stopped. “Wouldn’t it work in our favor to come to an agreement? A treaty of some sort?”

  “Perhaps if they hadn’t killed every emissary I sent. Or if their High King didn’t already think I tried to have him assassinated. They even massacred one of the Order’s pilgrimages.”

  She raised her head, eyes searching his face. “Why would he think you tried to have him killed? And massacring a pilgrimage? Is he mad?”

  “I don’t know if he’s mad, but they’re certainly savages. I’ve had several reports to confirm their ritual sacrifice of those gifted with some rare, mysterious cycle. They call them the soulsworn. Only barbarians would commit such acts against their own. To us, who they consider tainted by the Dracodar, they’d do much worse. They would slaughter us to the man if they win. Not even the children would be spared.” He felt her body shiver. She rested her head against his chest once more. “Do you remember Aidah Rostlin?”

  “Kesta Rostlin’s wife, yes. Whatever happened to her after Succession Day?”

  He stared up at the domed ceiling. “Kesta sent her and their two girls, Nerisse and Clara, to one of his estates before the fighting began. They were to await his arrival if we won. Unfortunately, he died during Succession Day. A vile rumor spread, stating I had him killed, and because of that, she fled when I tried to have her brought to Kasandar. She sought sanctuary with the Order, and as Patriarch Hamada tells it, someone tried to abduct her and the children while they were in Melanil, a Blade claiming his actions were my orders.”