The Quintessence Cycle- The Complete Series

by Terry C. Simpson

  “That’s a direct violation of the Word’s Precepts,” she said. “Such an atrocity is tantamount to blasphemy.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Did you do it? Kill her husband? Give the command for her capture?”

  Ainslen bit back a scathing reply. If she was another woman, he might have killed her for asking. “No.” The lie came easy. He still regretted losing out on two children so obviously strong in soul. “In light of the Blade’s claim, Corgansetti saw fit to grant her a writ of safe passage west, to Casda Esdan where she would meet High King Taakertere and purchase sanctuary in Berendal. He sent the pilgrimage with her.”

  “If she had a writ, why would the High King massacre the wisemen? Even without one, the Order has sent other pilgrimages to spread the Word of the Dominion to them before. The only ones not to return were those that fell victim to overzealous raiders. And reparations were made for those. I don’t understand.”

  “Neither did I,” Ainslen said. “But one wiseman survived the expedition. In his report to Hamada, he claimed the westerners discovered Clara possessed the rare cycle I mentioned. They coveted her. Upon Aidah’s entrance into Casda Esdan, she and her children were escorted to Taakertere. Nerisse, a strong melder in her own right, attacked the High King, screaming that he was some evil man who would take her sister. We assume it was the soul craze, or perhaps she’d foreseen Clara’s fate. They cut her to pieces. In light of the writ, the High King blamed the Patriarch and myself for the attempt on his life.”

  “Couldn’t you try to speak to him? Convince him otherwise?”

  “I already said the man can’t be reasoned with. Before the survivor died, he told Hamada the High King had conferred with their priests, the Jehazites. As was their practice, they sacrificed Clara and Aidah by sending them through the Dragon Gates. The ritual triggered the Crystal Skies, a portent of some kind for them, one to foretell their rise to power. The Heleganese Voices said much the same thing before I chased them from Kasandar. We face zealots. Murderous zealots. Nothing is worse than a man convinced that his path is blessed.”

  “Then why this final meeting?” she asked, voice soft. “They will try to kill you. Suppose this High King can use the cycle you spoke of? What if it’s some secret weapon?”

  “Bait, of course. How else can I draw Taakertere into the open?” He was confident in his ability to succeed. And besides, the idea of a new soul cycle intrigued him. He could add its power to his. He relished the thought. “According to information gleaned by the Order, if I kill him then I assume his authority.”

  “And if you die?” she whispered.

  He turned her to face him and tilted her chin up until he could gaze into her eyes. Her lips trembled. “Don’t fret for me, my sweet. Worry for them.”

  She shook her head. “I can’t help it. Perhaps if Warmaster Seligula and the brunt of his Farlanders were here, particularly those Soulbreakers you spoke of, I might feel more secure.” She resumed her former position.

  “If the Warmaster was here, there would be no need for parley or deception.” He almost snarled under his breath, annoyed at their absence. “Between the Soulbreakers, the Blazers and their firesticks and firebreathers, as well as our Blades, the westerners would be on their knees.” As events stood, he had a handful of Farlanders with him. Of them, a mere six were Blazers. He hoped whatever delayed the Warmaster would be dealt with soon. When he spoke he injected a measure of confidence into his words. “My Blades are more than capable for the task at hand.”

  “Even without the main Thelusian army? Perhaps—”

  “The Thelusians,” he repeated, scowling, “dared to attack the Farlanders on the beaches near the Steppes of the World.”

  “A wayward prince or two, not the Stonelords.”

  “Regardless, I’ve yet to hear from them. The same for the Farish Islanders and the Darshanese, even after I provided them both with Dracodar remains in good faith. If I should be forced to fight this war without them, they will pay dearly.”

  “I cannot afford to lose you.” She rose up again and kissed him lightly. Staring into his eyes, she stroked his face, fingers lightly brushing his brows, his cheeks, running across his stubble around his mouth and chin.

  The words rang with truth. He smiled. “You won’t. I promise.”

  “Could you at least wait for the Kheridisians?” She propped herself up on a few pillows.

