The Quintessence Cycle- The Complete Series

by Terry C. Simpson

  Eventually, the bear tired. With a final snort, it lay on its stomach.

  Hak-Danin patted its neck. He leaned down and said a few words. Similar to the three other encounters Winslow had watched, the bear climbed to its feet, and set off into the woods with its new master. Not long after they’d left, the forest came to life once more.

  Sighing, Winslow leaned back against the smooth branch. He lacked the speed and strength exhibited by every Dracodar and Aladar. To succeed, surprise would need to be his ally, and he would require any advantage he could muster.

  With that thought in mind he focused on the scales beneath his skin. They shifted in response, like a living layer. Teeth gritted, he braced for the pain he knew would accompany them. In the past his inability to endure the agony had prevented him from bringing them forth.

  Eyes closed to visualize them, he willed the scales to surface. A tingling sensation followed. His eyes snapped open. Circular imprints crept from his hands up his arms, disappearing under his shirtsleeves. The change eased up his face like a breeze lightly brushing the hair on his arm.

  And then the scales burst through.

  Pain flared, its flames scouring his body, devouring all else. Face contorted, he threw back his head, mouth open to scream. The sound died in the back of his throat, becoming a series of whimpers. His back arched. His eyes watered.

  Teeth bared he fought against the torment. Over and over he told himself to persevere. Slowly, the anguish diminished. Chest heaving, he shuddered. Spittle dribbled from his lips. A glance down at his bare arms left him awestruck.

  Fine gold scales covered him. His fingers had lengthened and thickened and now had sharp claws at the end of each. He felt similar nails on his feet, albeit much shorter. They made his toes hurt in his boots. Touching his face, he ran his fingertips over the smoothness of his scales, felt the ridges where one ended and another began. They hid his earlobes but not the holes. His hair too was beneath the scales.

  Bringing his arms down, he noted the bulge of his chest. His arms were tight against his sleeves; his legs threatened to burst from his trousers. Strength radiated within him.

  Frowning, he noticed something else. Though twilight bruised the sky and the dark deepened within the forest, he could see as if it were late afternoon. The forest stood out in stark detail: thick wormy roots, waxy leaves, vines snaking up or down trunks, insects buzzing to and fro. In fact, now that he considered it, even the sounds and smells were more pronounced. Closing his eyes, he took them in: the rush of the river as it raced south where it would join the Pesca; an animal snuffling for some tasty morsel in humus whose scents were so rich he could taste them; chirps, and birdsong; the bouquet of flowers, leaf, and gum from tree bark. And so much more. His surroundings lived in a way he’d not imagined.

  Brows furrowed, he sniffed. There was another scent. A stale, familiar one. Human.

  “Amazing isn’t it,” said Stomir from the branch above him. “Painful but worth it.”

  Winslow opened his eyes. “Does the change always hurt that much?”

  “At first, yes. But as with anything else the body grows accustomed.” The copper-skinned Kheridisian sat with his back against the ash tree’s white trunk, dressed in faded browns and his usual manifested blue cloak.

  “When did you return?”

  “Just over a week ago.”

  “How’s my brother?” The months away from Keedar had worn on Winslow. Although he’d only known his brother for a short time, their bond had grown as if they’d spent their lives together. Winslow hoped Keedar was faring better with his mission.

  “He was under Martel’s care when I last saw him.”

  Winslow nodded. The big Farish Islander was as good a man as Thar commanded. “So, how long have you been watching over me?”

  “Since the first day you arrived here. Yan-Harin told me what happened with Tak-Larim.”

  Winslow flushed, at once ashamed and angry. “And you came to do what? Help? I thought assistance from a tribe member is forbidden.”

  Stomir shrugged. “It is.” And then he smiled. “But Snow and her pack aren’t members of any tribe.” Winslow followed the man’s gaze. Down among the trees he could make out the massive white derin and her mate, Heart. “Your uncle has had them watching out for you from the very first day we brought you to the camp.”

  Hope surged before Winslow gave the idea some thought. “I’d rather do this the proper way. Besides, Tak-Larim would most likely use the bypassing of the rule as fodder for more support against me.”

  “If he knew.”

  “I’d know.”

