The Quintessence Cycle- The Complete Series

by Terry C. Simpson

  The words rang like a slap. Face flushed, she opened and closed her mouth. “How dare you—”

  “I dare because I’m the Commander General. And you’re gettin’ in my way. If you don’t like what I have to say, or my orders, you can have me killed. But you can’t, can you? With the king sufferin’, someone’s got to run this war, and I’m the man for the job. Until the king is on his feet, I’m in total command.”

  She ground her teeth. In another time she might have liked Lestin’s audacity. Now, she wanted to strangle him. She took a slow, calming breath. “Your tone alone deserves the headsman. But I also know you’re right.” Lestin’s lips curved up ever so slightly. “About not being able to have you killed. You might be right about the city also. But you’re wrong about being in total command.” Lestin’s smiled faded. “No one is going to obey your order to move the king.”

  “Then we die here and the war is over before it’s truly begun.”

  “What if I can acquire reinforcements?”

  He regarded her with narrowed eyes. “Could be a help, but the closest Blades are still five weeks away.”

  “And if I could get them here sooner?”

  “Then perhaps we stand a chance.”

  “So it’s decided.” Terestere stood. “I’ll get them here in half that time. Until then, you hold the walls at all costs.” She met his gaze and saw a glimmer of an idea there, one she didn’t like. She made her expression blank, her voice and eyes dead. “Be warned, if you sound a retreat before my return I’ll make you pay, as well as anyone who follows such an order. Be certain to tell any who support you so they know the risk.”

  “Fair enough. But take too long and we’re gone.”

  Having gained less time than she had hoped for, she bid Lestin a good day and headed to her rooms. In the privacy of her chambers she studied the Dragon Gates board, copying maneuvers for the message she wished to send. When finished, she called for one of her trusted couriers to deliver her missive to Housemistress Estelia.

  While she awaited word of delivery, she played a game by herself. At the end, she eyed the dragon king. Its snout reminded her of a wolf, its long neck, a snake. Wings enfolded a muscular body, and it possessed four stubby legs and a sinuous tail. The scales were the most telling, so much like the ones she kept hidden.

  In her youth, when she watched her father play the game, she’d inquired after the beast’s origin. On some boards the piece resembled a winged Dracodar, but no such creature existed. Her father said the design was simply an artist’s imagination. She often wondered if it were more, if it were perhaps a depiction of one of the Dominion as was described in parts of the Word.

  A knock at the door broke her thoughts. It was the courier with confirmation. After seeing him off she left and made her way to the Jophite handlers in charge of the three ereskars Ainslen had brought to Danalyn. By the time she departed the city atop one of the giant animals it was late afternoon, although one could barely tell with the white and grey clouds that made Mandrigal a ball of golden haze. Four of her personal Blades accompanied her, two atop the other ereskars.

  On the road, they passed traders and the like who’d decided the risk of the city’s fall was not worth the coin. They’d collected their wares in carts pulled by horses or sandy ill-tempered byagas. Most split off, heading northeast to Merelyn, the next Sword of Humel, a gathering of distant black towers.

  She met Estelia due east where the road dipped down and hid Danalyn from view. Sitting astride a mare, the brown-skinned Kheridisian woman was a different sight in a dress identical to Terestere’s rather than the revealing outfits she wore as a courtesan. Rings lined both her ears and one pierced each nostril and the skin between.

  “You took every precaution?” Terestere drew abreast of the woman.

  “Yes, my queen. No one will remember me.” Estelia dismounted, gave her horse a slap on the rump, and sent it trotting toward the city where smoke from an earlier battle still drifted into the air. “Myself and two of my best tend to the needs of the gate guards.”

  “Excellent.”

  Across from Terestere one of the other ereskars bent its front knees until they touched the ground. Estelia was hesitant, but a Blade helped her up the rope ladder that lay on the beast’s side near its front legs. She climbed into the basket on its back. Two larger baskets hung from both flanks. The Blade took a seat beside Estelia and then fastened the leather straps across their midsections.