  Her persistence grated at him. Almost making him believe she saw him as weak. “I had no need of them in the past, and I don’t need them now.” He grimaced at the thought of the secretive people. “They only rescinded their declaration of war against the Empire because of the threat the westerners pose to them also. Until I’ve met with the generals and the emissary of this new monarch of theirs, this King Weilondran, I refuse to trust them. And even then, any help I accept will be on my terms.”

  He wished he knew what Shaz had found in the Treskelin during his search for Winslow. Had the Consortium taken what remained of Delisar to the same place or were they hidden within the Undertow? When the war was done, finding them would be his first task. He savored the thought of the times he’d fed off Delisar. He would be certain to take every bit of power from Elysse the Temptress’ sons. Tharkensen would certainly be with them. An added bonus. He almost had them in his grasp once. Without the distractions, and with more Soulbreakers to call upon, the family wouldn’t escape. If the treaty sought by the new Kheridisian ruler proved to be honest, then things would be even easier. Ainslen licked his lips at the idea of the feast to come.

  “My ears in Melanil say the Patriarch and Matriarch have a good relationship with the Kheridisians,” Terestere said. “Apparently both have at least one Kheridisian parent. Whores, most likely, but that makes little difference in the eyes of the Order. They could secure the assurances you need.”

  “So, that bit is true?” Ainslen nodded musingly. “I’d thought it just a rumor. To think not one but two with such heritage holds the positions they do is an interesting proposition. Perhaps one to be used to my advantage, or one I should consider worrisome. Send to your contacts in the Elder Council to ascertain how soon a meeting between this Weilondran and myself can be arranged.” He paused for a moment. “On the topic of whores, Count Lestin believes the thousands who followed us here are too much of a distraction to the soldiers.”

  “Let them be. They do more good than harm. Violent men need their vices.”

  He nodded. “Speaking of which.” Grinning, he rolled over toward her. “I think I’m in need of such vices again.”

  “But—”

  He placed a finger to her lips. “I will be fine, trust me.” Drawing her down to him, he lost himself to desire.

  Terestere was asleep when the time came for his parley with the Berendali High King. At first he thought to wake her but decided against it. He wasn’t about to leave her worried and pacing over the outcome of this rendezvous. Waking her or even bothering to give her a last kiss meant he expected something ill to befall him. That wasn’t the case. He leaned in close to her hair and took a deep whiff of the scent of ginger spice.

  ******

  Dressed in regal crimson trimmed with gold, a crest displaying the Hand of Soul prominent on the left breast of his jacket—its scaled fingers and clawed nails done in exquisite detail, the magic a pale blue—he left Danalyn Castle accompanied by Blades Sabella and Miurin, a swarthy Darshanese woman whose face had seen better days. Both wore his red and gold livery, cloaks emblazoned with the Hand. Before him sprawled the city that had sprang up around the Sword of Humel, a gathering of stone and wood, markets and squares that had once been the castle grounds. Black basalt walls rose in the distance, a reminder that Danalyn was a fortress unto itself, as were all the Swords. Wisemen in red and blue robes, his lords, their Blades and soldiers, filled the streets.

  The newly raised counts of the Ten Hills were on their mounts below the castle’s wide stairs, each man loyal and lacking the influence to undermine hi
s reign. Not that there wasn’t temptation enough to change allegiance. Coin had a tendency to make fools of men. Another reason he made certain he personally controlled the Empire’s biggest industries, from the Thelusian black ash wood to the affairs of the entertainment districts. His grip on the brothels and the Bloodleaf and Calum powder trade was particularly strong. He almost smiled at accomplishing the feat before he remembered Count Leroi Shenen. He wondered if leaving the man in Kasandar as the Lord Marshal was a mistake. It might have been better to keep him close. Or to kill him.

  He shook off the thought. Awarding Leroi the position was sound. It improved Ainslen’s reputation, made him seem a king who was hard but who could also forgive. Besides, Leroi would maintain an iron grip on the city and keep it safe from the Consortium’s splintered remnants. The fates of his daughter and grandchild demanded it. Particularly the latter. Leroi had always considered himself shrewd. He would see opportunity in Jaelen’s position as heir. It was perfect for any machinations of Far’an Senjin. Ainslen smiled.