  Stomir nodded. “Fair enough. A good thing you care for custom and rules. That you’re honorable. Or have a conscience. It saves me from killing the one watching you.”

  “Where?” Winslow squinted into the forest’s recesses.

  “On the other side of the river. He’s one of the reasons I’m here. Yan-Harin felt Tak-Larim might have someone interfere while you hunted. Maybe even try to hurt you. Although it would break the rules, there’s the little matter of their word against yours, if you even made it back to camp. My presence should be enough to make the fool reconsider any action against you.”

  Winslow strained but failed to see anyone. “Are you certain he’s there?”

  “He’s using the quintessence .”

  Winslow let out a breath and shook his head. He could do without a reminder of the last soul cycle or his shortcomings. Of the five known cycles left, he had developed access to one: lumni , which gave the ability to expel soul from his body. He wondered if he would ever activate baltus, entope, jin , and eventually the quintessence . That last required countless years of practice, according to Kel-Nasim. Thar compared touching the quintessence to an acrobat’s ability to tumble, saying the skill existed in everyone who possessed dominant Dracodar blood, but without constant effort, attempting daily to manipulate the cycle, it would be forever elusive.

  A snuffling noise made him glance upriver toward the silhouettes of the Shifting Stones. Picking its way along the shore was a hornbear. An old boar, if he was any judge of the ragged fur and missing ear. The beast waded into the water.

  “How do you plan to catch one?” Stomir asked.

  “I’ll spend tomorrow in practice, summoning the change, and to become used to my claws.” Flexing his hands, Winslow looked down at them. He could already feel his strength fading. “I’ll take a young boar the day after.”

  “Perhaps you should try your luck on one with less vigor.” Stomir was watching the old boar, which had been making vain attempts to catch boquin fish. The green-backed boquin seemed to be taunting the bear with the way they leaped into the air and dropped into the water headfirst. “The apprentices you’ve seen so far made success appear easy, but remember they’ve spent their lives in scale form. To think you will have their success in such a short time is a tad unrealistic.”

  “You might be right, but I have to try.”

  The old hornbear clambered onto the shore. It shook itself, snorted once, and slunk upriver. Its hunt had proved unsuccessful.

  A tingling sensation passed over Winslow. He glanced at his arms. The tingles became painful pinpricks. When the scales began to recede, he hissed in agony. If Stomir wasn’t there to catch him, Winslow might have fallen from his perch. The moments stretched, and then as before, the pain diminished. He didn’t need to inspect himself to know he was normal once more. The weakness and exhaustion told him as much. His eyes closed of their own volition, leaving a last image of Stomir’s concerned features.

  Winslow woke to the forest’s swelter and its tumultuous clamor. Mandrigal’s beams pierced the canopy, highlighting motes of dust and pollen as they swirled on the breeze. Yawning, he stretched. His stomach rumbled a greeting. The memories of the previous night came in a rush. Before he could find Stomir, the lithe Kheridisian was already passing him a water skin.

  “Drink,” Stomir urged.

  Winslow grimaced at t
he reek of dolen.

  “It’s disgusting, yes, but as you can see, the change is a draining thing, physically, mentally, and on your soul. The first time is always the worst. It gets better after that, but if you plan on getting a grasp on it, you will need regular infusions of soul, food, and herbs to replace some of what you lose.”

  Winslow took the container. Despite his reservations over the taste and smell he found himself gulping down the drink. No sooner had he finished than Stomir was passing him a haunch of roasted meat, juices dripping from it. That too was gone in moments, leaving Winslow licking his fingers.

  “Lorin?” Winslow asked, savoring the peppery taste.

  Stomir nodded. “Now, practice the change. You will need to hold it for at least a half an hour if you wish to claim a hornbear.”

  Similar to the night before, near unbearable pain accompanied the transformation. When it was done, Winslow reveled in the feel of his improved strength and senses. The change lasted a few minutes longer this time before it reverted, leaving him drained once more. They spent the entire day practicing in four-hour intervals, repeating the replenishment process each time. That night Winslow succumbed to exhaustion so complete he could hardly think. Finally, on the fifth day of such preparation, Stomir was willing to allow him to take on a hornbear.