  “Follow the road until you reach the army,” Terestere said. “I sent a bird to them earlier so they will be expecting someone. Have them crowd as many Blades as they can into the baskets. I will meet you here in a week’s time. Be subtle with your touch, just enough reinforcement for them not to be certain if it was I who arrived to get them.”

  “And them?” Estelia gestured toward the Jophite drivers.

  “Already mine. Now, go.”

  The Jophite on Estelia’s beast spoke in his tongue and pulled on the chain reins. The ereskar stood to its full height, some twenty feet at least, and let out a rumbling bay. Its feet sunk into the cobbles, and the animal began to quiver. Its twin followed suit.

  “I’d hold tight if I were you,” Terestere called out, smiling.

  Estelia was wide-eyed. She grabbed hold of the basket frame.

  The shaking grew in violence, the basket rattling. The ereskars bayed again.

  And then shot forward like javelins fired from a ballista.

  The sudden movement snapped Estelia back into her seat. She let out a little shriek. Dust and stone kicked up when the creatures first released, but beyond that, there was no other debris or trail. Within moments the ereskars were little more than distant specks.

  “Our turn,” Terestere said, her mind connected to that of her driver. The time had come to visit the tribes once more.

  Their ereskar faced directly south, toward the rocky shoulders and green mantles of the Shifting Stones Mountains. Seconds later, they too were off, the wind of exhilaration from such speed making Terestere throw back her head and laugh.

  T o H ide

  K eedar expanded his nimbus with jin in an effort to locate the Blade who stalked him. He kept his back to the tree trunk. In the past days too many moments had come when he swore he felt eyes on him, or the forest’s choir had halted abruptly, silence stretching so long he heard his own breathing amid the wind’s low croon, heard the creak of limb, the rustle of leaf. Yet, he’d failed to locate any threat. Passing shadows resolved into birds or gomerans, the occasional derin, boar, deer, or some other denizen.

  As his nimbus spread in a dome, also augmented by koren to hide its appearance, he soaked in the sensations. Trees, foliage, brush, animals, and insects broke that perimeter. With his hands grasping the hilts of his daggers he waited for the revelation of something uncommon: a breath where there should be none, the incorrect shape, a bit of soul not quite right, the stink of sweat other than his own. The meld reached its hundred-foot limit.

  And found all was normal.

  He beat back the natural urge to let out a relieved breath. To relax. The supposed absence of immediate threat was no surety of safety. To be able to hide so completely meant the stalker was beyond his skills. He’d backtracked the evening before and discovered a boar’s carcass, the wounds indicative of an arrow and a knife. There had also been boot tracks and remnants of a campfire. The Blade could have easily hidden the kill and the path. Instead the man left them where they could be found. A warning. A taunt. Signs from the Blade letting Keedar know he was there still. Close by. Following. Watching.

  Frustrated by the situation, he was on the verge of slipping away from the tree when a twig snapped somewhere to his left. He held still. Another crack. And another. Then came the squelch of boots through detritus, each step measured, stealthy if not for his magnified hearing. He slid down the tree until he crouched among the brush and roots. Shifting his head ever so slightly he peered toward the noise.

  Three Farlanders
dressed in their distinctive pale leather armor, two Allonian men and one Egini woman, were some distance away, beyond the range of his extended nimbus. They stalked among the brush, eyes scanning the trees and dense foliage, passing over his location without pausing. A flicker of color to their right revealed two more Egini. Of those last, one glanced toward him, gaze lingering a second too long.

  Even as the Egini’s mouth opened, and soul billowed up around the man, Keedar took off running. He instinctively hardened his nimbus. A moment later came the dull vibrations and intense pressure of an attack striking his shield. The sounds of pursuit ensued.

  Keedar tried to put as many trees as he could between himself and them. He gave up on any chance of immediate concealment and forced as much soul as he dared into his legs. The forest and ground became a blur. Relying on his magnified hearing, he fled toward where he hoped to find Martel, cursing himself for becoming so focused on Guai’s Blade that he’d missed the real enemy.