  If all else failed, there was still Borosen Prestiss and General Sorinya. The merchant spy’s steady reports would be warning enough should Leroi resort to his old plots. Sorinya would relish the task of killing Leroi.

  “Ready, sire?” Blade Sabella’s eyes searched the crowd. Ever since the assassination attempts, first by the Soulbreakers, and then by Hagarath and Fiorenta, the woman had become vigilant to the point of paranoia. She trusted no one but a retinue of Blades she trained herself.

  He didn’t fault her for such diligence. Trust was a fool’s errand, one as likely to end with a knife in the gut as it was to see the task completed. “Yes. Have Count Lestin, Voice Kulabi, and Elder Forstren attend me on our ride out.”

  She nodded and then raised a gloved fist to signal the escort. Blades in leather armor, most of it gained from derins, eased from among the ranks of common soldiers. Without their red cloaks with the Hand of Soul they looked like any other. At least until luminescent nimbuses sprang up around them in a solid wall through which neither mental nor physical attacks could penetrate without their knowledge. The nimbuses spanned some several dozen feet ahead of the Blades. One of the men brought the king’s mount forward.

  Surrounded by his guard and the counts, Ainslen headed west at a slow walk along the cobbled streets. Pennants bearing the Hand of Soul, the Star of Dominion, and the symbols of the Ten Hills fluttered on the breeze. The rhythmic march of booted feet and clank of weapon and armor played a symphony of battle in his head.

  As he rode, he nodded here or there to the people lining the streets and crowding windows and doors. Many shouted for acknowledgment or bellowed the virtue of their wares. In anticipation of the coming war the majority of Danalyn’s former inhabitants had abandoned the city. Those present were traders and the like, some of goods and others of flesh, folks who thought to see a profit from the army and considered the coin worth the risk. Most had followed since the army left Kasandar.

  Whores were prominent among them, waving from windows, teasing a bit of breast or thigh, or sometimes more. There was the middling to poor fare one might find in Kasandar’s Grey Ward, to the exotic Kheridisian and Thelusian beauties of the best guiser halls. Coin had no bias. Neither did a soldier’s loins when he sought relief from the campaign’s rigors. Ainslen had a grudging respect for the organization displayed by Housemistress Estelia and her counterparts.

  He was halfway to the gates when Count Lestin, Voice Kulabi, and Elder Forstren joined him. Each of them bowed.

  Count Lestin stopped chewing his Bloodleaf, teeth yellowed by the habit. Today, the sinewy Marishman wore a black coat with silver buttons that matched the iron sabatons he favored as footwear. He scowled in the direction of the whores. “When will we be rid of that rabble?”

  “They stay,” Ainslen said without thought. “Violent men need their vices. I would rather the soldiers resort to whoring than to duels.”

  “Better to stab with a sword that doesn’t cut or kill. Is that it?”

  “Precisely. Now, what news, Commander General?”

  With a sigh, Lestin said, “The other Swords are prepared, sire. Every bleedin’ trap’s now active.”

  “How many men were you able to muster?”

  “Twenty thousand at each. A mixture of Kasinians, Marishmen, Heleganese, and Thelusians.”

  Ainslen pursed his lips. The numbers were more than he’d expected for the other nine Swords of Humel. “Voice Kulabi, your report.”

  As was his habit, the diminutive Heleganese ambassador cleared his throat as if preparing to sing or spin a guiser’s tale. The scar that ran from the corner of his mouth to his cheek puckered, whiter than the man’s already snowy skin. “The Overlords extend their gratitude in excluding our forces from those needed to hold the Swords. In exchange we have done as asked.” He paused a moment to lick his lips. “But the spirit assassins have all failed. None have been able to infiltrate the camp much less get close to this High King.”

  Ainslen let out a breath. “And the other task?”

  “The Clouded Peaks are sealed, and we began raids down into Carador.”

  “Have the Caradorii responded?”

  “Only by emptying the towns and villages within reach of the Peaks. Their armies stationed farther in the Forest of Blessings haven’t advanced.”