  The Shifting Stones were giant silhouettes against the grey pearl of a dawn sky when Winslow crept along a branch that extended over the river’s shore. He waited, his heartbeat like galloping hooves. Below, a giant hornbear, the dominant boar, snuffled at the ground, stopping to inspect its surroundings before calling to the rest of its sloth.

  Stiffening in anticipation of the fight to come, Winslow dropped from the branch. The fall felt as if it lasted forever, the wind streaming past him, heat rising from the ground, the rush of his blood loud in his ears. He landed atop the hornbear’s back, its musky smell thick in his nose, and dug his claws into the fur and flesh beneath the upper portion of its ivory carapace.

  A rush of soul crashed into him. The bear roared and whipped its body once, twice, three times. Flung from the bear’s back, Winslow tumbled across the rocky ground.

  Even without seeing the bear, Winslow knew it was charging. Its paws scrabbled on stone, and its bellows sounded as if the animal was next to him. He rolled just in time to avoid a swipe that might have cleaved him in two.

  In desperation, he pulled on tern and sintu , imagined himself and applied shi to complete the meld. At the same time, he expelled some of his soul onto the replica by way of lumni.

  Drawn to the larger source of soul, the bear pounced. Growling and snarling it tore at Winslow’s replica, claws passing through the image.

  Winslow turned and dashed toward the nearest tree. A few quick leaps and he was up among the branches. Chest heaving, he climbed higher before he leaped across to another tree. At the ash tree’s base, the bear paced back and forth, stopping occasionally to snort at him. The replica dissipated.

  “Harder than you thought, isn’t it?” Stomir chortled. Winslow could only manage a nod as he tried to catch his breath. “Well, no use in wasting energy. Release the change, eat, and rest. The boar won’t leave for a while yet. You’re lucky he didn’t climb after you.”

  True to Stomir’s words, the hornbear remained until after midday. Later that evening another opportunity arose. Winslow failed again, almost as spectacularly as the first time. No other bears arrived until Antelen was a silver sliver in the sky. In the midst of eating his final meal Winslow watched the old bear with one ear shuffle down to the river.

  “You should try this one,” Stomir said. “Even the fish have succeeded in defeating him. Surely you’re more powerful than a fish.” Winslow scowled at the man. Stomir grinned.

  “If I’m going to succeed, it has to be one worth the effort,” Winslow said, while chewing a bit of roasted lorin.

  “Any kind of success is worth the effort.”

  “Not if it means my bear will be next to useless in the race.”

  “You’d have to get in the race first.”

  Unable to offer a rebuttal, Winslow remained silent. Below him, the bear snorted in disgust, and wandered off toward the Shifting Stones, once more failing to catch a fish.

  After a few more equally frustrating days, bested by smaller boars, desperation set in. The second week was almost up. He decided to give the old boar a try. Perhaps he might learn something he could use.

  As it had done every evening, the boar shambled from the trees. It stopped beside the river, sniffing at the ground.

  Taking a quick breath, Winslow leaped from the branch. He landed on the bear’s back, and as he’d done before, he dug his claws into the fur and flesh where the horn narrowed near its neck. He braced himself for the animal’s wild thrashing.

  None came. The bear gave a snort, clacked its teeth, and plodded into the murky water until Winslow felt the wetness against his legs. The animal stopped, cocked its head to one side, one large, dark eye following Winslow, and then showed its teeth in what seemed too much like a grin. It waded into the depths.

  Clinging to the bear’s back, clothes completely soaked, Winslow tried to make sense of what was happening. Water lapped up against him as the bear paddled against the current. Winslow barely had time to suck in a breath when the bear dived underwater.

  He hung on, the current pushing against him, trying to sweep him from the animal’s back. Eyes straining against the murk, he could make out vegetation, rocks, and a few large fish as the bear glided farther down.

  His lungs began to burn. The fire became agony. Then need took over. Need to breathe. Need for air. His lungs gave out. Bubbles burst from his lips.

  Winslow let go and kicked for the surface. The wavy haze above that promised a breath seemed so far away. His heart thundered; his chest ached, but he kept his legs moving. Bursting from the water he gasped and sucked in sweet, succulent air.

  The bear groaned, long and loud. It stood on the shore, baying in his direction. With a shake that threw water from its fur, it turned and shuffled away.