  His pursuers languished behind. Straining, he tried to make out their positions, but all he heard was the thunder of his heartbeat, the rasp of his breathing, and the near indiscernible pad of his footsteps. He stopped abruptly.

  He studied the gomerans, birds, and other critters cowering in the trees. Their attention was riveted upon him, their silence ominous. In the quiet lived all manner of disquiet. It bled and bubbled and boiled within him, wilted his legs. It made a liar of the inner whispers of courage to which he clung; it urged him to run. But, another part of him, deeper, instinctive, said he should stand still.

  Vital points flared wide, he eased to the ground, flat on his stomach. Swallowed by brush, he expelled his soul. An instant before such a deficiency would render him unconscious he called upon koren to stop the flow, at the same time closing the nodes.

  His expelled soul drifted along the ground like a thin mist, spreading in an ever-widening circle until it became one with that of the trees. Not daring to breathe, he drew on sera , willed himself not to be seen, the intention not directed at anyone, but blended with the sense of foreboding given off by the forest and its denizens.

  Without sintu, without his nimbus, he felt naked. He became more acutely aware of his thundering heart and called on it to slow. The beat diminished. No sooner had he done so than a shadow passed over his hiding place. Keedar held his breath.

  The Allonian dropped from the trees and landed in the brush less than twenty feet from Keedar, body partially hidden by the knit of leaf and branch. A glint reflected from curved steel. The Allonian’s arrival sent two rabbits scampering away. Skin like tanned leather he was of a smaller frame than most of his race, flame-colored hair in a long braid down his back. He turned in a slow circle.

  Keedar froze when those searching eyes crossed his hiding place. He continued to project his will through sera : his location was mere branches and leaves, nothing out of the ordinary; danger lurked in the forest, from above, from the shadows, from among the trees.

  The Allonian spun, brow furrowed in worry. Sword held in a tight grip before him, he peered up and then behind. Sweat streamed down his face. He licked his lips. After a few moments, the big man melded, soul bunching around his legs. He sprang up into the trees and disappeared to the west.

  Long minutes stretched, the forest resuming its song before Keedar allowed himself a breath. Still, he waited, not daring to move, not even to wipe the sweat trickling down his forehead. Should he be discovered, he knew his fate: hung up and worked with a knife, skin removed and cured to be used as armor. He shuddered.

  The afternoon’s hot breath became evening’s heavy cloak before he finally felt safe enough to abandon his hiding place. He stood to his full height, stretching to relieve the soreness in his back. And froze.

  Crouching on a branch and staring down at him was a man. No, not a man. Something else.

  Slitted eyes stood out in a misshapen, grey-scaled face that barely had a semblance of humanity. A scar marred one side of the face. The creature was barn door wide yet the sliver of branch it crouched upon did not so much as bend. Overlong arms with claw-tipped hands dangled in the air. Thin lips curved into a feral grin. Jutting above one shoulder was the hilt of an enormous sword.

  Keedar threw open his vital points, summoned his nimbus, and spun. Before he took a step to flee, the outward flow of soul picked up several more forms like the one in the tree. They surrounded him.

  Images of the dead slaves flooded his thoughts. He licked his lips and swallowed. Stiffening against the shudder that crawled through him, against the fear trying to crush him, he made a decision. If he was to die, he would do so here, on his own terms, fighting, rather than stripped of his skin or as a meal.

  Flaring his vital points to their fullest he drew on his soul. It filled him to bursting. He was drowning in its power, and that power begged for an outlet, a place to gush forth. Recalling the blaze of sulfur, he struck. Blue flames swept from him in a wave, their passage emitting a crackle, heat devouring all in its path, racing up into the air toward the Soulbreaker perched in the tree. Bark peeled, leaves wilted, wood ignited.

  The creature stood still, dark eyes reflecting the inferno. And then grey scales slid over those eyes. They spanned the entire face like a mold.