  “Good,” the king said. “Don’t let up. The threat should keep them occupied.” He nodded toward the pudgy wiseman. “Elder Forstren?”

  “As many wisemen as the Order could spare are spread among the Swords.” Forstren wore the golden chain of his station: a depiction of the war God Humel riding a chariot pulled by a one-eyed horse. It bounced on his round belly as they rode. In Humel’s hand was his first sword, Danalyn; the other nine were in a box-shaped scabbard on his back. “Do you really believe they will try to strike at all of them at once?”

  “It makes for sound strategy,” Ainslen said. “Create too many fronts for the enemy to defend. They certainly have the numbers for it. Better prepared than not.”

  The Order’s agreement to send such a massive force of wisemen had been less of a hassle than he anticipated. Although he did have his wife to thank for that. Somehow she’d managed to convince Patriarch Hamada and Matriarch Merisse of his plan. He shook his head. He still couldn’t believe Corgansetti and Janania were dead. Neither would have agreed in full. Such considerable fortune could only be the Dominion’s blessing. Hazline smiled on him.

  “Any additional word from the Kheridisians?” the king asked.

  “I passed on your malcontent to our Father,” Forstren said. “He continues to say the Kheridisians have assured him of their presence.”

  “Then what is taking them? They’re the closest to us and yet every missive makes it seem as if they’re so far away.”

  “Their envoy claims it takes an inordinate amount of time to navigate the Treskelin Forest to pass word to all the cities and then to gather the men. The Forest itself is an obstacle. Some claim it has a mind of its own.”

  “Nonsense.” Ainslen had heard the tales on many occasions. Hunters who claimed the Treskelin watched them, that paths carved through it would grow over in minutes, trees would change places to block them out. There was the strange layer of soul that enveloped the place and kept it warm even in the worst winters, apparently originating from the giant ash trees. Ainslen snorted. “Enchanted, it might be. Perhaps the work of some great, ancient Dracodar or an artifact of some sort like the Pillars of Dissolution or Winds of Time. But trees capable of thought? I’m inclined to believe in animals achieving incredible feats because I’ve seen it myself. But trees?” He shook his head. “If a time existed for the forest to show its power it would have been to save the Kheridisians from slaughter during the Red Swamps. No, this new king of theirs is stalling. Sooner or later, he’ll answer to me. For his sake, I hope it’s sooner. I might show mercy then.”

  They passed into the shadow of Danalyn’s three-hundred-foot black bulwar
k, half as broad as it was tall. Soldiers milled atop the walls, partially hidden by crenels. The basalt edifice curved to his left and right to encircle the city, and along those distant expanses he could just make out the giant ballistae set at regular intervals, each one facing out into the western Wetlands.

  Ainslen dismounted and entered one of the guard towers, soldiers bowing as he passed. The others followed his lead, and accompanied by Sabella and four other Blades, they climbed the stairs, footsteps echoing. Howling gusts greeted him when he exited on the walkway along the parapet. He stopped and gazed out between the crenels onto the enemy’s encampment. They took up most of the fields, beginning several thousand feet from the wall, the ground churned and muddy.

  “Forstren, have you learned anything from the Order’s Caradorii converts?”

  “Not much in the way of tactics, sire. They claim the western melders can match or surpass our Blades, that many of them train for war from birth. Every ten years they do battle in the Fringes, at a place called the Tomb of Shattered Souls. This battle determines their High King and from whose stock an offering will be made to their Gods. The Chosen Campaign, they call it … a ritual as sacred as their Crystal Skies. Voice Kulabi mentioned it to you when he first came to Kasandar.”

  The western forces blotted out the land, armored ranks gleaming in the sun. Some milled about gutted campfires. Others tended to their stockade of yuros, the short-haired mounts bearing more in resemblance to hounds than horses.

  “Who are they?” Ainslen pointed to hooded, black-robed figures standing in a line behind the enemy force. From the first day, that was all they seemed to do: stand guard. Not once had they removed their garb even with the sweltering days. Of all the westerners they were the most ominous.