  “Well, so much for that idea,” Winslow said once he’d climbed back up to where Stomir sat among the branches.

  “I still think the old one is your best chance.” Stomir was staring in the direction the bear had gone, a smile on his face.

  “Even after what just happened?” Winslow allowed his scales to recede, grunting against pain that was no longer debilitating.

  “It’s the way he reacted to you. Or didn’t react, but simply strode into the water. It says he’s been tamed before.”

  “You think so?”

  “Definitely. From his markings, I think he once belonged to Yan-Harin.”

  “That’s Shags? Well, he obviously does not like the idea of someone on his back.”

  “But he wants fish and hasn’t able to catch any.”

  Winslow stroked his chin. “If what you said works, and I doubt it will, how much use would he be in the race? He’s old, slow. The younger ones would destroy him. Most likely it’s the reason he no longer belongs to a sloth.”

  “Those problems only exist if you’re in the race. Your objective now is not to fail before you’ve begun.”

  After careful thought, Winslow climbed down from the tree and ventured to the river. When he’d caught several fish, Mandrigal had almost completely fled the sky. He strung the catch together through their gills and slung them over his shoulder.

  “His tracks should lead you to one of the caves along the slopes,” Stomir said. “While you take care of him, I’ll go play with Tak-Larim’s spy.”

  “Don’t kill him.”

  Stomir waved as he walked away. “I did say play, didn’t I?”

  Winslow watched until Stomir’s blue cloak disappeared among the trees. Then he set off in the direction the bear had gone.

  Three days later, Winslow rode into the camp atop Shags. Haggard, spent from riding hard all night after the bear had finally accepted him, he felt a sense of ac
complishment. Chest up, he gathered himself for the impending adulation.

  The Dracodarkind pointed and laughed at his mount. Tak-Larim and Ky-Sanim joined in the fun, although the former’s eyes were like daggers as he watched Winslow progress to the pens. Winslow’s heart sank.

  “Look at him,” Tak-Larim yelled. The crowd quieted. “The mount he has returned with is a travesty. Even the youngest among us could have done better. And they would have us believe this soft-skin, this scale-less thing, is the son of a broodmother, a son of our once great queen.”

  Growling, Winslow leaped down from the bear. As he summoned his scales, he shouted, “I am one of you!” He gritted his teeth in anticipation of the pain.

  Exhaustion crashed down on him. He lost a grip on the few scales that had burst through his skin. They receded.

  A deathly silence fell over the square. The wind moaned between the huts. Horrified expressions told Winslow the gravity of his mistake. One by one the tribe members turned and left without a backward glance.

  Even Kel-Nasim.

  Winslow hung his head in shame.

  T he W orkshops

  T he cage filled with prisoners bounced along the road near the beach, pulled by a tusked ereskar with slate grey skin. The driver yanked on the manifested chain reins cinched into the animal’s mouth and brought the humongous beast to a halt at the start of the Bloody Corridor, a passage between plateaus that cut a swath from east to west through the Blooded Dagger Mountains along Marissinia’s northeastern coast. Thar ignored the moans and fervent prayers from his fellow captives and studied the surroundings.

  Rising above the plateaus, the Daggers stabbed wispy clouds in a lapis lazuli sky. Forts and siege engines lined those steppes, the death rained down by them in the past earning the Bloody Corridor its name. A few defenses were but so much ruins, destroyed when the Farlanders invaded. Seatrels wheeled in the sky, cawing in concert at the prospect of a meal. Bob-tailed derins basked in the sun along the slopes, eying the convoy with interest.

  The ereskar behind Thar put its elongated snout to the air and bayed, slobber flying from jaws large enough to snap a bull in half. Others of its ilk repeated the call, drowning out the leather-clad and cloaked Farlanders on the march or those who practiced formations on the beach. The beast, a male, tossed a head that had two horns and two tusks, floppy man-sized ears, and a mouth with a row of teeth meant for tearing flesh. So far the ereskars had matched their dangerous appearances with intent, one of them goring and trampling a group of slaves who got in its way. None of which appeared to bother the brown-robed Jophite driver sitting in a basket on the ereskar’s back, near its neck. For all the concern the driver displayed, he could have been a farmer tending his crop. Soul magic emitted a constant glow around him.