  The conflagration washed over and beyond the Soulbreaker, scorching everything around the massive form, but leaving the monster untouched. The scent of burnt wood filled the air. Smoke billowed between the trees, hiding the Soulbreaker. From within the dark pall came a deep chuckle, and then a hearty laugh. Keedar’s legs turned watery weak.

  “You’re wasting your time.” Lomin’s raspy voice originated from the trees to the left.

  Keedar spun to face the man, hope rising for a moment when he saw the firestick the Blade cradled. The expectation fled at the man’s calm demeanor and relaxed stride. “You? You were the one Guai sent?”

  “No. The one he sent is dead. The task I gave myself was the same, though. To ensure you stayed away from the Blade Captain. Come.” Lomin nodded in the direction of the tree where the smoke was now clearing to reveal the monster among the branches. “My friends and I have some people you must meet.”

  Keedar turned and made to run in the opposite direction. A soft thud came from beside him. Something snatched him from his feet. The Soulbreaker’s chuckle was deep and vibrant as it held Keedar by his shirt as a derin might a cub.

  B alance

  H aunted for days by his failure with the scales, Winslow relived the disgust etched upon the faces of the very same people he was trying so hard to become a part of. To dispel the thoughts, he’d taken to his training with more vigor than ever before as he prepared for the Spirit Race.

  I won’t fail this time. Brows furrowed in determination he wobbled on an ancient ash tree’s thin branch at least a hundred feet above the ground. He clung to the sliver of soul that kept him attached to the limb through tern , certain he would fall at the slightest breeze or that the sweat soaking his clothes and pouring down his forehead would throw off his meld.

  The branch bent. He caught his breath. The branch held. He almost sighed in relief before he stopped himself. Even that tiny movement might result in a fall.

  His heart thumped as the height brought a rush of terrifying memories. Memories of leaping from the Cliffs of a Thousand Sorrows. He swallowed, not wanting to look down, but he had little choice.

  Far below was Yan Harin, spears of sunlight reflecting off his silver scales. The Dracodar squatted on an even thinner branch. All nine or ten feet and six or seven hundred pounds of him. That Yan-Harin managed the feat was still a wonder. Winslow thought back to when his training had called for him to lift Yan-Harin and toss him into the lake. The task had gone as well as Winslow had expected, with Yan-Harin looking down on him, the scar across the Dracodar’s face twitching in mirth before he flicked Winslow away like a fly.

  “The sword.” Yan-Harin glanced over his shoulder and up at the other instructors who were already moving through the trees
with their apprentices. “And be quick about it.” He turned back, scowling in annoyance.

  Winslow envisioned the sword as he’d experienced it: the blade’s width, balanced weight, hardness, and glint; the edge so fine it could slice paper; the hilt, a perfect fit to his palm, wrapped in leather; the weapon measuring a bit longer than his arm. Flaring open his vital points he poured his soul into the memory and tapped the necessary cycles for the manifestation.

  With a combination of tern to draw soul evenly from various body parts, and shi to create the effect, he forced the memory to life. The thought and soul took shape, became physical. First was the smoky luminescence of soul itself, and then the actual manifestation of his memory into the sword. In the time it took him to blink he held the weapon in his hand, the blade as real as any forged by a smith.

  The branch bent a little more.

  Winslow froze. His muscles quivered with the effort. His nose, however, chose that moment to itch. As did the small of his back. He swore the Dominion hated him. Resisting the urge to squirm or lift his hand to his face was torture.

  “Now, the flame.”

  Winslow repeated the previous meld, but this time with a memory drawn from fire. First was a layer of sintu and tern around his fist and wrist to protect against heat. The actual fire came a moment later, using another layer of soul above the first to imitate oil, and then igniting it by manifesting a spark.

  “Now, GO! After them!” bellowed Yan-Harin.

  Winslow made to move. The branch snapped. He fell.

  Tumbling through the air, heart racing, he tried to think. He couldn’t release his melds. Nor was he supposed to leave a mark on the ground if he struck it.

  The first branch he hit drove all coherent thought from his mind. Pain shot through his ribs. He cried out. And was falling again.